Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (4 page)

KRISHNA DWAIPAYANA, THE VYASA, WAS A DARK, DIMINUTIVE
man. His white beard was not as well-groomed as Bhisma’s, but its unruliness was becoming in its own way. His manner seemed
docile, cheerful almost, like that of a good-natured, gentle grandfather, but his pitch-black eyes sparkled with the fiery
intensity of an intelligent, even youthful, mind. Despite his physical appearance, the Vyasa was not, by any reckoning, a
man one could ignore. He was the head of the Firstborn, the one who received First Honour at any gathering of nobles, the
most respected man in all of Aryavarta. And the most powerful.

Bhisma was unimpressed. He came directly to the point. ‘Can I trust you, Dwaipayana?’

Dwaipayana took no offence at the question. He replied, ‘If you’re asking me whether I had anything to do with Ghora Angirasa’s
death, the answer is no. I’d have the decency to protect a man who stood in my home, even if he was my enemy. Besides, if
I were involved, I hope I’d have the good sense to avoid even a hint of suspicion. That Ghora was killed in my hermitage is
unfortunate, but it serves rather well to exonerate me of all doubt.’

‘Then who …?’ Bhisma countered.

‘Who
doesn’t
stand to gain from Ghora Angirasa’s death?’ the old scholar sneered. ‘For one, an old warrior like you, one of the few ever
to be trained by a Wright, who now has no equal. Isn’t that a strong temptation?’

Bhisma could feel his breath quicken, but he said nothing. Consciously, he adjusted the glittering crown that adorned his
head. He may not be king, but he was still a prince of the Kurus and had served as Regent for over fifty years. He would not
be treated with impunity and accused of murder.

Dwaipayana was unaffected by the blatant display of grandeur. He thought the Regent looked overdressed in his silks and wore
far too much jewellery. For his own part, he wore only the mandatory strings of beads around his neck and both his wrists.
His hand moved to adjust the former as a matter of habit, but he stopped himself. It would seem insulting to point out the
contrast between them, and tempting as it was, it would not do to provoke Bhisma.

He spoke softly, but his voice held a clear note of bitterness. ‘Perhaps that’s the smallest of the prizes, and the worst
of our current troubles. We call them “heathens” and “those meddling Firewrights”, but in all fairness they were also a great
line of weapon-makers. Unfortunately, they also had the arrogance and ambition that goes with such ability, and we all know
where that left us. My father spent his whole life ridding our lands of their kind, but his success brought with it a peril
of another kind – I’ve lost count of the number of Wrights and Wright-impostors who’ve sold themselves to
the highest bidder, even to would-be foreign invaders. At least, the name of Ghora Angirasa, the fear of the Secret Keeper,
kept these mercenaries and their masters in check. With his death … You realize this changes the situation in Aryavarta completely?’

Bhisma nodded. ‘This is the kind of weak ambivalence Jarasandha has been waiting for. He’ll use this opportunity to solidify
his hold over Aryavarta. Most likely, he’ll try to make us all fully-subjugated vassals, rather than amicable allies.’

‘My sentiments exactly. The Emperor has little allegiance to any cause. Firewright, Firstborn – all are the same to him.’

‘The fault is yours! If the Firstborn had not stood so firmly behind him, Jarasandha would never have risen so quickly to
become Emperor. He only had to promise to rid Aryavarta of every living Wright and you and your father were more than eager
to see him rule. You did not even realize that he owed you no loyalty, nor did he do you any favours. The Firewrights were
the reason why the previous Emperor, the King of Matsya, was reduced to nothing, and Jarasandha knew better than to make the
same mistakes as his predecessor. At the same time he is not above using the Firewrights for his own gain and, indeed, he
has brought some of them into his service under the pretext of destroying them. Now he is unstoppable, and it is the kings
of Aryavarta who must pay the price for the Firstborn’s folly!’

‘We did what we had to then, as we need to now. But, yes, you’re right. The Emperor is not above using the Firewrights he
took in. We need to hunt down any Wrights who may be left – whether in Jarasandha’s custody or otherwise – before he can put
them to use. And I have just the man for the task.’

Bhisma paused, realizing whom Dwaipayana was referring to. ‘Do you trust him?’ he asked, frowning.

