Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Read online

  Asvattama sat on Panchali’s right, facing the wide doorway. He said, ‘I’ve sent a message to Hastina, letting Dharma know you’re with me. I’ve said that you were out watching the sunrise when I ran into you …’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Asvattama did not reply, waiting silently as an attendant brought in some bread and fruit. Only then did Panchali realize how hungry she was, her appetite whetted by the early morning ride. Neither of them spoke till the meal was done and the attendant had cleared away the remnants. Asvattama then rose and walked over to the stone shelves. He sifted through the stacked parchment rolls till he found what he was looking for.

  ‘Here,’ he said, unfurling a large hand-drawn map of central Aryavarta on the table.

  Panchali eagerly leaned forward and Asvattama knelt down next to her. He reached for a piece of smooth charcoal that lay on the table and used it to mark a spot on the parchment.

  ‘Ahichattra,’ Panchali identified. ‘The capital of Northern Panchala. Your capital.’

  Asvattama marked a point north of Ahichattra, along the course of the Ganga, very close to its source, and said, ‘This is where I grew up – the hermitage of the Barghava or Brghu sages, those of the line of Rama Jamadagni. My father was a student of Barghava Rama the Fifth.’

  ‘But I thought your father and mine were fellow students at your grandfather’s school.’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Asvattama confirmed. ‘That hermitage is in eastern Aryavarta, in the Kosala kingdom. Many years after that, my father came to study the science of weapons under the Brghus. We then continued to live in the Himalayan foothills and I was brought up there.’ He paused and then added, ‘I was trained by the Firewrights.’

  Panchali started, but said nothing. She simply nodded, trying hard not to betray any emotion.

  Asvattama smiled to himself at her efforts and continued, ‘Coming to what happened, it’s easier to understand why we fought against your father if you consider the geography of the region, especially the two rivers, Ganga and Yamuna. The Ganga lies east of the Brghu hermitage and the Yamuna to the west. The courses remain parallel for a long time – both flow south and then turn east. We met this morning at the eastern bend of the Ganga. The river flows through Panchala, past Kampilya, and ultimately converges with the Yamuna near a city in the Kashi kingdom, to the south-east of Kampilya.’

  Panchali nodded again, her eyes on Asvattama’s finger as it traced the course of the river on the map. ‘Eastern Kuru,’ he pointed, ‘lies partly in fertile alluvial tract between the two rivers. This land has made the Kurus and the Panchalas the most powerful kingdoms in Aryavarta for many centuries. Hastina lies on the Ganga, while the old capital, Kandavaprastha, used to be on the Yamuna. You probably know the place better as Kandava forest.’

  ‘Yes,’ Panchali affirmed.

  ‘The Yamuna bends from its southern course to an easterly direction near Mathura in the Surasena part of the alluvial tract. Just beyond this lies another fertile region. Where the two rivers join to run as the one mighty Ganga, is the vast feudal kingdom of Magadha.’

  Panchali’s eyes lit up as she began to see where Asvattama was going with this. ‘So,’ she ventured, ‘the lands that are in the alluvial tract between the two rivers, or fed by the Ganga, are the most verdant and prosperous, are they not? And the part of Northern Panchala through which the rivers run is actually mountainous terrain. I suppose it’s impossible to grow crops there?’

  ‘Correct. The region south of Ahichattra has fairly fertile soil, but …’ He used the coal to mark out a few of the main tributaries of the two rivers. ‘It is fed only by rain of a rather seasonal and whimsical nature, serving really as a catchment area. Most of the water drains into either of the two rivers, but the tributaries, as such, don’t run through here. Between the seasons and the ferocity of the rain, farming has always been near impossible. The solution to the problem is not a difficult one, as you’ve seen.’ He nodded to the mill-pond outside. ‘Reservoirs can be built to trap water and there’s plenty of water in the Ganga that can be diverted through canals. This hurts no one.’

  ‘So you built these canals?’

