Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Read online

  THE ARYAVARTA CHRONICLES

  BOOK 1

  GOVINDA

  Krishna Udayasankar

  First published in 2012 by Hachette India

  (Registered name: Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)

  An Hachette UK company

  www.hachetteindia.com

  Copyright © 2012 Krishna Udayasankar

  Krishna Udayasankar asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  Map on p. ix illustrated by Priya Kuriyan

  Author photo on cover by Alvin Tang

  All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system (including but not limited to computers, disks, external drives, electronic or digital devices, e-readers, websites), or transmitted in any form or by any means (including but not limited to cyclostyling, photocopying, docutech or other reprographic reproductions, mechanical, recording, electronic, digital versions) without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print edition ISBN 978-93-5009-446-4

  Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5009-454-9

  Hachette Book Publishing India Pvt. Ltd,

  4th & 5th Floors, Corporate Centre,

  Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurgaon 122003, India

  Cover illustration by Kunal Kundu

  Cover design by Ahlawat Gunjan

  Typeset in Arno Pro 11/13.2 by Eleven Arts, New Delhi

  Contents

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  The Beginning

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Part 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Firewright

  Standing on the Shoulders of Giants

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Author’s Note

  Aryavarta, circa second millenium bce

  In a large glen somewhere in the verdant forests of Naimisha, a sattra, or conclave of scholars, has been convened by the sage Saunuka Kulapati. Here, in what is described as a sacrifice lasting twelve years, the finest scholar–seers of the land, the keepers of knowledge, have gathered to discuss the knowledge of their times and give final form to its codification as the Vedas, Books of Knowledge. At the centre of this conclave stands Ugrashravas Sauti, the bard, traditional keeper of the ancient narratives known as the Puranas. The story he tells them, however, is their own, the tale of who they are and how they have come to be there.

  He calls it Jaya. Victory.

  To the gathered scholars at Naimisha, that story was neither ancient nor mythological. It was itihasa, or history. Jaya was undeniably a tale of its time, and just as posterity elevated the great men of that time and saw them as gods, so too was the story’s context adapted and its reality turned into metaphor. In order to go behind the metaphor, and to tell the tale as mytho-history rather than mythology, the essential question that came to my mind was: If Govinda and all the other characters of this grand narrative had walked the world as we know it today, bound by our languange and constructions, our common perceptions of physics, psychology and politics, what might their story really have been? Surprisingly, at its core it may not have been very different from the one that took form millenia ago during the conclave of Naimisha.

  Like societies, stories are made up of two elements that I call (admittedly with neither theological nor philosophical expertise) moral imperative and moral principle. Moral principles are the relatively immutable values that guide human life, perhaps even underlie philosophical evolution, whereas moral imperatives are the derivative rules that are part of social structure, the behavioural norms embedded in everyday interaction. These norms are often context-specific and change as the structure of society changes. At the same time, for any social institution to survive, it must either adapt to these changing imperatives, or else justify defying them.

  Through a process of re-interpretation and interpolation, even some aggrandization, the many unnamed narrators who have passed down such epic tales through the centuries have recast some events and explained others differently to make them not just palatable but also plausible and relevant to their audience. What remains constant, however, are the broad sweep of the story and the moral principles that underlie it.

  There began the quest for the story that lay hidden beneath the larger epic tales of ancient India. The story that emerged as a result is the product of research and analysis based on both mainstream and alternative (e.g. Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain) narratives, the details of which are given at the back of this book.

  Based on these works, ranging from Bankimchandra Chattopadhyay’s and K.M. Munshi’s interpretations in their books Krishnacharitra and Krishnavatara respectively to Van Buiten’s critical translations of the epic’s texts and Alf Hiltebeitel’s scholarly research papers and books on their symbolism-rich language, and to alternative Bhil and Indonesian Kakawain versions, to name a few sources, it becomes possible to construct a story of why things may have happened as they did, a plausible narrative with reasonable internal logical consistency. Something that could well have been history, something that stands firm not just on faith but also on logic and science. In short, the story of why something might have happened.

  And so, Aryavarta comes to life not as a land of demigods and demons in strife, but as an empire of nobles, commoners and forest-dwellers in socio-economic conflict. Kalas, Yugas and the Wheel of Time make sense as theories of revolution and renewal, and the terrible Rakshasas of legend can be seen as Rikshasas – Vriksha or tree-people – their horned heads and fanged teeth morphed back into animal-horn helmets and tiger-tooth necklaces. The mythical epic of old, a story of
gods and all-encompassing divine will in action, then falls into place as the tale of a feudal, agrarian hierarchy based on natural law and religion, caught in the throes of technological and economic change. In fact, the moment we do away with assumptions of both preternatural and supernatural forces, of omnipotence and divinity, we find ourselves necessarily seeking out political, social and even psychological explanations – including theories of conspiracy and political intrigue.

