Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (45 page)

PANCHALI TURNED SHARPLY TO GOVINDA, BUT HE WAS NO LONGER
looking at her. For an instant his eyes held a hint of surprise and then took on a distant glaze as he briefly considered
Bhisma’s words. Then, his face devoid of expression, he began making his way towards the dais.

A dreadful silence enveloped the hall. Many of those assembled looked on in confusion, others in irritation. As the assembled
guests gradually began to understand what was going on, a murmur that could have been assent or discontent, perhaps even both,
began to form.

For his part, Govinda cared not. As he strode up, his eyes came to rest on Panchali. He did not turn away from her when Dhaumya
received him near the dais with an indulgent shake of his head, nor when a visibly happy Sadev escorted him the next few steps
to where the Emperor and Empress designate sat towering over them all. Govinda did not speak, he made no promises of loyalty
and swore no oaths of servitude. His vision, his senses, filled with his Empress, Panchali, and nothing else, he went down
on one knee, not breaking his gaze even as he bowed.

Dharma fumbled to say the appropriate words of grateful acceptance and barely managed to nod his acknowledgement.

Govinda stood up, still solemn, his arrogance not diminished in the least. Slowly, almost sensuously, he dipped his fingers
into the arghya. He filled his hands with the heavy paste and raised them to
his face. His eyes closed for just a moment as he smeared it across his forehead and then ran his fingers back, through his
hair, spreading the fragrance through the dark curls, as though revelling in the feel of the arghya and all that it meant.

Panchali watched, feeling as she had many years ago at Kampilya, reeling in the intimacy that she had locked deep into her
memory when Govinda had run his fingers through her hair. The recollection was too much for her to bear. She wanted nothing
more than to forget the intrigue, conspiracies and complexities around them, than for things to go back to the way they had
once been, for life to be filled with the simple joys of Govinda’s presence, his laughter and his equanimity. Her lips parted
in the beginning of a serene smile, but before she could help herself a soft cry had escaped her throat.

The sound was lost in the loud thud that followed.

The next instant, the arghya vessel fell to the stone floor with a jarring clatter. An unpleasant grating echoed through the
hall as it rolled round and round, caught in an excruciating eddy of motion till, at last, it hit the stone pedestal on which
it had stood with a booming clang.

‘How could you!’ Shisupala’s voice, strangely high-pitched, rent the air. ‘How could you! How dare you even touch this!’ he
screamed again. He looked close to tears as he kicked at the fallen arghya vessel, letting his pain turn to rage. His huge
frame quivered, and his chest rose and fell as he laboured hard to contain his temper. Whipping around, his eyes searched
the hall till he found the man he was looking for. ‘No, wait,’ he said, his voice quivering from the effort to contain himself,
‘I don’t even want to talk to the cowherd. It’s this fool of an emperor and his honourable advisors I ought to deal with.
Bhisma! Bhisma Devavrata! How could you allow this? What have you fools done? Dhik! Shame on you! Shame on you all!’

Shisupala strode forward, to stand directly before Bhisma’s seat. He continued, ‘You call on monarchs and preceptors to legitimize
the emperor, and a cowherd is the best you can find to lead us? And like a stray dog picking up scraps and leftovers, this
slave-born bastard Govinda accepts … He dares accept the First Honour; he
dares to touch the sacred arghya? And you just sit there, smiling on it all! Yabha! Is there any honour left in the blood
of Aryas? Answer me, Bhisma. Or have you turned senile once and for all?’

‘Why, that son of a …’ Bhim began to move forward, but Bhisma grabbed his hand restraining him.

‘Shisupala, my boy,’ he began, ‘I shall forgive your words as spoken in the impetuosity of youth. You ask why Govinda Shauri
was given First Honour. The answer is simple: Because he deserves it. We considered … why,
I
considered everyone here, young and old, and decided that no one merits this show of respect more than he does. Does that
satisfy you?’

