The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 Page 2

  Dwaipayana turned to look at the speaker, the one being he had allowed himself to truly love and cherish, the one familial bond that he had neither resented nor ignored. His son and the heir to his spiritual title as Vyasa: Sukadeva Vashishta Varuni. Dwaipayana felt nothing but pride when he heard the best of scholars praise Suka as the living embodiment of Vashishta, the first of the Firstborn. Though he did not admit it, even to himself, his son was also the very image of his father, Parashara of the line of Varuni – tall, handsome and strong. Unlike Dwaipayana himself.

  Dwaipayana had no regrets. The power he had as the Vyasa was more than enough to compensate for his unseemly appearance. Yet, power alone meant little to him. He had a purpose; the reason why he had been conceived. He was Varuni, Firstborn, filled with the essence of life-giving water. His duty was to nourish and nurture, to protect and care for Aryavarta, and to keep its people safe – from themselves if need be. As he had kept them safe from the Firewrights…

  Dwaipayana ran a hand over his sweat-stained forehead. He did not like to dwell on the complex journey that had brought him here, preferring to enjoy his well-earned rest in seclusion and silence. He rarely spoke, even with his own students and fellow scholars, and received no visitors from the outside, not even those who had once been his means to achieving his desired end, an empire ruled by Dharma Yudhisthir Kauravya. He hoped to spend the last of his days in such peaceful silence, engaged in nothing but meditation and penance. But the occasional dream, like the one tonight, returned to remind him that much could still go wrong. These days, the dreams came often, during the day as well as at night.

  ‘Father, are you all right?’

  Dwaipayana became aware that his son’s gaze was still on him. He nodded.

  Suka’s reed stylus was poised over the scroll on which he had been working. Despite his father’s response, he did not continue with his writing. With a soft grunt of effort, the elder got up from the thin reed mat that served as his bed, and made his way over to where Suka sat cross-legged on the ground, a sheaf of parchments set out before him. The younger man moved his shaded oil lamp to the other side, making room for his father to take a seat. Dwaipayana sat down, again with a little effort and, picking up a scroll at random, perused its contents with pride. ‘You’re better at this than I ever was, or your grandfather, even.’

  Suka dismissed the praise with a chuckle, though his face beamed to rival a bolt of lightning. ‘A few more years, and it will be done, Father,’ he said. ‘Soon, you will not just be Krishna Dwaipayana, but the Veda Vyasa, the great leader of the Firstborn who brought together the entire knowledge of Aryavarta in the Vedas, the books of knowledge.’

  ‘Just an honorary title now, my son. For we must give serious thought to your investiture in my stead.’

  ‘Father, I have been meaning to tell you… You should consider declaring Markand as your successor. He is, after you, the most senior among us.’

  ‘He’s a quiet old fellow, Suka. Seers are of three kinds – the good ones, at least. There is, first, the politician – that’s what I am. Then there is the scholar…’

  ‘That’s me, I suppose?’

  ‘Exactly. And then there is the holy man, the man of prayer and ritual, the one people turn to for blessings and consecrations and a word of faith in troubled times.’

  ‘Ah. That might also be me, now that I think about it. But I suppose the description suits Markand more.’

  ‘That is precisely what Markand is.’

  ‘And that makes it the seventh time you’ve said so in the last two days.’

  ‘It does? When did I last…?’ Dwaipayana frowned, trying to recall the instance.

  ‘Just before you also said that he would make the perfect successor in times such as these. The politican’s work is done, for you now have an infallible empire. As for the scholar’s work – that’s another good reason to leave me alone, though you didn’t mention that. And you did also say that Aryavarta now needed spiritual and ritual guidance. “This is the time for piety to lead prosperity”, were your exact words.’

  Dwaipayana laughed. ‘Well did I name you “Suka”. You do have the memory of a parrot! But if I appoint Markand as my successor will you reconsider your decision to… Well, you know what I want you to reconsider.’

