Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (3 page)

‘
AND SO, IT BEGINS
…’

Govinda Shauri, Commander of Dwaraka, ran his fingers through his wavy, almost curly, hair before throwing both arms up and
out in a languorous stretch. He looked with longing at the endless blue sea that extended far beyond the crystalline towers
of the island-citadel that was his home.

Dwaraka stood proudly facing the oceans of the west, the entire length and breadth of Aryavarta behind it. From a distance,
it looked like a magnificent mountain of crystal and silver, its tall spires a bridge between the blue of the ocean below
and the skies above. A bridge between the heavens and the earth, some called it. Govinda knew better than to spend too much
time looking skywards, all the more so from where he stood now, on the tallest tower of the city. His eyes sought the far
distance across the never-ending expanse of the dark blue-green waters. The seas were their future, one he longed to throw
himself into. The day was clear and inviting and a warm breeze had replaced the monsoon winds that had brought him home over
the sea some weeks ago.

Another three weeks, and the winds will be right for us to set out once more
.

‘I don’t see you sailing away anytime soon, Brother,’ a tall, fair-skinned man intruded on Govinda’s thoughts.

Balabadra, Govinda’s half-brother, looked every bit the wrestler he was. He drained the goblet of wine in his hand, and twirled
it around in his large grip for a while, before finally getting up to refill it. On impulse, he offered the brimming goblet
to Govinda and raised his brows in surprise when it was not refused. He poured himself another cup of wine and returned to
his seat.

The third man in the room took things in with a slight smile. Ayodha Dhaumya’s long hair was pulled away from his face and
held in place by a small scrap of ochre cloth that matched his renunciate’s robes and he wore a string of polished wooden
beads around his neck. The short, well-trimmed beard he sported made him look older than he was; nevertheless it added to
his charm.

‘In less than a week,’ he ventured, ‘Emperor Jarasandha will have more than ten full divisions of men at Mathura.’

‘Hmm …’ Govinda examined his wine, pensive.

‘It’s all too neatly timed!’ Balabadra glowered. ‘After years and years, Ghora Angirasa finally emerges from hiding, only
to die a mysterious death. And just days after that Jarasandha moves his troops to strategic positions throughout the empire.
Maraka!’ he swore. ‘A damned plague is upon us!’

‘The Eternal Universe doesn’t work through coincidences,’ Govinda said. ‘It’s simple cause and consequence. The Emperor rose
to his current position of power by hunting down and wiping out the Firewrights. But where most were killed, a few, Ghora
Angirasa most notable among them, went into hiding, and the possibility of their retribution has held many a monarch, the
Emperor included, in check. Ghora’s death means that Jarasandha now has nothing left to fear.’

Balabadra remained sullen. ‘And the mighty Emperor of all Aryavarta – ruler of all that lies south of the Great White Mountains
right up to the borders of Dakshinavarta – plans to turn it into a new beginning. One that might spell the end for us too.’

Govinda shrugged lightly and said, ‘Well, not quite Emperor of all Aryavarta. The east is his, no doubt – his own kingdom
of Magadha makes an exceptional spot for an imperial capital. Coupled with the garrison he has in the west, at Mathura, his
empire is a strong one. However, between the east and the west lie the powerful kingdoms of central Aryavarta.’

‘They’re hardly powerful, trapped between the two garrisons,’ Balabadra pointed out.

‘True, but you must admit they’ve remained fairly independent. They’ve accepted Jarasandha as Emperor in name and they pay
their share of taxes and tributes, but their internal affairs remain their own. This is not the great dominion of old that
legendary emperors once ruled over. Two things stand undeniably in Jarasandha’s way. First, the terrain – the most direct
route to the north-western regions of Old Aryavarta, the land that extends till the natural borders formed by the River Sindhu,
is cut off by the desert lands of Matsya. He’d risk losing control over eastern and central Aryavarta if he tried to get his
armies through the forests and mountains of the north around Matsya.’

‘And the second?’

‘Us.’

Balabadra roared with laughter at the bold declaration.

Govinda watched him indulgently for a few moments before adding, ‘I mean it. As things stand, the quickest way for Jarasandha
to get to, and command, the north-east is by travelling along the coast from Dwaraka to the kingdom of Salwa, and then north
towards the frontier. That way, he can avoid Matsya altogether.’

‘Except, of course …’

‘We won’t let him. Not unless he asks nicely,’ Govinda finished with a snide grin.

‘But …’ Dhaumya began, and then paused as his breath caught in a silent gasp as the other man suddenly met his glance.

