Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (39 page)

THE EAGLE PRESENTED A SLEEK, STYLIZED SILHOUETTE AGAINST
the sharp crags of the mountain behind him. He sat impossibly still, balanced on the thin ledge. Below him, the sheer cliff
fell away into a deep ravine that held nothing but emptiness and stone. With narrowed eyes, he followed the susurrus of movement
in its depths. In these dark realms, everything that moved either died or brought death. It had always been so, but not this
time.

Turning his head ever so slightly, he let out a cry that was distinctly his own but hardly out of place in the surroundings.
It was answered by a young boy, barely nine or ten years of age. The child was lean, but strong. He bounded across the narrow
ledge without hesitation. The Eagle nodded and the boy returned the way he had come, this time at a run.

Not very long after, sounds of conversation came floating gently on the wind. The Eagle turned, as the boy and his companion
stepped out on to the ledge.

‘It’s good to see you, Govinda.’

‘Likewise, my friend.’

The two men embraced heartily, and though neither spoke of it their minds flitted over their past adventures. If it had not
been for the tribal chief, Govinda knew, he could not have defeated King Naraka, Bhagadatta’s father.
If it weren’t for him
, he silently mused,
I probably wouldn’t be alive
.

The Eagle regarded Govinda with concern. ‘You look tired. I suppose that is to be expected.’

‘You know then …?’

The chief sighed. ‘Sometimes I wish these mountains had remained undiscovered. Civilization, as people call it, hasn’t turned
out to be the blessing that it was promised to be. But then there’s no point hanging on to the past.’

‘Garud, my friend, my fears are for the future …’

‘I too used to worry for the future, once … till I met you.’

‘And then you gave up all hope?’ Govinda jested.

Garud threw his head back and laughed, while the boy, his son, tried to politely stifle his mirth. Finally, the man drew a
breath, steadying himself. ‘How much time do you have?’

‘A week at the most … Partha’s armies have been marching for the past ten days. We’ll meet them by the river.’

‘You plan to cross at the bend? That’s good. It’s the sturdiest bridge across the river and part of it is built on stone shoals,
not wood. There’s little risk of losing your men to the waters … But still, I’m curious …’

‘Hmm?’

‘What made you move the men all of a sudden? You’re safe at Pragjya. Bhagadatta isn’t the kind of man to hold malice.’

‘I know. But there was a Kritya … Whoever sent her will soon realize that she hasn’t done the job …’

Garud said, ‘That narrows it down. I’ve heard that the former king of Kashi had revived the old traditions. Presumably, his
son Sudakshin continues with them. I also hear talk of a magician, whatever that means.’

‘No magician. That is Devala Asita. You remember him?’

‘I do. Tall? Thin? Bearded man?

‘Tall and thin, yes, but no longer bearded. Apparently, he’s now bald and clean-shaven, following the traditions of the Old
Magicians – the very kind the ancient Firewrights once fought against.’

Garud frowned. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Why become that which you abhor?’

‘He thinks it might be a way to save that which he cherishes. It’s a mistake many make at some time or the other. Look at
Aryavarta, Garud. How easy it is now to trade loyalties and rewrite the very notions of good and bad.’

Garud gave his friend a questioning look. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in absolutes like good and bad.’

‘I don’t. I was just testing you.’

‘Fine. I’ll pretend I believe you …’

The two friends laughed softly and then settled into a companionable silence that had been their space of comfort ever since
they had met.

Govinda grudgingly broke it. ‘The Krityas – how many of them are there?’

‘From what my men tell me, not many. I’ve heard of just the one – probably the girl you met. Sudakshin’s trying to train more,
though. Unfortunately, we hear it’s not just orphaned girls he takes in. Any child who shows beauty or promise is abducted,
the parents killed. But few have survived the rigorous training it takes. It’s good news, I suppose, because it means that
there’s less of a danger. Having said that, it’s disgusting too … these are just children, young girls … Much has been going
on that’s not right, Govinda. I’d expected you here some weeks ago. You’re late.

‘Late? Perhaps. I grow old, Garud. Tell me, do you think I’ve changed?’

Garud looked grim and was silent for a while. At length he said, ‘Did you kill her?’

‘Who?’