  Suka set down his quill with just a touch of exasperation. Dwaipayana smiled indulgently at his son, knowing him to be too mild a man to be so easily vexed. ‘Really, Father,’ Suka said, more amused than annoyed. ‘I’m far too old for you to go on about my marriage. The time for that is well past. My life’s work is to see your life’s work done.’ He gestured to the scrolls in front of them, and added, ‘Truly, no wife could serve as a better companion than these tomes, nor could any child sing our praises better in times to come. I am content.’

  A gust of wind whipped past the heavy hemp and cloth curtain that served as the only covering over the doorway to the modest hut. It brought with it a spray of rain, and the gentle flame of the oil lamp guttered as the wind howled through the confined space. Suka rose to his feet and secured the curtain in place, tying the threads that ran around its sides to the wooden slits set into the doorway for just this purpose. That done, he gathered the parchments that lay scattered on the floor of the hut and placed them in front of Dwaipayana. ‘The world will speak of us, Father, of you and I, in millennia to come. I ask for nothing more. Announce Markand as your successor. And if you still wish, I am not so old yet that I may not ever have the honour of the title. And for whatever political threads that remain to be tied up, there is always your old student, Sanjaya.’

  As yet another peal of thunder echoed through the sky, Dwaipayana felt a lump form in his throat. Suka, simple, innocent and pious, he thought, the epitome of all that he had worked to build and protect. He placed his hand on his son’s head in blessing, feeling strangely grateful for the decision he had taken fifty years ago to never speak of his mother’s last words, to never share with anybody the terrible secret she had laid on his conscience with her dying breath. In all these years, it seemed that no else had come to know of it either. No one could. Matsya, his mother’s home, was nothing more than a barren wasteland, ostracized and looked down upon by all of Aryavarta. There was no way anyone could resurrect the past. But what if he was wrong? What if Suka ever found out?

  Dwaipayana forced back the bile that rose in his throat, as he contemplated the terrible possibilities. Suka will not survive such knowledge, the ultimate dishonour for the best of the Firstborn. Suka will not be able to weather the self-loathing and anger against his own kin that I have struggled with. There were few things worse than looking upon your own parents with fear and distrust, as Dwaipayana knew well, and he could not bear even the suggestion that Suka might ever see him that way.

  With effort, the old scholar dismissed the grey thoughts, reminding himself that they were of no consequence anymore. He had won. The danger was gone. Aryavarta’s greatest days lay ahead. He wished for just one more thing – that someday his beloved Suka would be Vyasa in a land completely free of the worst kind of scourge its history had ever seen. The Firewrights.

  2

  THE SECRET KEEPER OF THE FIREWRIGHTS WAS A MAN OF FEW words and fewer emotions still. Nevertheless, it was with genuine warmth that he considered the figure sitting in a corner of the rustic inn on a rough wooden bench set against a table of the same unpolished wood.

  The room was well lit, with torches burning on all the stone pillars around the room, but the man he had come to meet sat so that his face remained in the shadows. His eyes were closed, his long legs were stretched out insolently before him and he nursed a rough iron goblet in his dirt-stained hand. The rest of the fellow was equally unkempt. His grey-black wavy hair was in need of a wash; his antariya – the length of cloth covering the lower part of his body – had acquired the same veneer of dirt that streaked his nearly bare chest and had crept under his chipped fingernails. A rough stubble covered what could be seen of his jaw. D
rink and travel both lay heavy on him, the Secret Keeper noted. A bundle that was little more than a heap of cloth lay nearby, on top of what looked like the outline of a thick staff or walking stick. These, apparently, were the vagabond’s only possessions.

  The Secret Keeper smiled to himself, amused at the thought that he, a scholar in ochre robes, was far more out of place in this surrounding than the man he had come to meet. Indeed, it was the best setting to discuss things discreetly – out in the open and private by obviousness. He stepped aside as two men, one more drunk than the other, stumbled their way out of the room. As a matter of habit, the intoxicated duo paused to pick a fight with him for partly blocking their way. Yet, at the last instant, their inebriation caused them to forget why they had stopped, and the two continued to sway on out of the drinking-house.