‘He’s the best his father ever trained, the princes of Hastina included. And I suppose there’s something to be said for his
blood and ancestry after all. He’s a dangerous man, one of the few who can find the last few Wrights who remain unaccounted
for, no matter where they hide or who protects them. As for us, we need to turn our
attention to more refined, though equally important, issues. There still remains the matter of Jarasandha’s huge armies. This
kingdom has neither the money nor the military strength to defend itself, particularly if we’re attacked from both the east
and the west. Nor do we have enough political leverage, or the right kind of alliances, and we certainly can’t presume on
the Emperor’s kindness, no matter how good a friend of Syoddhan’s he claims to be. The Kuru kingdom is in a precarious position.
We must act at once.’

‘We need Southern Panchala on our side,’ Bhisma said. ‘Dhrupad’s armies are formidable and his treasuries brim over.’

‘So take Southern Panchala! Or do you need me to teach you how?’

Both men stared at each other in the silence that followed, each angry with the other for being able to provoke such emotion.
They knew they had little choice but to trust each other, yet there was the childish need to gain the upper hand and put the
other down. At length, an unspoken consensus settled in, and the conversation continued.

‘I trust Dhrupad,’ Bhisma pointed out. ‘But his children, his sons … they’re grown men now. Is it really possible to rely
on their loyalty?’

‘True. Diplomatic ties alone won’t suffice, not in times such as these. When Dhrupad gives his daughter in marriage, she must
be brought into the house of the Kurus.’

‘I didn’t hear she was to be married …’

‘You soon will. I intend to go to Kampilya right away and remind Dhrupad of a father’s duties towards his daughter. When all
else is in doubt, it’s the simple, familial ties we must trust. Even those who would throw their lives away on a whim will
stop to think if the well-being of their children is at stake. We must bind together the futures of the two nations. We cannot
depend on diplomacy and friendship alone.’

Dwaipayana placed a hand on Bhisma’s shoulder. To his surprise, Bhisma did not flinch, his expression remained stolid. The
diminutive scholar leaned forward, bringing his mouth close to the tall man’s
ear. ‘Dhrupad won’t refuse us what we ask him. He can’t afford not to see reason … But Dhrupad isn’t the only one with secrets,
is he? Surely you haven’t forgotten, Devavrata? I know it’s been many years, but I’m sure you still carry the guilt, just
as he does?’

Bhisma stared, wide-eyed with disbelief. ‘Why you …!’

Dwaipayana’s whisper was a hiss, as he said, ‘We both know how they screamed that night. I’m sure you remember every excruciating
moment, don’t you? But, it was done for the good of this nation and by the will of the gods. Or, did you perhaps do it because
deep inside you regret, even resent, your forced emasculation? It still bothers you, doesn’t it, that there was a third woman,
who didn’t scream after all?’ Bhisma gave a roar of anger, but Dwaipayana was not at all affected.

He straightened up and continued, ‘Sometimes, for the greater good of a family, an individual must be sacrificed. An individual
for a kingdom is a very fair trade. We are in this together and I, for one, won’t fail. Please don’t let your self-indulgent
sense of virtue get in my way.’

Bhisma sat gripping the arms of his throne in festering rage. He shuddered from the effort, but did not dare look at Dwaipayana
for fear of losing his composure. His face had turned red, in striking contrast to his silver hair and beard, and his breath
hissed from his nose, as he tried hard to ignore the throbbing pain that rose to his head. ‘How can you justify what you did,
Dwaipayana?’ he asked in a hoarse voice quite unlike his own. ‘How can you answer to the gods you worship; you, who are learned
and enlightened? You who claim true devotion to the Divine? How do you answer to the judgement of your conscience?’

A lesser man would have quailed before the Regent’s fury. The Vyasa, however, remained unperturbed. ‘I answer to the most
fundamental of truths,’ he replied. ‘What we call the world is sustained by the Creator, and we are just a pale reflection,
a tiny spark of the Great Divine. This, our kala-kalpa, the cycle of existence, is but one day and one night for Bramha; one
day in the fifty-first year of His life. Within this single kalpa are a thousand aeons, of which we
are in the twenty-eighth. Each such aeon, my dear Devavrata, spans over four million human years and is spread over four epochs.
Kali, the fourth of these ages is almost upon us. Does that give you some sense of who we are and what our destiny is? We’re
the servants of this greater power; to understand this duality is to see the earth transformed into heaven itself. As there
are heaven and earth, there are rulers and the ruled; there are gods and there are kings. To lower our heads in reverence
is our duty and to accept destiny is the greatest worship. Only heretics and demons seek to question their roles, the way
of life that has endured for millennia.’

