Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Read online

  Govinda.

  The image jolted her out of her trance. Her eyes flashed open; panic, guilt, desire, rage, all coursed through her in a searing mix, leaving her weak and limp.

  Weak? Never! She felt something inside her rise in rebellion.

  ‘No!’ she cried out, and pushed Partha away. She took a few steps back, until she felt the wall behind her. She turned away, resting her forehead against the wall, focussing on the sensation of the cold stone touching her skin.

  The sound of Partha’s rough breathing told her that he was still there but she could not bring herself to look at him. After what felt like an eternity she heard him say, ‘I’m sorry.’ She waited, unmoving, till she heard his footsteps fade away.

  Slowly, Panchali turned around, glad for the way the raindrops stung her face. She did not understand why she had almost given in to Partha’s touch. Or maybe, she admitted with a sigh, she did. Maybe she had just wanted to know that she was not detestable, forbidden or sinful, to Dharma, to anyone …

  To Govinda.

  Taking a deep breath, Panchali closed her eyes and raised her face to the sky, letting the rain flow down her cheeks as the tears she refused to cry. She had never felt so alone in all her life.

  22

  WHAT HAVE I DONE? WHAT HAVE I DONE!

  Partha walked blindly around the open palace grounds in the rain. He did not understand why Panchali tempted him beyond reason, why her mere presence drove him insane. Her unassailable composure got under his skin, fascinated him and disturbed him no end.

  Just like Govinda, he thought.

  He wondered how, for all that he had seen in the world, he could be so short-sighted. Not everyone is an impassioned, irrational Kuru.

  But was it just that? Was there not something much more primal, more irresistible?

  He thought of the sairandharis who shared his bed, of their hushed confessions of how even they could not stop themselves from staring at Panchali, at her perfect form as she bathed, as she dressed, as she slept – all of it, they insisted, in innocent ignorance of her own beauty. Partha listened to their stories and then pleasured them with fury as his mind rested on Panchali alone.

  How dare you! She’s your brother’s wife, his conscience reminded him. But even as he remonstrated himself, his anger at her, at his brothers, raised its head. I am not the only one who wants her.

  Dharma’s eagerness had been all but transparent that day in Kampilya. Partha briefly wondered if this were some ploy or trick to drive a wedge between the five brothers. After all, greater men had made fools of themselves over a woman. Striding even faster through the rain, he dismissed the idea. No matter what, the five of them would remain undivided. But what about Panchali?

  She’s mine, his mind argued. I won her with my skill and valour.

  Do you love her? A voice inside his head asked, tentative at first though it grew stronger: Or do you just resent the fact that your righteous elder brother enjoys the fruits of your toil?

  No! I won’t think that way. My duty is to my elder and I will die for him if need be.

  Indeed, you will, the voice seemed to say, before disappearing. But don’t forget that you wanted her as your own.

  Partha found himself running to Dharma’s room. He burst in without knocking, surprising his elder brother, who benignly sat at his desk, reading.

  ‘What happened?’ Dharma asked, rising quickly to throw a warm blanket over the shivering Partha. ‘Are you all right, Partha?’

  ‘Panchali …’ Partha gasped.

  Dharma started making for the door, when Partha caught him by the arm and stopped him.

  ‘She’s all right,’ Partha said. ‘She’s all right, Agraja, but I … I … I couldn’t stop myself. Please – please forgive me, I’m so terribly sorry.’ Partha fell to his knees as Dharma stepped back, shocked.

  ‘Is she … did you … did you force yourself on her Partha?’

  ‘No,’ Partha replied. ‘I came to my senses before that.’

  A moment of silence, and then Dharma sighed in relief. ‘Go, get some sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow in the sane light of day. Come on, stand up.’ He raised Partha off his knees.

  ‘I’ve failed you, Agraja. I’ve failed us all,’ Partha said.

  ‘Vathu! That’s enough, Partha! I understand you’re upset, but we will get beyond this misunderstanding. Things will be all right.’