  We are the stories we tell. The Aryavarta Chronicles are neither reinterpretation nor retelling. These stories are a construction of reality based on a completely different set of assumptions – a distinction that is important because constructing shared reality is what links individual to society, however widely we may define the latter. To that extent, it no longer matters whether these events happened or not, or whether they happened in a completely different way, because the idea that such things have come to pass has affected the lives of many for a very long time now. There is a sanctity which has developed as a result of what people have come to think and do as they have interacted with the spirit of these epic tales and their characters, with the world of Aryavarta. At the end of the day, that spirit is much, much larger than any story, or a book.

  I am simply one of those innumerable bards who passes the story on, contexualized and rationalized but not lacking in sincerity or integrity. It is you, the reader, who shall infuse it with meaning and bring it to life as you will.

  narayanaya vid mahe

  vaasudevaya dhi mahi

  thanno vishnu prachodayaat

  We shall know the divine spirit within

  We shall meditate on the essence of all beings

  Thus, the all-pervading shall blaze forth.

  adi

  The Beginning

  THERE WAS NOTHING BUT THE BLINDING, BLAZING SUN. THEY moved slowly, every step forward an overwhelming effort as weariness overcame their will to live. The brightness was beyond bearing; all they could see was an endless golden shimmer.

  The young woman smirked, bitter. Perhaps we’re already dead, and in Indra’s heaven.

  But then there were the vultures. The intense haze made it easier to ignore the scavengers, but once in a while she spotted a lone bird perched either on a dead tree or on some debris, watching them keenly. It took her some time to realize that it was the same creature following them, moving as they moved.

  It’s waiting for us to die.

  She calmly met the vulture’s gaze. The bird no longer inspired fear or revulsion, not since she had come to terms with all that had happened.

  We brought this upon ourselves. We deserve this for trusting that scum, those godless magicians … A curse on the head of every Firewright!

  Firewrights. The old order of scholar–seers had promised a great revolution, a time when man and his harvest would depend on the fickle gods less and his own will more. The river’s course, they said, could be made to move, to feed the lands, turn the most barren earth into verdant bounty. It would be, they had promised, an era of unrivalled prosperity for the whole empire of Aryavarta. An age when humans would defy the might of the gods.

  We deserve this for our blasphemy.

  The lands the two travellers crossed had once been seasonal but fertile. Now, they lay fallow and the earth had splintered in patterns of horror. The vast river had slowed to a trickle, the skies had turned stark and cloudless and the furrows on the land had deepened further till it had all become the same – one endless desert, with neither a drop of water below nor a cloud above.

  Tears welled up, unbidden, and as her vision blurred she stumbled. The man walking behind her rushed forward to help. ‘Princess!’

  She waved him back. Princess! Hah! She, Satya, was the daughter of the mighty Emperor of Aryavarta, a woman destined to be a queen. And now it had come to this. She was nothing more than a refugee. Like the rest of her people, the few who still lived, who were now trying to flee the forsaken land that had once been their bountiful home.

  The man passed her the small waterskin that hung from his shoulder. She took it with a grateful smile and drew a careful sip. The water had to last them all the way till their destination, an insignificant village of fishermen far enough across the desert to remain blissfully unaffected by their tragedy. It was the one place that her father believed she could be safe. Perhaps he had hoped that under the care of his old friend she could somehow begin a new life.

  The princess made a solemn promise to herself, renewing it as she had every day for what had been a short while, though it now felt like years: She would live. And she would have her revenge. The need to destroy those who had destroyed everything she had ever held dear – her people, her home, her very belief in human goodness – burned in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and savoured the feeling, letting it fuel her tired limbs.

  That night, she and her guard made camp under the stars. They needed protection neither from the cold nor from wild beasts. Nothing had survived the drought. The princess wrapped herself up in her tattered cloak and lay down, while the guard sat a few feet away, keeping watch. She slept, and dreamt she was running across endless green fields, laughing and playing, while a great river gurgled along at her side wherever she went.

  The next morning she woke to see the guard keeled over. With a sigh, she went closer, knowing exactly what she would find. He had died without a whimper. The princess suspected that he had not let a drop of water pass his lips for over three days, saving it all for her.

