Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (43 page)

TEN YEARS AND A MONTH SINCE DHARMA AND GOVINDA HAD
sat together, the dream of an empire between them – and now, it was time.

The day of the imperial coronation turned out to be inappropriately overcast. An irritatingly soft, persistent drizzle had
started sometime during the night and continued past an unnoticed dawn. The weather, however, did little to dampen the spirit
of revelry that ran through the entire city of Indr-prastha, culminating at the newly constructed coronation hall – a mighty
rectangular structure with high ceilings and huge, intricately carved pillars of marble and stone that ran around its vast
periphery. Its walls were a translucent white, finished with crystals. Just as it seemed that their starkness was tiring,
one saw the delicate gold trim that had been embossed into the surface. Small fountains dotted the extent of the hall in what
appeared to be a purposively asymmetrical arrangement. Some of these were set into the floor itself, spurting up suddenly
to surprise and amuse the unknowing guest. In the middle of that awe-inspiring grandeur, a sacrificial fire crackled in jubilation.
The rhythm of chanting rose and fell, mingling with the hum of conversation among the thousands of vassals, spectators and
guests seated around the hall.

For months now, preparations had been on to ensure that the guests had every comfort imaginable. Everyone who was attending
the ceremony, from king to commoner, was housed in luxury and fed the finest feasts. Wine flowed freely at all times of night
and day. Musical performances and entertainment of various sorts had been arranged for, and not a moment passed without the
sounds of laughter and merriment emanating from some or the other corner of Indr-prastha.

Meanwhile, scholars and sages from the length and breadth of Aryavarta had arrived to invoke the gods to bless the new empire.
Presided over by Dwaipayana Vyasa, his son Suka and the royal priest Dhaumya at his assistance, the sages sat around the six
massive sacrificial fires that roared high in the huge coronation hall. The
sound of their chanting filled the air, drowning out the excited hum of conversation from the assembled guests.

This was the day they had all been waiting for, this was the pinnacle of all revelry and ritual. In a short while, Dharma
Yudhisthir, aspirant Emperor of Aryavarta, would call on the kings of the land to offer him their allegiance and accept his
reign. One by one, each of the Aryas would come forward to swear their allegiance by accepting Dharma’s offering of the arghya
– a fragrant paste of sandalwood, incense and gold.

Syoddhan smiled to himself as he recalled the pleasant smell of the paste, the way it felt cool and sent a pleasant tingle
through his fingers. He knew he had been marked with the sacred arghya when he was born. But the last, no, the only time he
had touched it had been at Dharma’s investiture as crown prince of Kuru all those years ago. And now he would do so again
at Dharma’s coronation as Emperor of Aryavarta. To his surprise, the thought of bowing to Dharma irked him more now than it
had back then. Perhaps, he mused, it was because he understood what the arghya meant to him, to them all. It was considered
the mark of the gods themselves and was the ultimate symbol of overlordship that kings and preceptors, the best of the best,
alone were permitted to sport.

There was something primal about the moment one bowed before the vessel containing the arghya, the way one filled one’s hands
with the sacred substance, relishing its smell and texture. Then followed the savage smear across one’s forehead, the surrender
to a symbol – not of man, but of the gods and of their noble way of life. The arghya was the very blood-and-marrow of being
Arya. It was what gave meaning to the empire – life on earth as a mirror to the order of the heavens, to Indra’s dominion.
It was from this sanctity that every one of them derived his identity, such that Aryavarta became heaven on earth. And now,
Syoddhan admitted with a frown, it would give legitimacy to Dharma’s supremacy, his empire.

Syoddhan knew that at least a part of his muted anger was nothing but festered regret. When the imperial campaign had started,
he had thought it but an exercise in Dharma’s vanity, a futile
endeavour that was better ignored than envied. Now he wished he had shown more ambition, after all. Instead, all he had done
these past years was to watch, silent, when with the support he had rallied he could have risen to become …

No!
Syoddhan stopped himself on the brink of what he knew was a very dark, angry path; one he had seen his father traverse. It
held nothing but pain; worse, pain disguised as redemption, the promise of relief. It was not a road he wished to walk, no
matter what lay at the end of it. Firmly, Syoddhan reminded himself of all the factors he had considered and weighed, nearly
a decade ago, when he had watched Dharma’s armies march through Hastina. The choice had been his, and he had made it. For
better or worse, he had chosen to support Dharma. There was no point in hating anyone, including himself, for that choice.