  ‘No, Agraja,’ Partha argued, ‘don’t you see … how can she feel safe again under our roof after what I’ve done?’ He coldly regarded his brother, stating the truth that he knew Dharma would not accept. ‘Each one of us wants her. How can she trust us?’

  Dharma did not respond.

  Partha continued, ‘There’s only one way to make up for this. You must punish me for wanting her. Panchali must realize that you, as her husband, will protect her. That you won’t permit such behaviour.’

  ‘Come now,’ Dharma said. ‘This talk of punishment is silly. She may be married to me, but you do know that anything that’s mine is equally yours. Am I supposed to punish you for being my brother? What would you have me do? Imprison you? Order you whipped? Really, Partha!’

  ‘I shall go away as an exile,’ Partha stated, unconvinced by Dharma’s arguments. ‘I’ll go away from Hastina and journey to hermitages and holy sanctuaries. There, I’ll pray for forgiveness and guidance.’

  Dharma had the feeling that this was not about penitence alone. His gaze was firm, though his voice misleadingly soft. ‘Partha, it’s for you to realize and answer for yourself whether or not you truly seek forgiveness. Personally, I believe that you want to leave because you don’t trust yourself to be around her.’

  Partha began to protest, but Dharma pre-empted him, ‘There is no need for you to convince me or explain to me, Brother. But I don’t want you deluding yourself that you are paying for your mistake, when the truth is that you are as much a victim of your desires now as you were earlier this evening. I hope that through your prayers you find the courage to be honest with yourself.’

  The younger man nodded. He stared out of the window for a while, and then, with a final look at his brother, left.

  Dharma did not hear him ride away, but he knew where Partha would head, sooner or later. He would go looking for the same answers that Dharma wanted. Perhaps he would solve the puzzle that perplexed them both. What sort of a man could flippantly throw away a wonderful prize like Panchali? What sort of a man, really, was Govinda Shauri?

  23

  THE RAIN HAD STOPPED BY THE TIME PANCHALI REACHED THE stables in the late hours of the night. The lone stableman was asleep and she did not bother to wake him; instead, she saddled her horse on her own and headed out to be in the open for a while. Heading southward, she exited from the palace grounds directly onto the open fields, avoiding a journey through the sprawling city. The river ran alongside on her left, its clear waters reflecting the stars above in its dark blue depths.

  Panchali rode along the bank at a brisk pace, enjoying the cold wind in her face. She had been riding for a while when she noticed the sky lighten ever so little as dawn drew nearer. Soon enough, the cacophony of birds filled the air with energy and a bend in the river ahead shimmered to life. Here, the waters curved away to run eastwards, forming in effect the border between Northern and Southern Panchala. She slowed down, taking in the scenery. She had not realized Panchala’s border lay so close to Hastina, or perhaps she had ridden too fast, she thought.

  A pang of homesickness washed over her, more because she so missed her brothers’ company. Not that Dharma and his brothers had not gone out of their way to make her feel at home in Hastina, but it was not the same. She felt that she moved from one mildly entertaining situation to another, but no meaningful thread connected the activities that made up her day. And now Partha had done what he had done.

  This isn’t me. This isn’t my life, Panchali told herself. It doesn’t matter what led to this state of things. I must choose whether I shall be pass
ive or act to change what I can. The responsibility is mine.

  Feeling light at the realization, she drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp morning air. It was now light enough to make out the rolling hills in the west, which gave way to the luxuriant green plains that stretched till the eastern horizon. Copses of trees and patches of tilled land occasionally dotted the landscape. Everything around her was alive and brimming with energy. The feeling was contagious, and despite all that had happened Panchali found herself smiling.

  The shrill cry of a hawk rose to a magnificent crescendo. Panchali looked up to see the majestic bird swoop down and rise again as it hunted. She stared with admiration at the way the bird glided, turning effortlessly with a light sweep of its wings, its every move precise and graceful. The bird dived again and, this time, kept diving. It was going for a kill, a lone grey-white pigeon. Panchali turned in her saddle, eagerly tracking the chase between hunter and prey. The hawk was now nearly on the pigeon, which fluttered its feeble wings in a desperate attempt to escape. Talons outstretched, the seasoned hunter waited for the right moment. Suddenly, the twang of a bowstring rent the air. A speeding arrow gleamed as a metal barrier between hawk and pigeon. The hawk wheeled away, confused – perhaps even frightened – by the pigeon’s unnatural protector.