Govinda’s eyes both begged and defied description. They seemed always to hold many secrets, but they also contained a promise
of utter honesty that made the scholar reluctant to pry. Settling at that
moment for silence, he studied the young man before him with a thoughtful frown.

Govinda had the strong, chiselled build that even the most sporting noblemen would not manage to acquire, for it took a childhood
spent in tough labour and simple, outdoor living. His wavy hair formed a dark halo around his head and was unfashionably short
for a nobleman, falling just to his shoulders. He wore a white silk antariya – a length of cloth tied around the waist, passed
between the legs, pleated and tucked in at the back – that fell in elegant folds around each leg till the ankles. He had cast
aside his scarlet upper robe before stretching out on the couch, but had kept on the sash-like leather belt that held his
sword. But for his weapons and his fine clothes, he looked just as he had fifteen years ago. Only, Govinda had then been a
simple gwala, a cowherd.

The cowherd who defied a king
, Dhaumya mused, his eyes flitting over the mark on Govinda’s chest. Set close to his heart was an artistically traced circle,
resembling a stylized lotus. Inside the circle, in proportions so precise and symmetrical as to almost defy human ability,
were set nine interlaced triangles in a symbol known as the mark of Sri. It looked like, and was often mistaken for, a birthmark,
though undoubtedly it was a tattoo or even the result of a brand. None but the keenest of eyes, or one who knew it was there,
could make out the tiny scar left by a sword point on one of the dark triangles – the reminder of a test of Govinda’s true
identity.

Govinda’s grandfather had been the king of Surasena till the tyrant Kans, also Govinda’s maternal uncle, had usurped the throne
and imprisoned Govinda’s parents, the true heirs of the kingdom, in their own palace prison in Mathura, Surasena’s capital.
When Govinda was born, his parents had managed to smuggle their infant son out of prison, an act of desperation and hope for
his future and the future of their land. Govinda had been sent to live in hiding where no one would think to look for the
Crown Prince of Surasena, among common cowherds and peasants.

Dhaumya, then an acolyte under Surasena’s royal priest Gargya, had been there when the seventeen-year-old Govinda had been
discovered and wrested by Kans’s soldiers from his home in a small, quiet village and brought to Mathura to be beheaded in
public. He had come to know and love Govinda then, as the young man reclaimed his throne against many odds. But, before long,
his rule had been threatened by a new enemy – Jarasandha, Emperor of Aryavarta. After a few short but difficult years in which
Govinda and Balabadra had defended their kingdom against Jarasandha’s many onslaughts, they had led their people, the Yadus,
to withdraw to their new home on an island off the western coast of Aryavarta. Here, they distanced themselves from the tumultuous
affairs of what had then been Jarasandha’s rising empire.

Dwaraka, the new city-state of the Yadus, was an island in more ways than one. Set off from the rest of Aryavarta by the surrounding
region Anartta, a daunting mix of mountain and marshland, it had, at first, offered little hope to foster a new nation. The
land simply could not support the agricultural and herding activities that were the backbone of all of Aryavarta. But Dwaraka’s
founders had remained undaunted. They had eked out what they could from the harsh, barren land to survive. To prosper, they
traded. And so began Dwaraka’s slow but inexorable rise as a sea-faring nation with a huge trading port and an impressive
navy. Today, it was one of the commercial gateways to the huge expanse of land that was Aryavarta.

All that had been over fifteen years ago. Still, Dhaumya did not find it difficult to believe that it was the same Govinda
who sat before him now, one arm casually outstretched on a bent knee.

‘Don’t you see, Govinda,’ the scholar pleaded, ‘it’s exactly as you two said. The end of the Firewrights means a new beginning
for Jarasandha. Unlike the older kingdoms, he has no qualms about whom he rallies to his cause – rogue vassal, remnant Firewright,
or some foreign power. His enduring dream of expanding his empire to the old borders of Aryavarta, and perhaps even beyond,
is closer to reality than it ever was. More important, he hopes to solidify his control over the domain that’s already his
in name. War, alliances, the affairs of the state – all of it have remained at a standstill of sorts
for the past some years. But now, with Ghora’s death, the balance is broken and brute strength is all that matters. Jarasandha’s
control, nominal as it may seem to you, will soon become absolute. The very same autonomous central kingdoms that have stood
directly and indirectly between the Yadus and the Emperor … if they were to join forces against you, or even just get out
of the way, it would mean disaster for …’

Balabadra cut in, ‘How much time do you suppose we have before Jarasandha sets out against us?’