‘Satisfy? It satisfies me that you’re mad indeed! Don’t you know the law? A man born into captivity, the son of prisoner parents,
is nothing but a slave. What right does Govinda Shauri have to even be here? When fortune carried him to the brink of nobility,
he pissed in its face. Can you deny it? Can anyone here deny that he surrendered Mathura? And you place this slave on par
with the likes of us? How dare you treat him as our equal, our leader? This is an insult to us all. I will not be led by a
cowherd, not in battle, and certainly not in proclaiming my allegiance to this muhira of an Emperor!’

The categorical declaration pulled the assembly out of its shock. The guests slowly began to comprehend Shisupala’s argument.
Many found his cause to be valid and said as much, while others tried to reason with them. As voices rose, harsh and angry,
and the situation grew decidedly unpleasant, Syoddhan went up to Shisupala to try to calm him down. Shisupala simply pushed
his friend away. Balabadra and Yuyudhana were already arguing with Kritavarman and some of the other Yadus who had taken Shisupala’s
side.

At a signal from Dwaipayana, Dron and Asvattama had discreetly placed themselves close to the unarmed cluster of priests and
scholars as a precaution. Shikandin signalled to Pradymna to keep an eye on the young Abhimanyu and Yudhamanyu even as he
and Dhrstyadymn silently moved close to Govinda. Partha and Nakul came to stand next to Sadev, their eyes on Dharma as they
awaited his command. Bhim alone remained determinedly vocal. He let
out another menacing cry, punctuated with a few choice expletives and threats.

Bhisma restrained him yet again, this time loudly proclaiming, ‘Let him be, Bhim. He’s an imbecile. What does he know of honour,
or law, or morality?’

Shisupala grit his teeth. He had neither patience nor respect left to waste on the Grandsire. ‘You, Bhisma!’ he called out
rudely. ‘Careful, old man! You can only condemn your kin with your blind folly for so long. Sooner or later, they
will
see you for the gutless woman that you are. You asked what I know of honour and morality. Where were
you
, noble and honourable one, when Govinda Shauri cheated and lied his way into Jarasandha’s palace? Where were you when he
killed his own uncle, Kans? Govinda is nothing but a murderer, but you allow him to be honoured as befits a king? You, who
claim to worship law and morality – how did you ever allow all this to come to pass? Perhaps your great vow of chastity, too,
should be suspect …’

‘How dare you!’ Bhisma bristled. In all these years not even the greatest or most revered of men had spoken to him the way
this arrogant fool was. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it.

Shisupala noticed, and gleefully challenged him, ‘Fight me, old man. For too long the great kings of Aryavarta have looked
up to you, feared your reputation. It’s time to show them that you are nothing but a sycophant, singing praises of Dharma
and his cowherd lackey. You are but a spineless eunuch – possibly in more ways than one! Shandha! Impotent!’

Bhisma let out an angry cry, sounding every bit the warrior he was. ‘Come then, you arrogant fool! Come and die!’

‘Why would I fight you, shandha? You’re a coward of the worst kind, for you justify your actions with no less a veil than
righteousness! I used to hold much respect for you. You are, after all, Grandsire to Syoddhan – the man on whose silence Dharma’s
new empire stands. But it never occurred to you to even ask why Dharma is being crowned and not Syoddhan, did it? Rather,
it did,
but you’re just too damned afraid to speak! One word from you and none of this would’ve happened.’

At the mention of his name, Syoddhan tried yet again to intervene, this time by appealing to Bhisma. The Grandsire simply
shook the younger man off, his eyes on Shisupala all the time. ‘Enough boy! You’re asking for a drubbing!’ he cautioned.

‘Boy? Yes, that’s pretty much what we, the kings of Aryavarta, have been to you and your beloved grandchild Dharma, haven’t
we? Boys! Hah! We’re great kings! We won’t be treated with such impunity. We will not swear our allegiance to any fool emperor.’