The words only heightened Bhisma’s confusion. Dwaipayana regarded him with sincere sympathy, feeling sorry that the old warrior
struggled so hard with his conscience to do what was indisputably right.

‘Don’t let your conscience bother you too much, Bhisma. There’s much you don’t fully understand, and there’s much more that
you don’t know.’ He added with a smile, ‘But, don’t you worry. I am Dwaipayana, the Vyasa of the Firstborn. Aryavarta is in
my charge.’

A LITTLE BEFORE DAWN, GOVINDA LEFT DWARAKA, HEADING EAST
. His silver-white Qamboja stallion, Balahak, blazed across the mist-covered fields like a ghost, and by the time the sun
came up they were a good distance from the city.

They pushed on, crossing the Raivata mountains and then turning northward, to ride alongside the River Charmanvati. Around
noon, man and horse sought refuge from the burning sun in a shady glen, but were back on the road before long. They stopped
again in the evening, when Govinda caught a little sleep, and shortly after moonrise the two set off once more, galloping
over silver-blue plains as a wild happiness took over them. At their current pace, Govinda was three days’ journey from his
destination in central Aryavarta. Balahak, named so for his strong legs, would make
short work of the leagues that took the common warhorse nearly a week and a packhorse much longer. Balahak’s speed, coupled
with Govinda’s exceptional skill with his beloved steeds, made him one of the fastest riders in Aryavarta, and when he yoked
all four of his temperamental silver-white stallions to a chariot, few could keep up with them.

In the misty darkness before the second dawn of his journey, he realized that he was being followed. Even before he saw or
heard the riders behind him, he sensed them. Closing his eyes, he focused on the faint hoof beats.
Three riders
, he concluded, chuckling softly as he guessed who they were. Slowing down, he whispered a few calming words in Balahak’s
ear and let out a slow, long-drawn whistle. It rose in a reedy, quavering note before he cut it short. Within moments, he
heard the horses behind him rear. Govinda stopped and, wheeling Balahak around, waited.

‘Watch out!’ a familiar voice cried through the mist.

Another protested, ‘I am, I am!’

‘Mih!’

‘You oaf. Oww!’

‘No! Not that way! That’s me, you cross-eyed paayu! Look out!’

‘Steady, steadyyyy! Dumb horse!’

‘Stop butting me, Muhira! You idiot! Arrgh.’

‘Oh Rudra!’

‘Oi! Oi! Ohhhhhh …’

The neighing, and jostling of horses and human expostulation, reached Govinda, followed by the sound of a deep, rich laugh.
One of the pursuers seemed to have fallen off, for a riderless horse emerged through the mist at a light canter. It trotted
up to Balahak with the relief of familiarity and the two horses nuzzled each other in greeting. Govinda reached out to stroke
the newcomer, a brown stallion with a trident-like white marking on its forehead.

‘Are you hurt?’ a young voice called out.

‘No, I’m dancing with the nymphs of heaven, you imbecile. Help me up!’

‘You think he heard us?’

‘Vathu! Hush!’

‘Of course he heard us,’ a third man said, before bursting into more laughter at the antics of his companions.

Unable to resist any longer, Govinda guided Balahak back along the path, the brown stallion following alongside. He could
not help but smile at the scene that greeted him. On the ground, his feet still tangled up in a mess of stirrup and reins,
lay Govinda’s young cousin and adopted heir, Pradymna. Standing over the youth, trying without success to unravel the tangle,
was the dark-skinned Samva, the second of Govinda’s adopted sons.

‘Aah! Not that way, you idiot. You’re going to kill me!’ Pradymna shrieked, as Samva tried to help the struggling youth out
of the jumble that bound him.

‘I’d do a better job of killing you if you’d shut up,’ his brother exclaimed.

Both men noticed Govinda and fell into silent sulks.

Govinda paid no heed to them. Instead, he led his horse towards the third rider, a fashionably dressed man of his age, who
still remained comfortably astride his horse. ‘Yuyudhana,’ he nodded in greeting.

‘Cousin,’ the man inclined his head. ‘I left as soon as I saw you weren’t present at the Council meeting. Couldn’t let you
have all the fun, could I?’

Govinda said nothing, but he was far from displeased. He trusted Yuyudhana implicitly and was glad of his company.

‘Those two,’ Yuyudhana continued, with a nod towards the squabbling youth, ‘came along at the last moment. Impetuous brats!’