‘Not much,’ Govinda replied. ‘He’ll strike hard and fast. This is a matter of power, vengeance and pride. Any one of the three
is motivation enough to raze us to the ground.’

‘So, unless the central kingdoms – the Kurus and the Panchalas – help us …’

‘We’re doomed,’ Govinda cheerily finished.

‘You’re close to the Panchalas …’ Dhaumya pointed out.

‘Yes, I am. The prince is one of my dearest friends, but he’s also a prince. He can’t escape his nation’s politics.’

The scholar sighed and stood up, brushing off the non-existent dirt from his robes as a force of habit acquired from sitting
on bare ground. He adjusted his upper robe thrown diagonally over his torso, passing it over his left shoulder, under his
right arm, and over the left shoulder again.

‘What, leaving already?’ Balabadra asked.

‘I came here to deliver news of Aryavarta to the Commander of Dwaraka, as is my duty. As for what happens next, that’s up
to Govinda Shauri. Strange and difficult times lie ahead. If you can impose on your friendship, then there’s hope … Though,
I suppose, it’s too much to ask for. You should prepare for war.’

‘True,’ Govinda agreed as he turned to Balabadra. ‘Start organizing the armies, Agraja.’ He tempered what was undoubtedly
an order with the respectful term used to address an elder brother.

Balabadra was unimpressed. ‘And you?’

‘Our friend here is right. I’d better find some way of slowing down Jarasandha, preferably through diplomatic means. I’ll
leave tonight
for Panchala, maybe talk to some people there and find out what the other kingdoms are planning.’

‘The Council …’

‘We can’t afford to wait for their permission. Besides, they know as well as we do that we can’t risk war against the Emperor.’

‘Why not? We can defend Dwaraka. We have our trade. We have the sea. We can survive. We’ve
always
survived!’

‘Not without an empire, we can’t. That is our dilemma, Agraja. We’re dependent on the empire – unless the empire prospers
we cannot! Our well-being is linked to its trade and commerce, even its politics. If it collapses, if Aryavarta goes back
to being a bunch of small kingdoms squabbling with each other over land and water, there’ll be no trade, and no one will have
any use for us anymore. We
need
the empire. What we don’t need is an angry and ambitious Emperor determined to destroy us.’

‘What do we do? What
can
we do?’ Balabadra sounded angry.

‘This thing isn’t going to solve itself by sunset. While we try to find some other solution to this mess, I’ll try to see
if Panchala can help us.’

‘It’s too dangerous, Govinda,’ said Dhaumya, disapproving. ‘The only thing Jarasandha hates more than your nation is you.
This is his chance to get rid of you without too many questions coming up, and he won’t want to lose it. His spies watch Dwaraka
day and night; he’ll anticipate your every move. Trust me, you can’t cross into central Aryavarta without running into his
assassins. They’ll be waiting to hunt you down.’

‘In that case, I’d better get going. I’d hate to disappoint Jarasandha or his generals.’

The scholar clucked his tongue in exasperation and looked to Balabadra, hoping he would dissuade his younger brother.

Balabadra looked far from discontent, but made a show of grumbling. ‘As always, you’re going to get us into trouble, Govinda!’

‘What’s new?’ Govinda retorted. The look he gave his brother was one of great affection, but his eyes held some other veiled
emotion. The two men had fought many battles together; together
they had overthrown Kans, built a mighty city and led their people to this new nation. Balabadra had always been there with
him, playing the part of a responsible older brother and running things with crisp efficiency.

Someday
, Govinda promised himself,
I’ll tell him everything, I’ll explain it all. Just, not yet
…

EVERY MORNING, DEVAVRATA, REGENT AND PATRIARCH OF THE
Kuru kingdom, known to all as Bhisma the Grandsire, woke to the heavy tread of Jarasandha’s soldiers as they marched with
impunity through the capital city, Hastina. Every day, he was reminded that his kingdom was less than a day’s ride from Mathura,
where the Emperor’s huge garrison prepared itself for war, and that Emperor Jarasandha would soon trample over them all.

Devavrata considered himself in the burnished mirror. His silver-white hair and his wrinkles only served to make him seem
more authoritative as he aged. But then, he noted with satisfaction, he did not remember looking any different from the way
he did now. He was as strong today as he had been forty years ago, still able to defend his reputation as an unbeaten warrior.
It was the greatest honour any Arya could hope for. Yet he saw his reflection stoop just that much, as he came to terms with
the truth: His notions of honour would soon mean little. Being Arya would soon mean little. Kali, the age of darkness, drew
near.