‘The Kritya.’

Govinda shook his head. ‘No. I let her go.’

‘You haven’t changed much, Govinda.’

‘Some would disagree.’

‘Possibly with good cause. You
have
started thinking too much and that is unlike you. But where it counts, though, in your heart, you remain the same. The question
is, do you still listen to your heart? As for what others say, I can guess who it is you have in mind and I’m convinced that
he’ll completely agree with me that you’re as dramatic and silly as you always were.’

Govinda raised an eyebrow. ‘Was that supposed to make me feel better or …?’

‘Feel how you like. And I must add that you remain just as decent. It should be no surprise, then, that you’re as foolhardy
too. Your men are pretty much marching to your deaths once you cross the river …’ He paused before saying, ‘Why do I get the
feeling this only makes you more determined to go on as planned?’

‘You know what they say, Garud. To kill a snake you need an eagle. In this case,
the
Eagle.’

‘This will take a whole tribe of Eagles,’ Garud said. He turned to his son. ‘Go, tell your uncles to have your brother ready
to leave in the morning. And,’ he added, a clear tinge of affection in his voice, ‘tell your mother that I plan to spend tonight
in drunken reminiscence with my friend, like the old man she accuses me of being.’

The boy nodded and set off down the sheer face with the nimbleness of a mountain-goat. He headed towards a narrow but voluminous
waterfall. And then, suddenly, he was gone, lost in the foamy, bubbling stream at the foot of the falls. Govinda clucked his
tongue softly. Behind the curtain of water, he knew, was most likely a hanging valley, a glen-like piece of land open to the
sky but surrounded by the mountain on most sides. For the present it remained a pristine secret, one of the few untouched,
sacred spaces that small tribes like Garud’s could retreat to.

Simply stepping into such a virginal, unmolested tract of nature was to go back a millennium, for many of the more remote
hill-tribes lived as they had in antiquity. Govinda had always come away from those poignant encounters confused and amazed.
He longed
to revere the purity and simplicity that these people preserved as a way of life, but he could not ignore that they were indeed
disjointed from the world around them. Undeniably, there was something mysterious, almost mystical, about these lands, as
though even the gods had deferred to nature’s majesty and force. Legends of impossible waterfalls, hidden vales and glens,
uncharted valleys and unconquered, sometimes invisible, peaks had been passed on dutifully and accurately over generations.

For centuries scholar–seers had claimed that somewhere within the bosom of these lands lay the eternal paradise on earth,
Swyam-Bhala the self-sustaining or Sham-bala, as Garud’s people called it. The many awe-inspiring myths of Aryavarta spoke
of a land where the boundaries between earth and heaven were blurred and the Truth was revealed in its purest form. Some tales,
even the Firstborn seers admitted, were older than their oldest records, for it was believed that the mystic nation had survived
innumerable cycles of existence, the end of the world and the cataclysmic end of Time itself.

As a young man a partly disbelieving, partly sceptical Govinda had embarked on a youthful adventure to find this mythical
land. He never spoke of what he had seen or found, but to those who had asked if he located Kalapa, the capital of this mystic
realm, he cryptically replied that he had found what he had been searching for.

Water and rock, mountain and valley, joined together in symphonies of resistance and yielding. Obvious secrets and hidden
truths, past and future, life and death – all existed together in a world as vast as the earth itself or as tiny as a dewdrop.
It was where imperfection and symmetry, order and chaos, wilderness and civilization all came together. In this place, heaven
and earth were one.

The touch of Garud’s hand on his shoulder brought Govinda out of his reverie.

‘The world as I’ve known it, as I’ve worshipped it, is almost gone,’ the tribal chief observed. ‘I sometimes think to grieve
for what we have irrevocably destroyed. But I remember what you taught me: Destruction and creation are parts of the same
whole, and that to see one and not the other is to be caught in an illusion. Don’t tell me
you’ve forgotten your own injunctions. Especially not after all that pontificating I had to endure!’

Govinda merrily laughed. He spread his arms out in a hearty stretch, soaking in the pine-scented, crisp air even as he instinctively
made to return the quip but stopped himself. Garud understood. The stillness around them was far too precious, and powerful
enough to remind the friends of the truth it had once brought them to.