Breathing hard, he returned his attention to his surroundings. He stood in the huge, airy corridor that lay between the coronation
hall and the new assembly hall that had been built as its twin. The entire length of the corridor was set with huge vaulted
windows – or were they doors – on one side. On the other ran an unbroken wall, decorated with the most intricate patterns
of creepers, birds and flowers, which came together seamlessly in the centre to form part of a gold and silver inlaid depiction
of the legendary battle of the celestial Indra against the demon Vrtra. Along the middle of the corridor, and running its
entire length, water flowed through a sunken pool that was more than a few feet wide. Syoddhan sighed softly, enjoying the
soothing cadence of the running water. Unlike the hall, the corridor was empty and for that he was thankful. He needed to
be away from the noise and the crowd for a few moments.

Syoddhan sauntered along the edge of the pool, casually admiring the stonework on the walls till he reached the fountain at
the centre of the hallway. Here the pool widened to occupy the complete width of the corridor, effectively bifurcating the
passage in two. He considered the fountain with interest. Out of the base of the feature rose the sculpture of a tree made
of marble and inlaid with gems. Emeralds were set as leaves, and rubies and yellow sapphires as fruits.
The fountain drenched the tree in a perpetual rain-like shower, the water trickling musically off the gems to fall back into
the pond. This was a constant in the architecture of Indr-prastha, he noted – there were fountains everywhere and twice as
many in the twin halls. This one, he found, surpassed them all.

Just the other day he had been standing in the same place wondering how to get across without getting his robes wet, when
Panchali had happened to find him there. She had laughed softly at his predicament and explained, ‘It’s not all water. The
water flows only along the edges of the pool and around the tree. The rest of it is crystal, cut to convey the effect of water.
It
is
difficult to tell the difference.’

Syoddhan had been genuinely amazed at the craftsmanship and had spent a pleasant while discussing that and many other things
of note about Indr-prastha with Panchali. Somehow, the thought of her as Empress irked him less than did the idea of Dharma
as Emperor.

‘They’re assembling, Your Highness,’ an attendant intruded on his thoughts.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Syoddhan nodded at the man, who scurried off to find others to notify. With a last look at the
fountain, he turned and made his way back to the coronation hall. Syoddhan looked around the congregation and walked over
to a group of men who stood together, conversing.

‘Ah! There you are, Syoddhan,’ Vasusena greeted him. ‘Come, I suppose it’s time to go see the theatricals … It’s a farce,
this empire!’

‘Well said!’ Shisupala added. ‘It surprises me that the coronation is such a grand one. Surely, Dharma knows that this is
an empire in name and not in fact. Look around you. I, you, King Saubha here, Syoddhan … it’s the likes of
us
who form the true might of Aryavarta and we’ve deferred to Dharma’s reign as a matter of respect and goodwill. It’s not as
if he defeated any of us … he requested our assent, and we gave it. He can’t presume that assent also includes allegiance!’

‘My dear Shisupala, what difference does it make what you call it? Would anyone dare oppose Dharma even if the cause arose?
In
fact, it seems every cause under the sun has been abandoned – no one has questioned the shameful way in which Jarasandha was
killed. Perhaps there was no affection lost for the former king of Magadha, but what bothers me is that tomorrow his fate
may well be ours. I’d hate to think that such dishonourable conduct is beyond reproach,’ Vasusena finished.

Syoddhan laid a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Dishonourable action is never beyond reproach, my friend. What does
any Arya have at the end of his life but his honour? An honourable life and a valiant death! No, honour can’t be forsaken,
no matter who it is we must oppose to preserve it.’

The fifth man, who had stood for so long on the fringes of the group listening politely, now softly intervened, ‘Ah, Prince,
in you runs the true blood of the line of Pururavas. Your right equals that of the Emperor-designate. Indeed, one could argue
that yours is the greater claim. Your father is the rightful king of the Kurus, the monarch who sits on Emperor Hastin’s throne.
Your grandfather Dwaipayana and your grand-uncle Bhisma love you no less than they do your cousin. But, sadly, they remain
prisoners of politics. My station precludes me from calling it a shame, but I will nevertheless impose on our childhood familiarity to deem it exactly
that …’ He looked resignedly in Dharma’s direction.