‘You question my decision? My fairness? Fight then, you bastard! And bring your great kings, as you call them, with you! I
spit on them all! Not one of you has the bloody pluck to question me this way, leave alone speak of either being Emperor or
receiving the First Honour!’

Shouts of anger, threats and conciliation all rose and drowned in one senseless drone of noise. Many more swords were drawn
as the assembled kings erupted at Bhisma’s words, their eager chants ringing off the walls.

‘Burn the old man! What does he think we are, his slaves?’

‘Kill the arrogant madman!’

‘He’s lived for far too long already. Syoddhan, Dussasan, rid yourself of this dotard and his stupidity.’

‘If only it were stupidity … He’s a coward and a hypocrite, too. Eunuch, rightly said!’

‘Go on, Shisupala! Kill him. Do us all a favour and redeem the honour of kings.’

Vilified, Bhisma’s anger rose and his face turned red. He tightly gripped the hilt of his sword. A confrontation was imminent.
Yet, even as the gathering waited with bated breath, the imminent did not come to pass. Bhisma did nothing, nor did the Vyasa.

At that realization Dharma stirred. His reaction, still, was one of disbelief. ‘But … how … why …?’ Looking bewildered, he
turned to Govinda.

Govinda stood still as stone, exactly where he had been when Shisupala had intervened. His head was bowed, not in shame but
in silent acceptance, and he did not stir. Not even when Shisupala spat on the ground right in front of him.

‘What …’ Dharma repeated.

Panchali watched silently, feeling her well-practised, quiet acceptance cloak her once more. She knew well what Govinda waited
for and why: That one moment when Dharma, and all of Aryavarta, would turn to him to set things right. To resolve the situation
as he always had and only he could. The moment of surrender that was far more powerful than receiving First Honour, or any
declaration of allegiance, any crown or throne. Or, perhaps, he truly was crushed. For all that he had done, all that he had
achieved, there were some things Govinda could never have. Perhaps, this once, he felt the pain of his loss after all. Panchali
desperately wanted to believe it was so, and she knew a part of her did.

She sprang to her feet. The sudden action forced Dharma out of his daze, and he too stood up. The almost-Emperor looked around
in helpless alarm, his gaze finally coming to rest on the woman next to him. Her calm countenance drove him to action. He
ran down the stepped dais towards the centre of the altercation, Panchali right behind him.

Going directly to Shisupala, Dharma began, ‘Your Highness, please …’

This only made Shisupala break into raucous guffaws. He threw his arms up in dramatic despair, and said, ‘Ah, now Dharma will
beg, will he? At last, the
Emperor
will deign to speak to us! Why not? Honour, honour, honour – we all keep spouting this great word. But honour means no more
to you than it does to your Grandsire there. He’s spent his life licking Dwaipayana’s feet and you continue the tradition.
If only you’d chosen someone as worthy as the Vyasa instead of this bastard cowherd to serve with your grovelling … But enough!’

His voice was sincere, even sympathetic, as he said, ‘You’ve damned yourself, Dharma. Your coronation is now worthless, for
no man here will swear allegiance to you. Your empire means nothing
at all and your dominion is forfeit. Enough! Stop this travesty of a sacrifice at once!’

‘But …’

‘No, Dharma. It is done. You had your chance and you’ve lost it. You’ve lost all that you gained because you’ve lost your
honour. You threw it at that slave-boy’s feet and lost it all. You’re a disgrace to every Arya.’

A speechless Dharma stepped back, his head hanging low in shame and agony. His surrender seemed to signal the end. Many of
the assembled kings prepared to leave. A whisper of consensus ran through the hall, the words indistinct, but clearly mocking
the farce the coronation had now become. In a slow, almost reconciled way, the crowd began to disperse.

‘
WAIT!’ THE COMPELLING VOICE STOPPED THE DEPARTING KINGS
in their tracks.

A tired, forced stillness fell over them all. Panchali sighed, feeling somewhat irritated by the predictability, the inescapable
melodrama. It came almost as a relief to her when Shisupala refused to be taken in by it.