  ‘No, we didn’t, Panchali. I certainly lack the skill to build these machines. They’ve been there a long time. But it was prohibited to use them. The machines, the canals, all of it was made by the Wrights of long ago. We could only hope to repair some of the better ones, and clean up the canals and reservoirs. My father thought that given his old friendship he could convince yours to do what was right by the people. But Dhrupad’s hatred of anything even remotely linked to the Firewrights was beyond all reason …’

  ‘So this is what it was all about?’ Panchali frowned. ‘What I heard in Kampilya was that your father asked mine for half the kingdom!’

  Asvattama grunted disdainfully. ‘He did, to tell you the truth. He did say to Dhrupad that if he lacked the courage to do what was needed for his citizens he should hand Northern Panchala over to its people, who would then determine their own future. And, yes, my father did presume that his friendship with yours gave him the liberty to advise him on his duties. If this offends you I …’

  ‘It doesn’t offend me,’ Panchali was firm. ‘It doesn’t offend me at all. Please continue.’

  Asvattama drew in a breath. ‘Once Dhrupad refused, we had no choice but to seek help from the Kurus – both in terms of legitimizing the use of these old Wright creations as well as military help. My father’s students – the Kuru princes – led the war against Panchala. It wasn’t easy to defeat the Panchala forces, especially your brother Satrajit’s men, but it was done.’ He hesitated, then gently added, ‘Your husband and his brothers, the five sons of Pandu, managed to take your father prisoner. Partha, I remember was the one who … Anyway, your father was, of course, set free, but I imagine it dented his pride quite a bit. He tried negotiating with the Kurus for many years, asking Bhisma to order my father to return Northern Panchala to him. But it was of no use. That’s when he took to the forests and conducted a great sacrifice, after which he came back to Kampilya with you and your brother. I hope he finds some poetic justice now in seeing you married into the same house that defeated him …’

  Panchali gritted her teeth to keep herself from cursing out loud. Govinda must have known. He knew it, and he used me.

  ‘And Shikandin?’ she asked.

  Asvattama considered her yet again, wondering whether her ignorance was just pretence. He apparently decided it was not, because he went on, ‘Your brother was a young man when this war happened. He’d have been … seventeen or eighteen, I suppose. Why, I was hardly your age at the time. In any case, Shikandin knew well what the situation was in Northern Panchala. He tried hard to get Dhrupad to change his mind, but failed. Finally, he refused to fight, hoping that his actions, his shame, would make your father relent. But all it did was bring Shikandin dishonour. Trust me, at that young age your brother was a much more capable ruler than your father will ever be. Even today I hear that Satrajit pretends to follow your father’s instructions, but he really takes his orders from Shikandin. Those canals out there? Those fields, those people? But for your brother’s actions they wouldn’t be there.’

  Panchali felt proud and moved at the declaration, but also a little bewildered. ‘They do you as much credit,’ she offered sincerely.

  Asvattama indulged in a cold smirk. ‘No, Mahamatra,’ he declared, with a shake of his head. ‘I’m not half as principled as your brother. Unlike him, I found it easier to trade in my beliefs. Or, perhaps, that is the inevitable fate of those of my line …’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘Everyone has their price, Panchali. Once, when Northern Panchala stood on the brink of imminent destruction, my uncles – the Bhrgus – made their deal. Bhisma was trained by Barghava Rama Jamadagni, the fourth of that name, and knows of every weapon, every astra there was. My father’s price, my price … Well, let’s just say that in return for what we now have, my father
has shared even the secret of the terrible Bramha-weapon with his best students among the Kuru princes. And I …? King I may be, but most of my actions are the result of the Vyasa’s orders. I’m not a Wright, Panchali, but I was trained to use their weapons. For all the Vyasa goes on about the Firewright menace, he has no complaint with their knowledge – as long as it remains in the hands of those he trusts and it serves his purposes.’

  ‘Firewright knowledge? Does that mean you – you can actually …?’

  Asvattama smiled at her question. He murmured a few words and held up his right hand in a fist. Then, in a quick, smooth move, he flicked his hand over and opened his fist. A drop-like tongue of flame burned steadily at the centre of his palm as if he was the very source of the fire.

  Panchali stared, speechless. Asvattama laughed softly. ‘So you’ve never seen this before?’

