Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Read online

They stopped for the night but did not light a fire. Govinda was about to suggest they take turns to keep watch, but Shikandin pre-empted him. ‘Sleep. I’ll take the first watch.’ He fell asleep, knowing well that Shikandin would not wake him till morning. In any case, with Shikandin around, no creature of the wild posed any threat.

  By afternoon, the next day, Shikandin began to look downcast. ‘We’re almost at the northern end of the forest. We’ll soon emerge onto the last plains before the White Mountains begin.’

  ‘Perhaps we can still find out which way he went before that.’

  ‘And of what use is that?’ Shikandin grumbled.

  It was a little before sunset when the two friends emerged through the last of the trees, onto the edge of a small hillock. Below them lay the rolling plains of Northern Panchala. In the distance, almost at the foothills of the lesser Himalayas, was the hazy outline of Ahichattra, its capital city.

  The two men trailed their quarry down to the edge of the plains, but the tracks were soon lost in the ploughed consistency of the farmlands.

  ‘Mih!’ Shikandin swore out loud. ‘He’s gone over the freshly tilled land and not through the fields which are yet to be harvested … It’s almost as if he knew he’d be trailed!’

  ‘Trailed through the Eastern Forests, and that too for two days?’ Govinda was incredulous.

  ‘What are you saying Govinda? That he knew I’d be trailing him?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Govinda’s voice took on a strained timbre, ‘and that he surmised I’d bring you here. Strange, isn’t it? It’s almost as if someone wanted me to know that Agniveshya had been killed and who had done it. As if any of it would make a difference to my decision not to compete for Panchali’s hand.

  ‘And it won’t?’ Shikandin was terse.

  ‘No,’ Govinda shook his head. ‘Come,’ he continued, in a lighter tone. ‘You’d better get back to Kampilya quickly. They’ll be wondering where we’ve disappeared. I too need to meet Balabadra and the others near your borders.’

  Shikandin nodded. For a moment he hesitated, as if on the verge of saying something, but then decided against it and rode on in silence. His thoughts rested on his sister and his eyes held a pained regret.

  Govinda did not notice.

  12

  HASTINA, THE CAPITAL CITY OF THE KURU KINGDOM, LAY AT A unique junction of the Great Road and the River Ganga. Large crowds moved incessantly from the Great Road in through the city gates and out again.

  Inside, a medley of smells and sounds, the endless bustle of life. Canals from the river ran through the city, the veins of its flourishing commerce. Small boats plied to and from the larger barges moored on the river, carrying various goods and occasionally people to the large marketplace that had sprung up along both banks of the largest of the canals. From this point, a series of narrow, cobbled streets branched off into various parts of the city, their haphazard pattern a stark contrast to the well-laid-out canals. Both close to the canals and in the more distant parts of the city, the streets were packed with residents and visitors alike, and many more people occupied the stone buildings flanking the narrow pathways. These structures were built over three, sometimes four levels and could house close to twenty large families. Some of the slightly more affluent buildings had a small inner courtyard with a common well. It was said that to find a piece of bare land in Hastina was impossible. Unless, of course, one was a king or a prince. Then the crowds would easily part despite the packed streets, and heads would bow in unquestioning obedience despite their many everyday cares.

  As they did now for the tall rider. The hushed whispers that ran through the crowd, however, held more than habitual servitude. Those who knew him spoke of him with warm respect, and those who did not stared at him in admiration. His eyes were a warm, molten brown and his chiselled face sported a distant but pleasant expression, quite unlike the disdainful looks nobles readily bestowed on commoners. The flaming jewel he wore on his forehead hung between his brows like a third eye. Men stopped in their tracks, awed by his presence and manner, while women of all ages fawned over his pale, flawless complexion, which they said shamed even the white silk of his robes.