  Panchali whipped around to see the archer, a tall figure on a horse, on the opposite banks of the river. The archer had another arrow ready and was following the retreating hawk. Determined, she pulled her wood-and-metal rider’s bow from her horse’s side, where she usually kept it strapped. Fitting an arrow from the quiver on her saddlebag, she waited, the string drawn back. Whoever the man was, he had to be one of the most flawless bowmen Panchali had ever seen. The angle of his arms, the delicate way he gripped the arrow and his patience as he followed the target, waiting for the perfect opportunity – almost a hawk himself, she noted.

  The moment she heard the second twang from his bow, she released her arrow. The archer turned, surprised by the sound, and realizing what she had done looked up at the bird. Just before his arrow hit its target, it was deflected by Panchali’s shaft. The hawk gave a long, shrill cry that could have been a call of thanks or of amusement and then soared high, well out of arrows’ range.

  Satisfied, Panchali readied to face her chance adversary. She smiled tentatively, hoping that the dim light was enough to convey the apologetic look on her face. Meanwhile, the archer had urged his horse forward, right into the river. She recognized him the moment his horse clambered up the slightly sloping riverbank, though he was missing the jewel he wore on his forehead instead of a crown whenever he was present in Dhritarastra’s court. As he drew closer she noted that he appeared more amazed to see her than she him.

  ‘Mahamatra,’ he said, nodding politely.

  ‘Your Highness,’ she returned the greeting.

  The man chuckled. ‘That has to be the first time any of Dhrupad’s kin have called me that,’ he said.

  Panchali was unfazed. ‘Rightly or wrongly, it is your title, Your Highness,’ she said. ‘What you’ve won is yours to keep … till I win it back, that is.’

  The man laughed uproariously, looking different when he did. His otherwise icy demeanour, his haughty manner, momentarily disappeared.

  Settling down to a smile, he told her, ‘In that case, let’s keep it simple. Why don’t you just call me Asvattama?’

  Panchali considered him for a while and then said, ‘I’m sorry about the hawk … It’s just that he was such a magnificent creature, I couldn’t stop myself. In any case, I was just lucky …’

  ‘Yes,’ Asvattama admitted, ‘he was a beautiful creature. I wouldn’t have shot at him if he’d taken another go at the pigeon. I suppose it was his immediate retreat that disappointed me. Perhaps it’s just as well that you stopped me from killing him – I might’ve regretted that a little later.’

  Panchali had no response to that. In an unspoken consensus both of them urged their horses forward and began making their way north, towards Hastina.

  The sun soon cleared the horizon, filling the vastness around them with light. On either side of the river, the plains came to life with farmers, herdsmen and their animals, and an assorted bustle of various activities. Panchali could now see all that she had missed during her ride earlier, and was amazed at the verdant surrounds and the rhythm of human activity.

  A small, sturdy bridge appeared ahead. Two liveried guards stood on two sides, one dressed in the colours of Kuru and the other representing Northern Panchala. Their function, however, was purely ceremonial, for Panchali had seen the common folk openly ford the river where it ran shallow.

  ‘Have you ever been in Northern Panchala?’ Asvattama suddenly asked.

  Panchali shook her head to say she had not.

  ‘Would you like to ride on the other side of the river?’

  She paused for a moment, wondering what her brothers would have to say about it, but politeness got the better of her. ‘Yes, please,’ she replied.

  Asvattama turned and led the way across the bridge, the soldiers on both sides snapping to attention and saluting him. Once they were in Northern Panchala, he guided Panchali a little further inland to a narrow but well-paved road that ran alongside the river.