  ‘No,’ she said in a hushed whisper. ‘I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never … How do you do that? Or is it a secret? I mean, is it really magic?’

  ‘Do you believe in magic?’

  Panchali resolutely shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘not in this sense of the word. The method you use may be a secret and not easily understood, but it’s not inexplicable in reasonable terms, is it?’

  ‘It can be very easily explained and understood. As for magic, I’ve heard that the Wrights of the ancient past were capable of using subtle energies, the power of their finite minds, and that Wrights before them could tap into the energy of the Universe, the very source of the life that flows through us all. But they weren’t magicians. They were inventors, scientists who were more interested in applying their knowledge for the benefit of others. They say that the first Angirasa was none other than Agni, Fire himself – a composite of light and flame, knowledge and action – both are equal principles of the primeval waters. Only by combining the two can human beings aspire to the Truth.’

  Asvattama flicked his hand once more, making the flame appear, and then just as quickly turned his hand over to make it disappear.

  Panchali asked, in an awed whisper, ‘Do you believe it? Do you believe that the ancient Wrights had such powers?’

  ‘I believe that divinity and science are not opposites,’ Asvattama replied. ‘Somewhere in the vastness beyond human comprehension the two merge. A lot that seems supernatural to us then becomes real, but that doesn’t make it any less rational. What I do find unbelievable is the sheer apathy of people, their blind ignorance, and their aversion to understanding why or how something works. Over time, and as knowledge is lost, the simplest of mechanisms are transformed into magic, and either feared or revered.’

  A pleasant quiet followed his words. Panchali could hear the far-away bustle of the world around them, as men and oxen tilled and ploughed the land. Closer still, the sound of horses in the stables, the soft pounding of the pestle punctuated by the gurgling flow of water and the occasional call of a bird or insect, lazy and languorous in the shimmering heat of the day. The calm rhythm of life was reassuring and Panchali felt her body instinctively relax. It only served to heighten the eddy of questions in her mind, the whirlwind of realization and answers that in turn birthed new questions. Finally, as the debate in her mind came again and again to rest on the one thing she still could not bring herself to accept, she said out loud, ‘It doesn’t make sense! Why? Why would my father refuse to use the canals just because they’re built by the Firewrights? Why would any reasonable person throw away the power to do what is right and good, for his people? Why would he …?’ she trailed off, unable to say the words.

  Asvattama understood. He said, ‘Why? Because he had no choice.’

  ‘No choice?’ Panchali bristled. ‘The sovereign of Panchala had no choice?’

  ‘Not if he is sovereign by the will of another. Have you heard of Ugrayudha?’

  ‘The usurper? But of course! My great-grandfather ousted him from the Panchala throne and reclaimed it.’

  ‘Usurper? Ugrayudha was the legitimate ruler of Panchala! He was your great-grandfather’s cousin, his uncle’s son.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Perhaps, I’d better tell this story, too, in its entirety,’ Asvattama said. ‘It is said that when King Shantanu of the Kurus died, King Ugrayudha of Panchala openly declared his lust for the widowed queen, Satya, and asked for her to be sent to him. Bhisma, then a young man, took offence to this. He marched against Ugrayudha, killed him and installed your great-grandfather on the throne. Your line owes its rule to Bhisma. Specifically, to Bhisma’s campaigns against the Firewrights.’

  ‘And my father would let his own people die for that reason alone? Never!’

  ‘It’s not so simple, Panchali. One thing led to another. After Ugrayudha’s death, his son, Kshemya, fled to Kashi. It took many years, but Bhisma eventually got him too. You’ve heard, haven’t you, the tale of how Bhisma nearly razed Kashi to the ground when he brought back the three princesses of Kashi to marry Vichitravirya? Kashi – the famed stronghold of the Firewrights. Don’t you see a pattern? These wars weren’t fought for women and their honour alone. They were wars against the Wrights. Just as your family owes its allegiance to Bhisma, he in turn has pleadged loyalty to DwaipayanaVyasa and the Firstborn. When the Firstborn decided to get rid of the Firewrights once and for all Bhisma gladly marched against them, and your father emptied his country’s coffers to send men and money to support Bhisma’s campaigns. Northern Panchala paid the greatest price, for we were left neither with money nor with the means to survive.’