‘Wait for what, cowherd?’ he rasped. ‘You’re really nothing but a slave. Who are you to command us all?’

‘I’m just a man like you, Shisupala …’

‘You’re nothing like me. You are
nothing
! The son of a slave mother, a liar and a cheat, that’s what you are. And Dharma worships you? And that old eunuch over there
happily consents to it all like a whore spreading her legs? Why, cowherd? Why, why, why?’

Snarling like an animal, Shisupala addressed the entire gathering, ‘Come on, all of you, ask yourselves … Why, in Rudra’s
name, does Dharma give such importance to a man who’s good for absolutely nothing? This man here, this Govinda, to whom Dharma
shows First Honour – this spineless rat surrendered the city he was sworn
to defend as its ruler, when the honourable thing, if he knew what that meant, would have been to hang from the palace tower
or to slit his own throat. But no! Govinda Shauri pissed on us all, and lives to tell the tale. He then assassinates the same
emperor he ran from and we all keep our silence and watch, the epitome of honour, Bhisma here, included.’

Shisupala walked up to Govinda, getting close enough for the other man to feel his breath, taste the venom and hatred in it.
His voice was a hiss, a harsh whisper that curled its way through the entire assembly and sent a shiver down every spine.
‘I’m not the best of men,’ he declared. ‘I know I stand here in the shadows of great kings. But I am Arya and I am a better
man than this Govinda. We – every Yadu here – should have killed him the day he traded our kingdom and our homes for his ambition
and safety. Yes, Govinda, we should have quartered you and left your head on a stake in front of the Varaha temple at Mathura
for the crows to peck at and the common folk to piss on. And what do we do? We leave you alive, for you to stand here and
claim First Honour today, to lead us all in bowing to your figurehead emperor. No! Worse,’ Shisupala shook his head and added,
‘we do so without question. We do it all without question, slaves to the slave!’

He glared at Govinda, who met his gaze without acrimony or amusement. Unperturbed, Shisupala turned his attention back to
his rapt audience. He knew that the entire congregation hung on his every word and so chose them carefully. He now sounded
more aggrieved than angry and to good effect. Anger was something that already simmered in their hearts. He needed them to
use it, and use it well.

Shisupala’s eyes sought out Syoddhan and rested lightly, meaningfully, on him for a moment before he looked over the assembled
faces and asked, ‘Answer me, great kings of Aryavarta. What could Govinda Shauri possibly offer Dharma that our would-be Emperor
flouts the most sacred of laws and tramples on the very essence of being Arya with such impunity?’

The hushed stillness that greeted his challenge held many answers.

Soon, Shisupala knew, some of them – those who truly mattered – would hit upon the one answer to all his questions. When that
happened …

He felt content at the thought. Squaring his shoulders, he resolutely turned back to Govinda. There still remained the final
confrontation, the one thing left to be said.

Malice seeped from every pore of Shisupala’s being. His eyes were red and bulging, the veins on his temples throbbed visibly
and his voice was a low rumble as he began, ‘I should have known, back then, in Vidharbha … Perhaps I did, but I refused to
believe it. You can’t fool me anymore, Govinda! You can cover Aryavarta with your tales and tricks, but you don’t frighten
me! I don’t care if you’re …’

For the shortest moment, emotion flickered across Govinda’s face. ‘Enough, Cousin!’

The reaction took Shisupala by surprise. He hesitated for a moment, smiling to himself as he thought of something, the gesture
betraying his familial relationship to Govinda. He declared, ‘True, Govinda. I’ve had enough. Come,
Cousin
. Let’s finish this as we should have, three decades ago!’

With that, Shisupala drew his sword.

A chilling stillness took hold of the hall. It erupted in a roar as Govinda slid his blade out from its scabbard.

As he stepped back, Dharma instinctively pulled at Panchali’s arm. She refused to move. For the briefest instant, her eyes
met Syoddhan’s, where he stood across the open space. Without words, the two of them turned back to the duel that was set
to begin.