  The rider left the narrow streets and entered the vast stone courtyard that separated one part of the city from the other. He headed straight for the huge edifice that dominated the cityscape – the golden palace of Hastina, home to the royal dynasty of the Kurus. The palace was a low-lying structure that occupied a small part of the grounds that it was set in. Built in a complex symmetry to house the many immediate and distant members of the royal family as well as a large part of the kingdom’s administrative offices, it looked all the more amazing for its garden-like surrounds. The grass underfoot was velvet-soft, a carefully maintained species that was not native to the sometimes inhospitable climate of Kuru, but the shrubs and trees were native to the region. The flora had been arranged to form many smaller parks – areas discreetly enclosed by shrubs and bushes to offer privacy for the many undoubtedly pleasant uses the members of the royal household had for them.

  At that moment, however, the general air of stillness around the parks and the entertainment podiums told the warrior that the hundred princes of Hastina, their courtiers, and their lackeys had already left for the tournament at Kampilya. The city was but a day’s ride away, but the brothers would no doubt stop to hunt or be otherwise entertained on the way, and it would take their convoy at least three days to make the journey. Their absence did not bother the rider and, in fact, he relished the feeling of orderliness and calm that reigned over the palace grounds. The Crown Prince, Syoddhan, was his friend, but there were many in that lot of brothers that he thoroughly despised, for he had little patience with those who did not treat him with the respect he deserved. He came from an old and powerful line of scholar–warriors and was one of the best fighters in the empire. His father, Acharya Dron, had been teacher to all the Kuru princes and many nobles from other kingdoms too, and there were many assemblies across the land in which the acharya would be shown First Honour and recognized as the best of men unless, of course, the Vyasa Dwaipayana himself were present. Above all, he, Asvattama Bharadvaja, was not only the son of such a man but also a king in his own right, and his realm of Northern Panchala was one of the most prosperous and verdant in all of Aryavarta.

  Asvattama left his horse in the care of an attendant and walked through the gilded halls as though he ruled the place. His hard sandals clacked loudly against the pristine, polished stone floors. He found the sound pleasing; it affirmed the idea that he would leave his indelible mark on the palace. We should rule here, he thought to himself. Instead, Father has us remain servants with his talk of outdated morals and codes of duty and loyalty.

  In truth, Asvattama lacked no comfort that the kings of the realm had. As Dron’s son, as a man who had served the Kurus faithfully time and again, he knew he was more than welcome to stay at the palace, attended by his own retinue of servants and soldiers both. Still, he felt different. After all, he was one of those who had given in, one of those who had traded the sacred, secret knowledge of his former order for gain. To live in Hastina would be too stark a reminder of his choices, and his guilt would condemn him to live in servitude – a privileged and honourable one, no doubt, but still servitude.

  Bristling slightly at the thought, Asvattama entered the opulent central wing of the palace that housed the famed assembly hall of the Kurus as well as minor offices of the administrative machinery of the nation. It was to one such office, unremarkable in its location and appearance, that he now made his way, walking right in without announcement.

  Sanjaya stood up on seeing him. ‘Asvattama, welcome!’

  Asvattama did not return the greeting. He did not need to; Sanjaya was a lowly Suta.

  ‘Agniveshya Angirasa is dead,’ he declared.

  ‘But … you … are you sure … it was him?’ Sanjaya looked far less pleased than Asvattama had expected.

  ‘Have I ever been wrong?’r />
  ‘No …’

  ‘Surely, the Vyasa would be happy to know that his enemies are destroyed?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ Sanjaya tried to show enthusiasm. ‘But I must confess, I didn’t expect this – I’ve been quite worried that a man like Agniveshya, a man who could rise to claim the title of Secret Keeper, was still at large, but now … It is good news indeed. And I thank you for it, Asvattama.’ He paused and fixed his visitor with a piercing look, ‘This means, then, that you are all that’s left of the Wrights, doesn’t it? I sincerely hope you don’t become the very danger we asked you to eliminate.’

  Asvattama’s voice was cold. ‘It’s true that I am of the lines of Bharadvaja and Gautama, descendants of Agni Angiras through his first and second sons respectively. But make no mistake, Sanjaya. I am not a Firewright. My father pledged allegiance to the Vyasa many years ago.’ The emphasis on the last few words was unmistakeable.

  Sanjaya spread his hands in what might have been an apologetic gesture, but said nothing.