  Panchali frowned, looking for the least inconsistency in Asvattama’s narrative, anything she could use to escape the inevitable conclusions that formed in her mind. She finally found one. ‘I see what you mean … but weren’t there two princesses of Kashi? One the mother of Dharma’s father and the other who bore King Dhritarastra?’

  This time, Asvattama was visibly reluctant to go on. Eventually, he cleared his throat and said, ‘There was a third. Amba. Like many in history, she paid a heavy price for her defiance. She refused to marry Vichitravirya and came to Panchala, seeking justice against the man who had taken her and her sisters from Kashi by force. It was a really long time ago, though. Your father had been king only a few years. Obviously, he turned her away …’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘No one really knows. Your brother – Shikandin – is familiar enough with these stories. Perhaps you ought to ask him … A long time ago, your father used to send him out on raids against villages suspected of harbouring Firewrights. Ask him, sometime, what used to happen on these raids; the stories they used to tell before they were burnt alive. Ask him what horrors he’d seen and heard of before he finally stood up to your father.’

  Panchali felt sick. The Firewrights were hunted down, relentlessly. In my own country. By my own kin. And, most important, at the cost of my people’s well-being.

  She finally understood, though a part of her had always known, why Shikandin held their father and even their grandfather in quiet contempt, why he remained a defiant and stubborn rebel though he lacked nothing by way of a sense of filial duty. Reaching out for the small urn on the table before her, she took a long drink of water, letting the cool sensation soothe her from the inside. The canals were there, as were the water wheels, she reminded herself. A part of her wanted to believe that the Firewrights too remained, just as their creations did. She wanted to believe that Ghora had not been the last, if only to deny the guilt of knowing that her kind, her kin, had destroyed his people.

  ‘Why didn’t anyone do anything?’ she burst out, fists clenched in anger. ‘Did no one care? How could they all just watch while such horrors came to pass? By Rudra, is there no honour left in our blood that we …’

  ‘We’d better leave.’ Asvattama was terse. Without waiting for Panchali’s response, he moved to the doorway and gave instructions to prepare their horses. He turned back to her, and said, ‘I’ll wait outside. Whenever you’re ready …’

  Panchali seethe
d in silence for a moment. Then she stood up, straightened her robes, and walked out of the small room to join Asvattama.

  He was gazing at the water-mechanism. Without looking at her, he said, softly, ‘You ought to be careful, Panchali. It’s best you don’t speak of this conversation once you return home to Hastina – I mean never. It wouldn’t do to upset the Kurus.’

  ‘I meant no offence …’

  As though he had not heard her, Asvattama casually went on, ‘Dharma is no less faithful to Dwaipayana than Bhisma is. He wouldn’t tolerate the least interest in, leave alone sympathy for, the Wrights.’

  ‘You don’t really like the Firstborn, do you?’

  ‘I like the prospect of grovelling before Jarasandha even less – a fear that would have been completely unnecessary if the Firewrights had still been around. And such is the irony of life that our destinies are often forged by those whom we’d rather forget – as with you and the Kurus. You don’t know what a critical role the Wrights of old have played in bringing you to Hastina. Dwaipayana may well have orchestrated your wedding, but it is Wright-craft that defined your fate …’

  ‘You don’t mean …?’

  Asvattama was non-committal, but his eyes said much. ‘Come,’ he instructed with an air of finality. ‘It’s time we got you home.’

  25

  PARTHA WATCHED THE SUN AS IT DROPPED INTO THE SEA, silenced by the magnificence that lay before him. The mountains gently sloped into a fair stretch of grassland with alternating bogs of marsh and sand, leading ultimately to a gem-flecked stretch of blue promise. The untamed sea fell, relentless, against a harsh, rocky coast, each defying the other in playful battle. In the middle of the foaming waters, connected by a series of foam-covered shoals, rose a mighty rock edifice. Waves beat relentlessly against the stone, and were broken into white foam, churned into golden spray.