‘He’s mad,’ Dharma whispered. ‘Govinda’s mad. Shisupala’s one of the best …’

Panchali snapped under her breath, ‘Best, strongest, greatest … Is there anyone we don’t describe in superlative terms? Any Arya who’s just a person and proud of it? By Rudra, can we get
over ourselves, ever?’

Her irate words did little to hide her anxiety. Shisupala was clearly the larger and more powerful man, and the way he twirled
his sword
as he cautiously circled his opponent showed he was an expert at handling the weapon.

By contrast, Govinda stood where he was, the tip of his sword resting lightly on the ground, his eyes following Shisupala’s
every move. Without warning, Shisupala rushed at him, sweeping his blade down with all his might. Govinda raised his own just
in time. The clang of metal on metal rang loud, followed by the scrape of burnished blade against blade as the two men drew
apart.

For a man of his size, Shisupala was light on his feet. He sprang again at Govinda, jumping into the air to add more force
to his blow. Govinda parried, and the two men moved around in a quick succession of strokes and counters that left them both
breathless. Drawing back slightly, Shisupala resumed circling, looking for the right opening, while Govinda waited, his sword
held up before him.

Once more, Shisupala came forward to attack, this time turning his downward stroke into a sideways thrust at the last moment.
Govinda saw the feint, side-stepped it, and brought down the flat of his sword right where his opponent’s blade met the hilt.
It was a move that would have disarmed most men, at least painfully strained their wrist. The burly Shisupala merely grimaced
and looked none the worse for it. ‘Is that all you can do?’ he jeered. Govinda did not rise to the bait. He stepped back and
waited for the next attack.

A small group of Shisupala’s friends and vassals joined Syoddhan where he stood. One of these men ran forward to throw Shisupala
a shield, which the man happily accepted.

‘Want one?’ he cheerfully taunted Govinda. ‘Don’t complain later to Yama’s minions that I killed you because you didn’t have
a shield, you coward!’

Immediately Dharma looked around to his own, wondering which one of his allies would do the same for Govinda. Nakul was about
to step forward, when Shikandin firmly shook his head to tell him not to.

Govinda remained oblivious to these silent exchanges, his attention fixed on his opponent. Shisupala clanged sword against
shield. The noise resounded through the hall, dispelling all traces of the festivities that had been on but a short while
ago. This was battle.

Shisupala flew at Govinda again, grunting loudly as he threw all his strength into the stroke. Govinda brought his weapon
up in a two-handed counter. Immediately, Shisupala used his shield to land a hard blow on Govinda’s shoulder and chest from
the side. Govinda took the blow, using the proximity to bring his left hand up to punch his opponent hard on his face. Shisupala
staggered back slightly. He spit the blood from his mouth onto the marbled floor, supplementing the action with as much derision
as he could muster. And then, he raised his sword and made ready for another attack.

This time, though, Govinda made the first move. He stepped in close before raising his sword, leaving Shisupala guessing.
At the last possible moment he twisted inwards, driving his sword in a stabbing stroke. In response, Shisupala dropped his
shield and used his now-empty hand to grab Govinda’s sword-arm. He tried to twist it back, but quick as lightning Govinda
spun around and mirrored the ploy. Both men were now caught back-to-back, each man’s sword-arm in the grip of the other’s
fist. Sinews strained as the two tried to use brute force to twist the other man’s wrist and get him to drop his sword.

Here, Shisupala had a clear advantage, in terms of his physical strength. With a loud yell, he willed every bit of his strength
into his bulging arms and pulled. His plan, simply, was to pull Govinda’s arms out of their sockets or get as painfully close
to it as possible. Govinda knew it was futile to resist. He simply could not match Shisupala in terms of pure strength. He
frowned against the pain, tried to shut out sound, smell, every sense of where he was and what was around him. Fighting the
instinct to hit back or to struggle, he centred his entire being, his consciousness into the moment, a deeper oneness that
didn’t know Govinda, Shisupala nor even the battle between them. A particular lightness, an incorporeal relief against the
pain, flooded him. He let his sword drop out of his hand.