  Despite his occupation, strict discipline had left the Secret Keeper with a body that many a warrior would envy. It served to deflect altercation in its own way. Yet, it took only a moment’s study to see that even beyond his robes – partly hidden under a thick shawl – he was not a man up for a fight. He had never wielded a weapon except while training in his youth and he preferred that it remained so. The man he now approached, on the other hand, reeked of violence. He did not open his eyes as the Secret Keeper advanced towards him, but his hand slid slightly towards the ragged bundle that seemed, from closer quarters, even more tattered and dirty than its custodian. It was only when the Secret Keeper came sufficiently close for the man to hear the unique sound of his hard wooden footwear that he moved his hand away and looked up in greeting.

  Taking the gesture as an invitation, the Secret Keeper slid into the seat facing the nearly recumbent traveller. A serving woman dressed in clothes that suggested she would not be averse to providing other forms of entertainment appeared at his side. She eyed him with open appreciation despite his robes of renunciation; whatever his occupation, a man who had made his way in here could well be tempted to do more, or perhaps the scholar’s guise was just that – a guise. When he waved away the flagon of wine she held out to him, she set a cup of water flavoured lightly with basil leaves in front of him and turned her attention to his companion. Leaning in closer than was required, she refilled his empty goblet and was rewarded for it with a dazzling smile, which left her visibly breathless. Trying hard not to show it, she moved away.

  ‘How do you do that?’ the Secret Keeper asked, amazed at the effect his friend had on the girl.

  ‘What do you care?’ the man said from behind his cup. ‘It’s not like you’re going to be warming her bed.’

  ‘I’m curious. Humour me. As you said, it’s not like I plan to give you competition.’

  The man swallowed his wine in a single gulp and regarded the empty receptacle, pensive. He looked up at the scholar and said, ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you’re capable of more love than the rest of us put together, Govinda. You don’t just love humanity; you’re in love with it, with every living being. I think that is what shows.’

  Govinda waved off the analysis, unimpressed. ‘Fine, now you know my secret. But then, you are the Secret Keeper…’ A soft, satisfied smile spread on his face. It could have been a drunken gesture, but the Secret Keeper knew better. It was the smile of a man contented, replete with well-deserved peace. He wished he could bring himself to feel the same way.

  ‘It is not a title that sits well on me,’ he declared, a touch roughly. ‘And it is you I have to blame for my position today.’

  ‘Me? What did I ever do to you…Acharya?’

  ‘You, you itinerant gwala, are the reason behind the empire we now live in. You had Princess Panchali married to Dharma of Kuru, you saw Dharma and his four brothers to their rightful inheritance of half a kingdom, you built the kingdom into one of the mightiest powers in Aryavarta. That was just another step in your scheme, was it not? You were determined to see Dharma rule as Emperor of Aryavarta – a great, united realm that would embrace the knowledge of the Firewrights while leaving behind the bitter legacy of their politics. Lest I forget, this plan of yours also served to rid you of your most deadly enemy, Jarasandha of Magadha. I’m sure I’ve left out many salient details of your manipulations, but surely this suffices to prove my point?’

  Placing his wine goblet to one side with a hard thud, Govinda leaned forward, his arms on the table between them. ‘I did what had to be done. We did what had to be done. If we are going to argue about the past, I suggest you consider the circumstances in which we acted. Ever since the Firewrights failed to turn the waters of the Saraswati, their days were numbered. They promised a new era in cultivation and farming, but brought only hunger and death upon the realm. Who could trust them, us, after that? Aryavarta was splintered and powerless. We, the rebel Wrights, were fighting the other Wrights, and all of us were battling the Firstborn. It would have only been a question of time before invaders took advantage of the chaos here and overran us. You know how close it once came to that! We had no choice; we had to destroy the Firewright order. And that is precisely why Dwaipayana has let me build this grand, united realm, as you so dramatically describe it.’

  ‘But this empire is not an end in itself, is it? Rather, it is a means to an end.’

  ‘Yes. But that end cannot be achieved without the empire. So it is as much an end in itself as it is a means… Not unlike the primordial act of creation,’ Govinda said, smiling at his own irreverent jest.