‘Hot-headed, impetuous … I’d love to call them a few other things, too,’ Govinda noted. ‘Pradymna’s nearly twenty-one, but
by Rudra, can he act like a child! And Samva …’ he let the phrase hang as his face broke into a wide grin.

‘Oi! We’re right here, you know. We can hear you,’ Pradymna protested.

‘Indeed, your presence might be more notable and respected if you could at least stay astride your horse!’ Govinda retorted.

‘Or follow the instructions of your elders,’ Yuyudhana wistfully added. ‘In any case …,’ he turned to address Govinda, ‘shall
we?’

‘Of course.’ Govinda set off along the path at a slow amble, Yuyudhana riding alongside.

‘Wait! What about us?’ Samva cried, leaving Pradymna behind to run after the two departing men.

‘Next time!’

‘If you learn to ride, by then,’ Yuyudhana quipped.

‘And you’re any smarter,’ Govinda added.

‘Which alas is …’

‘Impossible?’

Laughing, the two riders tugged at the reins, urging their horses into a gallop. With a great deal of shouting and cursing,
the two youths followed.

The four horsemen made good time during the day, and it was a little past sunset when Govinda veered away into a small forest
abutting the riverbank. He proposed to set up camp there for the night. In the morning, Pradymna and Samva could head back
to Dwaraka, while he and Yuyudhana forded the river, crossing over into the region commonly known as central Aryavarta. Govinda
knew his sons would not be happy with his suggestion that they return, but they would not disobey his command.

Ignoring the matter for the moment, he and Yuyudhana hunted some jungle fowl and cooked it, while Pradymna and Samva let all
four horses drink from the river, then removed their saddles and rubbed them down before setting them free to graze. The men
then washed up and threw themselves down on the ground, by the fire. Soon the fowl was done and eagerly consumed. Their upper
robes serving as cushions, they stretched out on the soft grass in a well-nourished stupor. For the time being there was no
need to keep watch or guard. In these territories, their instincts would suffice. As the dying fire crackled a soft lullaby,
Govinda’s eyes closed in
an invitation to sleep. He was vaguely aware that Yuyudhana was speaking, addressing the two youngsters.

‘… Aryavarta wasn’t always as we know it, nor were its people. Some talk of simple hunter-tribes who lived in peace and had
a great spiritual connection with their natural surroundings. Others still believe that it was full of ruthless fiends who
practised human sacrifice and cannibalism. You see, what we today call the beginning of civilization is really only the beginning
of recorded history. The further back we go in time, the less we are certain about. Different people then begin to interpret
and understand things differently. Some of these stories become indestructible myths and even acquire a supernatural tinge,
because we start taking literally what might have been merely symbolic.’

‘You mean things like Bramha the Creator giving life to the first of beings, his sons?’ Pradymna intervened.

‘Yes and no. I don’t question that Bramha did give life to us all, including the very first of us. But we know nothing about
who or what existed before the five brothers our scriptures name as Bramha’s sons. The eldest of these, Vasishta, was the
ancestor of the Firstborn. Marichi’s children live on today as the Solar Kings, and Atri’s son Soma founded the Lunar Dynasty.
Pulastya’s descendants chose Dakshinavarta as their home. Angiras, the youngest, was the progenitor of the Firewrights.’

With an expression of great humility, Samva said, ‘Uncle, just because Pradymna here is an absolute blockhead, there’s no
need to tell us what we’ve known since we learnt to crawl … I want to hear about the Firewrights, about Ghora’s line.’

‘That’s Acharya Ghora to you, young man,’ Yuyudhana corrected Samva. ‘He was a teacher – show him that respect!’

Pradymna grinned, enjoying watching his brother get rebuked. Samva made a show of ignoring them all, and waited with a look
of polite anticipation for Yuyudhana to resume his tale.

‘It’s kind of simple if you know your history,’ Yuyudhana complied with shake of his head. ‘A long time ago, the Firewrights
were well-respected, revered even. In fact, it was their skill at weapon-making and metalcraft that kept Aryavarta safe from
many invasions and led to the evolution of an empire – a reasonably cohesive region, set off from the rest of the world by
the seas and the Great White Mountains. At the same time, the Firstborn concerned themselves with temporal and spiritual affairs.
I suppose we could even say that the Firstborn and the Firewrights complemented each other in their own ways. But you know
the old saying – you can’t have two swords in one scabbard.’

‘But wasn’t whoever held the title of Vyasa considered the most powerful?’ Samva asked.