A gasp somewhere nearby, a cry of triumph closer still and an amorphous cheer made of many voices filled the air. Govinda
heard
nothing. With calculated decisiveness, he twisted to his left, coming up from under Shisupala’s outstretched sword-arm, to
partly face the man. He then butted him in the head, hard. Shisupala reeled, as much from surprise as from the impact. It
was just the opening Govinda needed. He pulled his now empty sword-hand out from Shisupala’s grasp. At the same time he used
his other hand, still wrapped around Shisupala’s sword-arm, to jerk hard at the man’s wrist. Shisupala’s wrist-bone snapped
with a soft crack. With a cry of pain, he dropped his sword.

Govinda spun down on one knee and reached out to catch the weapon before it hit the ground. In the same move, he stood up
and turned around, whipping the blade through the air with smooth precision.

It was over. A terrible quiet descended on the hall, in which only the crisp crackling of the sacred fires could be heard.
The sword hung loosely from Govinda’s hand. The slight rise and fall of his chest was the only evidence of movement as he
stood still, his eyes closed. His upper robe had fallen off and his bare chest was streaked with blood. It had splashed across
his face and he could taste its metallic tang, feel it invade his every sense. Mixed with the fragrance of the arghya, it
was sanctifying and sullying at the same time.

Slowly, he stirred. He opened his eyes, and in a matter-of-fact way, threw aside Shisupala’s sword. He then picked up his
own blade, returning it carefully to its scabbard. Finally, he bent down to grab Shisupala’s waist sash and began dragging
the man’s huge bulk towards the doorway. In his other hand he held Shisupala’s severed head.

At the threshold, Govinda turned, considering the scene he left behind. Bhisma, his chest still heaving, stared at the blood-stained
floor and then at him. A wide-eyed Dwaipayana reached out to hold on to the tall, strong, Suka next to him as his well-masked
fear finally gave way to obvious relief. Around them all, shock, awe, surprise and reverence played across the faces of those
present as each one came to terms with what had just happened. Syoddhan alone showed
no visible emotion, his face expressionless. His eyes nevertheless betrayed his pain; the excruciating torment of guilt and
regret. The same pained regret flashed in Dharma’s eyes as he finally looked up to meet Govinda’s cold, piercing gaze.

‘Finish it,’ Govinda ordered and disappeared into the bright glare outside.

For a while there was only silence. Then, in a hoarse voice, Dharma gave instructions for the coronation to continue. A slow
hum of activity rose once again but conversation remained muted. A sense of gravity, of newfound respect, infused the proceedings,
as the sheer power of the new empire made itself felt.

Govinda did not return. He could not, for he was now tainted with death.

Panchali stood where she was, watching the empty space where Govinda had been just moments ago. He had not as much as glanced
at her. She felt as though she was being melted, tempered and wrought in the blue heat of the sacrificial fire. The moment
of blind joy that had filled her at the affirmation that power and ambition had meant little to Govinda after all, had not
lasted long. She knew he had killed Shisupala for a reason and it had little to do with the First Honour. He had killed the
prince to protect a secret, a dark, horrifying secret – one she had perhaps known for a while, suspected for a while longer,
but admitted not at all.

There was no running away from it now, no turning back. She took her place for the second time on the huge, gem-studded throne,
painfully aware that Syoddhan now stared at her with undisguised rage and hatred.

As one, Aryavarta’s kings declared their allegiance. Then, to the resounding chant of the sacred invocation to Sri, the goddess
and the very source of power in the imperial sceptre, consecrated water from many brass, silver and gold vessels was used
to anoint the new rulers of the empire. With loud cheers, the entire gathering hailed Dharma and Panchali, while drums and
trumpets rang loud.

The Empress of Aryavarta humbly accepted her new destiny, her hands folded in silent prayer.