  ‘We can’t ride too close to the river on this side, because of the canals,’ Asvattama said by way of explanation. ‘Northern Panchala is much drier than Kuru or Southern Panchala. The soil here is sandy – it can’t hold water. Those canals alongside the river,’ he pointed, ‘run inland for a fair distance. Of course, these fields right here get about as much rain as Kuru does, but once you head further east the winds from the mountains deflect the rain southwards. Without these canals …’

  ‘Impressive,’ Panchali conceded. She did not know whether Asvattama was intentionally showing off or not, but that did not change what she saw before her.

  To her surprise, he took no credit. He said, ‘It’s not new, and certainly not of my doing or design. Of course, I’ll admit that keeping them in good shape takes some administrative effort, but that’s about it.’

  His casual tone made Panchali voice the question that had long perplexed her. ‘Forgive me for asking, but when you fought my father, when you attacked us, why did your father take Northern Panchala for his bounty? You won the war, defeated my father, so why not take the southern part with its verdant fields and the capital, Kampilya?’

  Asvattama seemed surprised by her query. ‘There was no question of choosing,’ he stated. ‘We fought for Northern Panchala.’ He paused for a few moments, watching a perplexed frown gather on Panchali’s forehead, and then gently asked, ‘How much do you know of what happened before … before you came to Kampilya? How much do you know of our battle with your father?’

  ‘I know the version that’s told in Kampilya. But I also know that it isn’t the complete story …’ Panchali confessed.

  Asvattama said nothing. The two rode ahead in silence until he said, ‘Are you hungry? It must be a while since you ate anything.’

  Without waiting for her to answer, he turned his horse abruptly towards a small stone garrison, comprising a building and a stable, all of it surrounded by a high wall. ‘Come,’ he added, as an afterthought.

  Confused but tremendously curious, Panchali followed.

  24

  THE GARRISON WAS QUITE SIMILAR TO A FEW THAT THEY HAD passed earlier, and Panchali wondered why so many guards were stationed in such close proximity to each other. She found her answer the moment she stepped inside.

  On the left was a small stable meant for no more than two horses. An even smaller store-house and rudimentary sleeping quarters for a few guards occupied the corner on the same side. Another room, built of the same stone as the walls, was set a little off the middle of the enclosure. The main purpose of the garrison, however, was something Panchali had not expected at all.

  A metal sluice at the far end carried water from the canal outside and fed it into a stone-lined tan
k about ten feet long and as high as her shoulders. At the near end of the tank a wide, paved conduit had been set into the ground. The water fell from the tank into the conduit, pushing past a row of four cogged wooden wheels set on a single, stationary axle that was attached by two short wooden arms to the outer wall of the tank. The wheels rotated continuously against a corresponding set of larger wheels set on a wood and metal beam that was held up by two wooden pillars. Unlike the other axle, this one turned in tandem with the wheels, its ends rotating within hollowed-out recesses carved into the supporting pillars. The recesses were abundantly coated with some sort of oily substance which, Panchali supposed, made it easier for the rotating piece to turn on the groove. Stepping closer, she observed the last and central piece of the mechanism – the rotating axle pushed down on a broad wooden beam nearly the girth a man, driving it with considerable force into a pit-like receptacle, which was filled with ears of grain.

  ‘A pestle!’ she exclaimed, and did a quick estimation. ‘I guess it does the work of fifty men in a day?’

  Asvattama nodded. ‘A pestle that rises and falls on its own, without any human intervention. Would you call that magic?’ he asked.

  Panchali studied the mechanism with wide-eyed delight. ‘I call it genius,’ she declared and looked expectantly at him.

  ‘We can talk while we eat,’ he politely offered.

  Handing the reins of their horses to an attendant, Asvattama paused to give instructions to the soldier in charge, while Panchali quickly washed up at a smaller tank behind the main building. The two then went inside the stone building, which comprised just one room, with windows set into all four walls. A section of the wall near the door had been cut into recessed shelves, on which were neatly arranged an assortment of scrolls and parchments of various sizes. Simple reed mats and cushions made of rough linen were laid out on the floor. On a low table in the middle were an earthen jar and a few cups.