  Asvattama continued, ‘As for whether any other heathens remain alive, both you and the Vyasa know what the situation is. Agniveshya, my uncle, is dead and only his children, if they’re still alive, are of any consequence. But pretty much anyone who would know their identity is now gone. All I’ve heard was that Agniveshya’s older child was sent to Dakshinavarta to study, while the younger one remained with Ghora. But I’ve never seen them, not even as a child; or, perhaps, I have seen them and didn’t know who they were. My uncle used to say that both his children were as skilled as he was, that they had all the makings of warriors. One powerful Firewright is enough to be noticed; surely we wouldn’t miss two of them? Of course, if you want to believe every madman who rants on about the order never dying out … Well, what can I say?’ He finished with an indifferent wave of his hand that hid nothing of his contempt.

  Choosing his words with care, Sanjaya asked, ‘So you’re convinced that this is the end? Some claim that Agniveshya’s father – Ghora’s son – is still Jarasandha’s prisoner in one of the Kashi kingdoms. It might be best to get rid of him, too.’

  ‘What do you think I am, Sanjaya? Your servant? Or your deputed assassin?’

  ‘I think you’re a man who has much to gain from the death of these men. The Vyasa, on the other hand, wants them gone because they are a danger to Aryavarta.’

  ‘Surely a man of learning and nobility such as the Vyasa doesn’t place faith in childish tales of magic and sorcery? Or have you been sharing your commoner’s superstitions with him?’ Asvattama was intentionally insulting, but Sanjaya remained unfazed.

  ‘The Vyasa encourages independent thought, even disagreement, in his students,’ he slickly replied. ‘I’m fortunate to not have to serve as a sycophant to some prince or some decrepit Regent …’

  ‘Pity! Such a calling is exceptionally suited to those with some ability and no nobility whatsoever. You’d have done well as a lackey to more than just the Kurus. Perhaps you could reconsider; it’s never too late to bend further than you already have …’

  Sanjaya tried to keep a rein on his temper, reminding himself that he acted on Dwaipayana’s behalf. Asvattama was an important element in the Elder’s plans, an element that could not be compromised. He was only partly successful, and his voice held just a trace of smugness as he said, ‘Speaking of bending – I suppose, Asvattama, you won’t vie for Panchali’s hand …’

  It was a statement, not a question; an order that clearly came from Dwaipayana himself. Asvattama hesitated a moment, wanting to disobey the Vyasa just to prove a point, but decided to settle for the satisfaction of knowing that not a single Kuru prince could hope to win against him if he chose to compete. Panchali was nothing more than his charity to them, a scrap for stray dogs. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he calmly replied, ‘You can assure the Vyasa that the Kurus have my support. I’m sure one of them will make him proud.’

  ‘It’s your father, Acharya Dron, who will be made proud. He is, after all, their teacher and yours. A Kuru victory at the tournament is to your father’s advantage in many ways … and yours. The resulting alliance will serve to keep Northern Panchala an independent state. Or would you rather be Jarasandha’s vassal?’

  Asvattama grimaced. There was no need for Sanjaya to drag Dron into it. ‘What more do you want?’ he rudely snapped.

  Sanjaya held out his hand. ‘Not I, Asvattama. I’m merely a servitor.’

  His eyes boring into the other man, Asvattama reached into his waist-sash and pulled out a small, well-wrapped bundle.

  Sanjaya took it, with a cautiousness marked by reverence. ‘You made it stronger this time?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t break the damned bottle,’ Asvattama warned, almost gleefully. ‘A whiff of this can damage your nerves and even a single drop of it will leave you a blathering idiot for the rest of your life. Though I doubt we’d know the difference.’

  Ignoring the temptation to retort, Sanjaya said, ‘Thank you.’

  His face set in its characteristic expression of cold contempt, Asvattama walked out of the room.

  Alone, Sanjaya smiled to himself, revelling in the simple satisfaction of serving a greater cause. He was ready. If Govinda Shauri or, for that matter, anyone but the right man tried to wed the girl, they would rue their decision for as long as they lived.

  13

  THE PREPARATIONS FOR PANCHALI’S WEDDING HAD REACHED A feverish pitch.