  You won’t be forgotten, my friend. She picked up the dead man’s waterskin and resumed her journey.

  The vulture would now be her only companion. She looked out for him eagerly, as if he were a friend. She did not dare sleep that night and kept moving, using the stars to guide her. It felt warmer in the dark than it had during the day. Sometime during the moonlit night, the water ran out. She could not see the vulture in the darkness, but knew he was waiting. She pulled out her knife and resolved to walk as far as she could before using it on herself.

  A little before dawn, the moon set. In the ghostly light, she heard the sudden flutter of wings and panicked. It was only for a moment and she quickly pulled her wits together, but it was enough to make her lose her footing. She stumbled and fell, bruising her knees on sharp pebbles. Despite her terror, she recognized the irony of the situation – she had fallen on the dry bed of what had once been a strong, swift river. The rocky shoals that had dotted the river’s course had become dark islands in a sea of white sand. For an instant, she imagined she heard the gurgling of water. Then darkness took her.

  The princess stirred at the soothing touch of a cool, wet cloth on her lips. She heard someone calling to her, but the voice was vague and distant. With great effort she opened her eyes and realized that it was sometime in the afternoon. A stranger – a young man – was looking down at her with concern. He was tall and hardy, his long, matted hair was pulled back into a coil, and he wore simple, ochre robes.

  A sage! Disgust welled up in her, and instinctively she pushed him away.

  The man looked surprised, but yielded with grace. He held out his palms in a conciliatory gesture and took a few steps back to perch on a rock.

  Slowly, she sat up, her eyes on him all the while.

  ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he assured her in a kind, sincere voice. ‘Don’t worry.’

  She did not look convinced.

  He glanced around, uncertain, wondering how best to handle the young woman. At length he said, for a momentary lack of imagination, ‘I’m Parashara, the son of Shakti in the line of the great Elder Vasishta. What’s your name?’

  She stared at him, incredulous. ‘A Firstborn?’

  He laughed. ‘Yes, that’s what they call us. Our ancestor was the first son of the Creator, and our order has carried the title ever since.’

  ‘What … what are you doing here?’

  He pointed upwards. ‘I saw the vultures swoop in, one after another. I … I suppose I wanted to make s
ure that their quarry was really dead … not … You know what I mean.’

  ‘Thank Rudra!’ the princess exclaimed. As an afterthought she added, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, if you’ll tell me who you are and where you are from, I can see you safely home.’

  She thought quickly. ‘I’m Chief Dasha’s daughter.’

  ‘Dasha? Of the fishermen?’

  She nodded, and waited for the inevitable question as to how she had come to be here. To her astonishment, Parashara accepted her averred identity without demur.

  He said, ‘We’re not very far from your village. But you’re tired and it’s only another two hours to sunset. I suggest you eat such food as I have with me, and then sleep and get your strength back. We can leave in the morning.’

  Though wary and suspicious, the princess agreed. She tried to stay awake, but eventually drifted off. Faint but seductive tendrils of hope flashed through her jumbled dreams.

  The next morning they set out westward. Parashara headed in a different direction from the one the princess had been taking so far, but she followed him without question. Soon, jagged blue peaks came up on the horizon, low but running on unbroken as far as one could see.

  ‘But …’ she started to protest.

  ‘Don’t you know the way to your own country?’ Parashara teased. ‘There’s a small path that leads up one of the cliffs. It’s not easy, but it’ll get us out of this damned desert,’ he hissed out the last few words with venom. As if needing to vent his anger he continued, ‘Those meddling Firewrights; heretics, the lot of them! The river Saraswati hides from Indra’s wrath while the people of these lands pay the price …’

  ‘I take it you don’t like the Firewrights?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Then we have something in common.’

  Parashara’s voice was a restrained sneer. ‘Whatever have the Firewrights done to you?’

  The princess gave a slow, firm shake of her head. ‘Whatever they did here, to the people of this land, it was wrong. No one with a conscience can dispute that.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t.’

  By afternoon, they were nearly at the base of the cliffs. Already the air was cooler, and the princess found herself laughing with relief. Parashara guided her with familiarity, occasionally pointing out some marker which he used to find his way. They rested for a short while at the foot of the cliffs and then began their upward climb. The narrow path, if it could be called that, was nothing more than a precarious series of outcrops and ledges that formed a stairway of sorts. But the sheer relief of leaving the desert behind gave the princess strength.