As a child, Devavrata had asked his father, King Shantanu, why the Creator had filled the land with vile commoners when He
was capable of creating exalted beings, such as the Aryas.

His father had been direct in his response. ‘It is destiny, my son. They’re meant to serve us, just as we serve the gods.
In return, we rule them with a balance of authority and benevolence. It’s what the gods have ordained. An Arya’s duty is to
fulfil the destiny that has been chosen for him by the gods.’

How much longer before their ambition, and our kindness, doom us?
Bhisma wondered.
Perhaps, it is already too late
.

Even now, Aryavarta was overrun by Sutas – children of Arya fathers born to concubines and slaves. They were neither truly
noble nor base commoners. Many were raised as playmates to princes and grew to be counsellors to kings, and Sutas born into
scholarly lines became bards and administrators. But no matter what the kinship, or their position, these children were not
Arya. They could train, but they would never be true warriors. They could learn, but they would never be scholars. To be born
Arya was a blessing from the divine; it was destiny. It was as immutable as the gods. It had to be.

Yet, as things stood in Aryavarta today, it was not. The Emperor of Aryavarta, Jarasandha, saw no reason to live by these
rules, especially since allowing Sutas to serve as his saamantas – vassal lords – increased the sheer number of his armies
fourfold. No Arya king, however skilled, could survive an attack by the Imperial Army, which left most kings with the eventuality
of diluting his own reign with Suta vassals. It was that, or to give in to Jarasandha and become what was politely termed
a ‘loyal ally’. This was exactly what the last of the old kingdoms, including Kuru, had done. Better to be a mere saamanta
with honour, than to rule with none. And this was, very simply, why Jarasandha of Magadha was Emperor.

Bhisma clenched his fists in despair. Once, his ancestors had been Emperors of Aryavarta; his grandfather had ruled a sprawling
Kuru kingdom. Now, the ancient kingdom was effectively nothing more than a common vassal to an undeserving overlord, lying
in the shadow of the Emperor’s largest garrison. What was he, Bhisma Devavrata, to do when the kingdom was threatened? When
their way of life, righteousness and morality were all threatened?

Why did it have to happen in my lifetime? Why me – when I’ve spent my entire life protecting these very ideals?
The answer came to him, soothing his troubled thoughts like a summer shower or a spring breeze. The gods had chosen for him
a life of great deeds, of great responsibility and even greater sacrifices. He was Bhisma, the blessed one. This was his destiny.

With a sigh, he brought his attention back to the moment. An attendant knelt before him respectfully, his head bowed low with
the privilege of serving his superior, awaiting instructions.

‘Show him in.’

The attendant withdrew. Bhisma tried to quell the discomfort that stirred in him at the thought of his guest, the rising disgust
that had instinctively surfaced since his very first meeting with the man.

Sage Krishna Dwaipayana of the Firstborn.
My stepbrother
.

Devavrata had been in the prime of his youth when his father had fallen in love with Satya, the young and exceptionally attractive
daughter of a fisherman. He dutifully set about seeking her hand in marriage on behalf of his father. Satya had agreed to
marry the king, but on one condition – the prince would have to forgo his right as heir to the throne and further ensure that
the Kuru kingdom passed on to Satya’s line in perpetuity. It took Devavrata many years to understand why she had imposed that
condition. At that moment, however, he had reflected joyfully on divine predestination, on the fame that would be his forever
because of his noble actions. He not only gave up the crown, but also swore himself to a life of celibacy. He would have no
descendants who would compete for the throne with Satya’s children. The oath had earned him the title of ‘Bhisma’, one who
undertakes a terrible and insurmountable task. It was now his name.

When Shantanu died, Bhisma installed Satya’s elder son as king of Hastina, but the young King Chitrangada died soon after.
Right away, Bhisma crowned Satya’s younger son, Vichitravirya, in his stead. But the boy was just that – a boy – and Bhisma
had no choice but to become Regent of Hastina. Under his rule, both the new king and the kingdom grew strong. When the boy
became a man, Bhisma secured for him eminently suitable wives – two of the three princesses of Kashi. The princesses, Ambika
and Ambalika, turned out to be very attractive, both politically and aesthetically, but perhaps a bit too suitable for the
young king. The might of Hastina
continued to grow, but its king soon lost himself in the pleasant company of his wives. After a short life of royal indulgence
and over-exertion, he, too, died. More to the point, despite his untiring efforts to procreate, he died without leaving a
single heir. A sliver of hope remained, for he had left behind two fertile and attractive wives, the queens of Kuru.