  All of Kampilya had been brightly decorated with flowers and creepers, and the streets rang with the sounds of festivity. Over the past few days, scores of Panchala’s subjects had been pouring in from every corner of the kingdom to witness and celebrate the marriage of their beloved princess to the hero who would win her hand. Just when it looked like the city would burst with revellers, the royal guests began to arrive. Convoy after convoy marched toward the city in slow ceremonial processions designed to show off wealth and power. Gold-laden elephants, massive horse-drawn chariots and bejewelled attendants pushed through the already-packed streets of Kampilya in a grand spectacle as the crowds looked on in wonder.

  Panchali watched discreetly from a balcony in the royal palace as wheels trundled through the palace gates in a solemn, boring, rhythm. Most of the central kingdoms used horse-drawn vehicles, the term chariot itself implying the ornately designed ceremonial monstrosities that rattled along slowly on special occasions. Compared to the simple, unshielded military rigs that were used in battle, the ceremonial chariots that now made their way towards the palace were covered on most sides, heavy and highly ornamented.

  Not unlike their occupants, Panchali snidely noted as yet another bejewelled suitor descended from his vehicle and was welcomed in state by a member of the royal family.

  Her face lit up as she spotted the people she had been waiting for. A small, boisterous party made its way through the gates. Conspicuously absent were the hosts of soldiers and war elephants. Instead, the group was escorted by a small retinue of guards and heralds. The heralds moved aside and raised light trumpets to their lips to let out a short, merry trill that announced the arrival of the leaders just as four blazing silver-white stallions led in a light two-wheel rig.

  For a few moments Panchali indulged in fantasies of escape, of being carried to the farthest corner of the world by the fastest horses in Aryavarta, away from this honourable prison of red stone walls, this palace where every brick and pillar seemed to stand as a testament to the duty and gratitude she owed her father, her family. She finally managed to pull her attention back to the present and stepped off the balcony and through the adjoining room to emerge onto a corridor. She sprinted lightly down the corridor and up an open stairway to the huge terrace that connected the various buildings that comprised the palace. Running across the burning mid-day stone, she took her place in a corner overlooking the royal courtyard. She was just in time.

  The rig entered the courtyard and came to a stop. Shikandin and Dhrstyadymn stood ready to welcome the Yadus o
n behalf of their father, and Yuyudhana stood with them to receive his kinsmen. Balabadra dismounted and was welcomed formally by Dhrstyadymn. Behind him came two young men, who Panchali guessed were Pradymna and Samva. The two of them politely greeted Dhrstyadymn and Shikandin, but the men pulled them into a delighted embrace and indulged in light banter. Govinda remained at his place at the reins, taking in the flurry of excited greetings and exchange of wishes. Quite suddenly, he looked up, as though he had known Panchali would be there, watching. She managed a tentative smile, her eyes revealing the storm of thoughts that swept across her mind.

  In response, Govinda gave a discreet nod to say he understood.

  The purple-red night sky seemed to have been coloured by Panchali’s mood. Lightning flashed in the distance, teasing with the promise of a cooling downpour that would provide comfort from the sultry heat. She stood at the window of her room, but it was of little avail. Soothing incense burned in the background to keep nocturnal insects at bay. The smoke gave her a heady feeling but the fragrance was far too sharp for her to relax.

  ‘Mih!’ she swore in exasperation.

  ‘Careful, Princess. Your father will have to empty his coffers to meet your dower if you’re heard using such language,’ a familiar voice teased from the dark doorway.

  Panchali held her breath as she turned, forcing herself to remain impassive. ‘About time,’ she said. ‘What took you so long? Such impoliteness doesn’t become the Commander of Dwaraka.’

  Govinda laughed. ‘Am I to be held to task for remembering you and coming to see you, Panchali?’

  ‘I’ll forgive you on one condition, Govinda,’ she offered. ‘Tell me, what am I to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my wedding, you miserable …’

  Govinda sat down on a cushioned swing that hung on brass chains from the ceiling in the middle of the room. He pulled Panchali down by her hand to sit next to him. She pointedly refused to meet his gaze, and fidgeted with the wrought brass fastenings of the swing absent-mindedly.