‘No. That happened over time. As the empire grew, so did its knowledge. Some generations ago, the Firstborn began gathering
and managing the collective knowledge of Aryavarta, creating an intricate system of scriptures and rituals. That’s when the
head of the Firstborn order took the title of Vyasa, or Record Keeper. The Vyasa, however, was more than that. Since he controlled
the scriptures, the rules of life handed down to us by the gods, he became the man who determined what was right and wrong,
moral and immoral.’

‘And the Wrights?’ Pradymna chipped in, intrigued despite himself.

‘They assumed that their knowledge of warfare made them indispensable, that the kings of Aryavarta – the Solar and Lunar dynasties
– would take their side. But, at the same time, the kings were completely dependent on the Firstborn to legitimize their rule,
to keep them in power. Chaos was inevitable, as was war – not just between the two orders, but also the different kingdoms
that supported each of them.’

A short silence followed as Pradymna and Samva thought over what they had just learnt. Hesitantly, Pradymna began, ‘What about
us, our people? Whose side were we on?’

‘Us …? I’ll leave it to you to decide whose side we are on. And whose side we
should
be on. But our people, the Yadus, have never really had the same kind of hatred for the Wrights that some of
the central kingdoms do. Perhaps because our clans were too busy fighting each other we somehow stayed relatively neutral
when it came to others’ squabbles. In fact, one of the largest Firewright settlements used to be near Mathura …’

‘And that’s where Ghora … I mean, Acharya Ghora used to live,’ an excited Samva said.

‘Yes. But the settlement was abandoned almost two decades ago. Ghora Angirasa, then the leader of Firewrights, or Secret Keeper,
as they called their head, went into hiding. He wasn’t seen again in Aryavarta till the day of his death. Many believe he
was the last of their order.’

Pradymna was surprisingly mournful. ‘Then it’s over? The Wrights are really gone?’

Yuyudhana glanced at Govinda, who lay still, his eyes closed. He took a deep breath and let it out. ‘We don’t know. Yes, spurred
on by the Firstborn, many other nations heartily joined in the scourge, hunting down and killing the Firewrights one by one.
For a while it seemed the Wrights might rise again when Jarasandha tried to rally them to his side. When that didn’t work
the way he expected, the Emperor simply found it more expedient to wipe them out and ally with the Firstborn instead. Rumour
goes that the few Wrights who swore loyalty to the Emperor were spared, but they remained little more than prisoners and slaves.’

Samva frowned. ‘But is the rumour true?’

‘Not too long ago Firewrights filled the prisons of every kingdom in Aryavarta. Few men could’ve resisted the temptation to
exploit their skill, Jarasandha included.’

‘So that’s how he became so powerful! I knew it. And today, he rules over Aryavarta with an army of butchers and mercenaries.
His men are bound neither by loyalty, nor by a code of honour. His army is …’

‘A force to be reckoned with,’ Yuyudhana finished. ‘Sleep now. Enough storytelling. It’s been a long day.’

With silent nods, the two youths complied. Yuyudhana sat staring at the fire a while longer. Then, with a tired sigh, stretched
himself out. Like his younger companions, he too was asleep within moments.

Govinda opened his eyes and turned to lie on his side, looking at the fire. He mulled over the conversation for a while and
slowly let his thoughts wander to the past. He had been about Samva’s age when he had first met Ghora Angirasa. The Firewright
had led him into the deepest, darkest hell there could have been – a perpetual state of nightmarish mindlessness, before Govinda
had found his way back to the light. His life had never been the same again.

All that, all of his life before Dwaraka, was like a dream whose memory had faded but the feelings that had been aroused remained,
fragile like a mirage, sometimes insubstantial, sometimes so real that he could mistake them for being the here and now. Govinda
shut his eyes and let the swirling sense of being half-awake take over him. Often it was the closest he got to sleep.

The four men woke, as a matter of habit, just before dawn, and plunged into the cold, refreshing waters of the river. What
should have been a quick, purposive bath turned into a water fight, with Govinda and Yuyudhana acting every bit as childish
as their younger kin. The sun had already cleared the first of the trees by the time the four, still caught in the throes
of laughter, broke camp. Their horses saddled and ready, Govinda turned to Pradymna and Samva, ready to order them back to
Dwaraka. The two youths, however, had already anticipated it and were ready to return.

‘You’ll have to manage without us. We’ve decided to go back. Our own decision, mind you!’ Pradymna said, with every bit of
his famed cheekiness.

Samva added, ‘We ought not give two old men competition. The ladies would hardly notice you if we were around …’