It was at this time that Satya had called on Bhisma to break his vow of celibacy for the sake of the Kuru dynasty and future
of the nation. He refused.

‘It’s nothing new or abhorrent, my son,’ Satya had pleaded. ‘Our scriptures clearly sanction it. When a king is unable to
produce heirs, his wives may join with his brother or a man of great nobility and virtue to have children and so ensure the
continuity of the royal lineage. These children are raised as the king’s own and have incontestable claims as his heirs.’

‘In that case, mother,’ Bhisma argued, horrified, ‘why don’t we marry our women to many men? We encourage our kings to take
more than one wife to make sure that the dynasty lives on. Why not do the same with our queens?’

‘Sometimes,’ Satya had wistfully said, ‘I think you’re still the same, innocent Devavrata who has learnt nothing in all these
years. You still believe that the world runs on duty and piety, not on politics. Our dynasties are traced through the man.
The problem with polyandry is the question of identity. The only way we can ensure the identity of the child’s father, is
by excluding the possibility that another man could have sired the child. Imposing chastity on a man may seem morally attractive,
but it serves little purpose. A woman’s chastity, however …’ she trailed off, a disdainful look on her face.

‘Mother?’

‘Which is why women like me keep their secrets well, Bhisma. I have another son. He was born before I met your father.’

And so, Bhisma had sent for Dwaipayana, the great scholar–seer and Satya’s son by Parashara of the Firstborn. The line, as
Satya had unfailingly pointed out, of Vasishta the Elder.

Vichitravirya’s widows had begged him and Satya not to force another man upon them. Ambika cried, while Ambalika argued.

‘When your brother married us,’ she said, ‘it was with the sacred fire as witness. By that holy fire he pledged to protect
us. Now that he’s gone, you think you can force any man you choose on us? We loved our husband. Can’t you honour that devotion
by allowing us to mourn in peace and live with his memory?’

‘Daughter,’ Satya tried to explain, ‘when you married my son, you also agreed to share his responsibility as king. It’s that
duty that one of you must now fulfil by producing an heir to the throne.’

‘Responsibility!’ Ambalika spat, standing tall, while her sister hid behind her, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘That’s something
your son should have thought of,
Mother
, before he turned the whole of Hastina into his personal playground. Besides, does this responsibility rest only with my
sister and me? I don’t see anyone forcing the esteemed Bhisma to fulfil his duty. What makes his vow greater than the vows
of fidelity that my sister and I made to our husband? Isn’t it enough that the great Bhisma forcibly brought us here from
Kashi, destroying our city and our people to satisfy your son’s lust? Isn’t it enough that we lost our sister Amba? Must he
now destroy the two of us with his vows as well?’

Her arguments had been in vain. When Dwaipayana arrived, Satya’s instructions to him were clear: He was to take the women
at all costs, against their will, if required. He was to impregnate them without fail. Bhisma had shuddered and struggled
in torment when he heard the queens’ fervent pleas to Dwaipayana to spare them. Their screams had pierced the walls of the
palace as they were forcibly ravished. All Bhisma could do was remind himself that destiny was ordained by the gods and its
intricacies were intelligible to few.

So it was that the seed of the reclusive ascetic achieved what the strength of the Kurus could not. Ambika gave birth to Dhritarastra,
blind but virile, who would be King of the Kurus and father of a hundred and one children. Ambalika had brought forth the
younger prince, Pandu. It later emerged that in his enthusiasm to fulfil the
duty assigned to him, Dwaipayana had also impregnated the queens’ loyal friend and handmaiden. She, too, brought forth a son
– Vidur the Wise.

That was a long time ago, Bhisma told himself, though it did not make him feel any better.

Now, Syoddhan, the eldest of Dhritarastra’s sons was heir-apparent and had been so for the past six months – ever since Pandu’s
five sons and their mother Pritha had disappeared. The six had been at the summer retreat of Varana when a fire had broken
out, supposedly killing them all. The charred bodies of five men and one woman had been recovered, but Bhisma did not believe
they were the corpses of the princes and the queen any more than he believed that rumours that the fire was part of Syoddhan’s
plan to kill his cousins.

Would this have been the state of affairs if the true blood of the Kurus – my father’s blood, my blood – had continued the
line
, Bhisma wondered. It did not matter. As long as he lived, he would do whatever it took to protect this kingdom, and the glory
of the Kurus. And right now he needed Dwaipayana. Willing himself to remember that, Bhisma turned to welcome the man who entered
the room.