  The Secret Keeper did not share in the mirth. He sat forward, his stance mirroring Govinda’s, and fixed him with a steady gaze. ‘And you? You left Indr-prastha nearly three months ago, barely days after Dharma was crowned Emperor. By now you should have left Aryavarta, set sail for a foreign land. But you’re still here, roaming the empire though you shouldn’t be! It speaks either of idiocy or of excessive inebriation, and neither is a compliment to the Commander of the armies of Dwaraka. Leave. Aryavarta no longer needs you.’

  ‘Aryavarta never needed me, and I don’t want to make the mistake of thinking it ever did. We are all products of time, of social inevitability, that’s all. We are bound to fade into oblivion. Surely, that is a happy thought?’

  ‘It is,’ the scholar said. ‘Soon, Aryavarta will remember neither Firstborn nor Firewright. The new empire that you have built stands on the trade of knowledge and resources, which shall fuel our rise and light the way – not just within Aryavarta, but across the world. But there are elements of our plan beyond Dharma’s ascent to the throne. Those aspects will take years, decades even, to mature. What of the interim, Govinda? If anything should go wrong, the empire is too young to stand on its own.’

  Govinda bristled. ‘You had agreed with me that this, too, was necessary. We destroyed the Firewrights to make sure their knowledge – and not their conflict-ridden order – would survive. Your words, not mine, mind you. By the same token, unless the Firstborn let go of their hold over Aryavarta, it would not be possible for the knowledge of the Wrights to spread, to be accepted and used. We had to weaken Firstborn and Firewright both, if the fundamental structure of our society was to change. Now, the iron-work of the Nagas, the medical science of Kashi’s healers and the miners of the east – all these skills have been set loose across Aryavarta through the forces of commerce. They will drive the empire to new heights.’ Waving his empty cup for emphasis, Govinda declared, ‘You’ve spent too much time amidst politicians, Acharya. Your paranoia is compelling, but unfounded.’

  ‘As is your optimism.’

  ‘My optimism, as you call it, is nothing but faith in people and in the power of reason. The unified empire is the key to prosperity. Which ruler in his right mind will want to destroy that?’

  ‘Don’t be so complacent, Govinda. This is real! Dwaipayana’s influence wanes. He has announced Markand as the next Vyasa, and that man is as ineffective as he is pious and gentle. I, on the other hand, cannot reveal my identity till the ultimate task that has been left to me is done. If I fail, or if I am prematurely d
iscovered, it will destroy all that we have worked so hard to build. We must be careful!’

  ‘Which is why you’re the right man for this position, my friend. It takes great courage to make oneself useful at first and then redundant. Ghora chose you well.’

  ‘Your faith in me is worrying. Even back when it happened, not many Wrights were happy that Ghora chose to teach me. And now, to be chosen the Secret Keeper – it feels like a borrowed mantle.’

  ‘Ghora trusted you. That is why he taught you, and that is why he left the most important element of our plan to you. He declared you his successor. There is no room for argument.’

  ‘Really? I doubt the man who sent the three mercenaries at the door would feel that way,’ the Secret Keeper said, without looking back in the mentioned direction.

  Govinda laughed softly as he glanced up at the well-built ruffians who stood in the doorway to the inn. ‘I see Devala Asita has fallen on hard times. He did much to stop Dharma’s imperial campaign at every point he could, and he was one of the most formidable enemies I’ve ever faced, but now… He could have done better than these three, for sure. Pity!’

  The Secret Keeper clucked his tongue, disapproving of Govinda’s blatant confidence. ‘Those men didn’t come cheap… Nor are they to be easily dismissed, I think.’

  ‘Scared?’ Govinda teased in return.

  ‘Why should I be? It’s you they’re after.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘I am of no consequence to Devala. Besides, how do you think these men found you here? I brought them to you – in return for a ride here on their horse-cart, a few copper pieces, and some casual conversation, the details of which have since found their way to those who will use the information well. If you must know, Devala Asita is hiding on the outskirts of the Eastern Forests.’

  ‘And you found my life worth bartering for this information?’ Govinda continued in mock protest.

  The scholar calmly took a sip of his water. ‘You know what they say, Govinda. An individual for a family, a family for a village. And so, a Firewright for an empire. It is not a new exchange for us. Besides, didn’t you just present persuasive arguments as to why you were now redundant?’