The indestructible paradise lay hidden, within
.

It was some time past midnight when Govinda returned to Pragjya. Uncaring of the late hour, he proceeded to wake Partha and
Shikandin up. ‘We move at first light. I’ve already sent a messenger ahead. Your men will be ready,’ he told a bewildered
Partha. Shikandin, however, responded to the untimely intrusion with a wide grin and the anticipation of adventure.

They rode out of the castle in the grey, wet dawn, having waited only to thank Bhagadatta and say their goodbyes. The small
company made good speed, despite a torrential downpour. Using the hard bunds that ran road-like along the banks of the river,
they were able to avoid the marshes and small landslides that were common to these parts. By the second evening they could
see the faraway glitter of blue that was one of the Lauhitya’s greater tributaries. The fork where the two joined was one
of the widest stretches. Further downstream from the fork was the huge bridge where they planned to cross into Kashi–Magadha
lands.

A little before dawn on the fourth day, the three men and their small contingent arrived where Partha’s armies were camped.
Despite the weather, the soldiers were visibly cheerful – the thought of sunny lands and of reaching home had rejuvenated
their spirits in a way little else could have. Eager as the men were, the convoy set off quickly, Govinda and his friends
riding at its head. Partha longed to ask Govinda what he had planned, but desisted.

The ride to the crossing took the whole day – the size of the river had made it seem nearer than it was – but by nightfall
the entire army had assembled on its banks. The span of the river here was slightly
smaller than it had been at Pragjya but it was still astonishing. What really took one’s breath away here, however, was not
the natural abundance of the surroundings but the work of men. A huge bridge, wide enough for ten men to march abreast, ran
clear into the distance. It was, for the most part, a mix of woodwork and stone with some sections resting on large boulders
or rock formations on the bed of the river. In other places, wooden platforms gently bobbed up and down, floating on barrel-like
devices that had been sealed tight to capture air within.

‘So, we camp?’ Partha asked, almost rhetorically. To his surprise, Govinda shook his head.

‘A short break,’ he said. ‘Let’s eat, and keep moving.’

‘In the dark …?’ Partha instinctively began before falling silent. Though there had been no indication of danger so far, prudence
still required them to make the crossing in sections rather than at one go. Govinda, it was evident, had other ideas. He made
no efforts at discretion or at caution and, in fact, led the armies in a few bawdy marching songs as the final preparations
were being made. They were going home, plain and simple.

The crossing of the Lauhitya began in the early hours of the morning, by torchlight, and it continued well past daybreak.
By the afternoon of the next day the entire force had forded the river without incident. Partha was nearly beside himself
with happiness.
Perhaps
, he silently mused,
this is what Govinda has been up to in the past few days away from Pragjya. Perhaps there no longer is any danger
. He looked forward to a good night’s sleep ahead of him.

He was disappointed, as dusk brought more surprises. It became apparent that Govinda had already readied the divisions for
nighttime marching. The soldiers took turns at sleeping on the horse-led wagons, but the army as a whole kept moving forward.
At this rate, they would reach Magadha in less than three weeks – if they reached at all.

At that thought, Partha lost patience. ‘Mih! What in Rudra’s name are we doing, Govinda?’ he snapped.

Govinda’s reply sent a chill down his spine. ‘We’re walking into the trap, Partha.’

The next ten days were the most unnerving of Partha’s life. He was a hardy veteran, the man who had successfully led the campaign
across the northern lands. Still, he did not have the stomach for this sort of warfare. The honourable fight, as he saw it,
was the direct attack, open battle. This sort of waiting, this intrigue, was not to his taste and he openly expressed his
disgust.

Govinda did not respond, but Shikandin made a sarcastic comment about Kandava. Partha said not a word more.

In what provided a pleasant reprieve, they left the incessant rain behind. While an occasional shower was impossible to avoid,
the weather was mainly clear. It began getting warmer as they neared one of the large tributaries of the River Ganga. This
time round, though, the crossing was not difficult. They forded the stream just as she cascaded out of the hills and onto
the plains. Here, the waters were turbulent but narrow, and the many boulders and rocks deposited on the bed over time served
as the foundation for a strong stone bridge.