‘Sanjaya!’ Syoddhan chided.

Sanjaya immediately bowed. ‘My apologies. I’m clearly not myself today. Of course, the Grandsire and the Vyasa would do right
by you. The First Honour at today’s ceremony will surely be yours. You alone have the right to touch the sacred arghya before
any other man here.’

‘I should expect so!’ Vasusena added. ‘Is there another here who can stake claim to it?’

‘There are many, my friend,’ Syoddhan pointed out with a smile. ‘The Vyasa himself, for one. For years now, across all of
Aryavarta, wherever First Honour has been shown the recipient has been Dwaipayana or, with his blessings, the Grandsire Bhisma.
Then there’s Acharya Dron, who was teacher to us all. King Dhrupad – the eldest
of the Panchalas. Don’t forget that they’re as old and respected a line as the Kurus.’

Sanjaya said, ‘Age is just one part of it. The First Honour is a rare accolade, given only to those of exceptional valour,
scholarship and nobility. Men defeated even once in battle, or those of low birth cannot aspire to it. I’ve heard,’ he lowered
his voice slightly, ‘that even the former Emperor was refused the honour by the noble Firstborn seers.’

‘That’s rot!’ Vasusena bristled. ‘The First Honour always goes to the most influential man, irrespective of status, nobility,
valour and that sort of thing. Military and financial might both lie in the hands of a few. And right now they lie dominantly
in our hands, a fact Dharma would do well to keep in mind.’

‘Surely, the Vyasa knows …’

‘The Vyasa may or may not know, Sanjaya. Isn’t what’s happening around us proof of it all? Or have you forgotten what I said
but moments ago, you two-faced muhira!’

‘I do remember, and I beg your forgiveness for offending you. But I remain loyal to my liege and my teacher both, and I speak
here of an offence against the one but not necessarily an offence by the other. There are others present at this coronation,
those with great power and whom we have much cause to dislike … for more reasons than one.’ With another bow and an inciting
look that said much he walked away, blending quickly into the endless mass of royal glitter and finery that now filled the
hall.

The others of the group too slowly dispersed, relieved at having expressed their displeasure but still burdened by their helplessness
in the circumstances. One, however, stood lost in his thoughts.

‘What is it?’ Syoddhan asked, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder.

Shisupala pensively regarded Syoddhan. ‘He’s right you know … Sanjaya’s right,’ he began.

‘Hmm?’

‘This isn’t just about you, your cousin, or the Vyasa. There is another here, one who has done much to bring this to pass.
Someone whom we have, as Sanjaya says, more than one reason to dislike.’

Syoddhan sighed, a little tired of the veiled statements, the underlying discontent and intrigue. A while ago, standing by
the crystal fountain, he had felt light-hearted and joyful at the thought of the Empire, the unification of these lands. Now,
it was back to the same, tired resignation that he tended to associate with the royal court of Hastina. ‘What do you mean,
Shisupala?’ he asked, reluctant.

Shisupala said, ‘There’s an old legend back in the forests of Chedi–Surasena. It tells of how the Firewrights had the craft
to cleave through rock and stone. Both the Danavas and the Nagas inherited their skills from the Wright scholars of old. The
Danavas learnt how to fashion rock into brick and tower to build, and the Naga sacquired the skills to burrow through the
very mountains. Strange, isn’t it, that all it would take is such a tunnel through the Western Mountains for Dwaraka’s armies
to reach Vidharbha in less than a night?

‘And who in this day and age could build such a tunnel? My dear friend, for all the talk of love and romance, the fact remains
that Govinda Shauri could very well have planned the whole affair. There’s nothing astounding about what happened at Vidharbha,
if we’re willing to admit we were outfoxed. Dwaraka’s armies must have left some days earlier, sailed along the coast and
somehow rounded the northern end of the Western Mountains. Or the yadus might have found the tunnel of old but kept it a secret.
But to think that they could have carved a tunnel through sheer rock …? The Western Mountains are both broad and impregnable!’