Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 3

  ‘So, unless the central kingdoms – the Kurus and the Panchalas – help us …’

  ‘We’re doomed,’ Govinda cheerily finished.

  ‘You’re close to the Panchalas …’ Dhaumya pointed out.

  ‘Yes, I am. The prince is one of my dearest friends, but he’s also a prince. He can’t escape his nation’s politics.’

  The scholar sighed and stood up, brushing off the non-existent dirt from his robes as a force of habit acquired from sitting on bare ground. He adjusted his upper robe thrown diagonally over his torso, passing it over his left shoulder, under his right arm, and over the left shoulder again.

  ‘What, leaving already?’ Balabadra asked.

  ‘I came here to deliver news of Aryavarta to the Commander of Dwaraka, as is my duty. As for what happens next, that’s up to Govinda Shauri. Strange and difficult times lie ahead. If you can impose on your friendship, then there’s hope … Though, I suppose, it’s too much to ask for. You should prepare for war.’

  ‘True,’ Govinda agreed as he turned to Balabadra. ‘Start organizing the armies, Agraja.’ He tempered what was undoubtedly an order with the respectful term used to address an elder brother.

  Balabadra was unimpressed. ‘And you?’

  ‘Our friend here is right. I’d better find some way of slowing down Jarasandha, preferably through diplomatic means. I’ll leave tonight for Panchala, maybe talk to some people there and find out what the other kingdoms are planning.’

  ‘The Council …’

  ‘We can’t afford to wait for their permission. Besides, they know as well as we do that we can’t risk war against the Emperor.’

  ‘Why not? We can defend Dwaraka. We have our trade. We have the sea. We can survive. We’ve always survived!’

  ‘Not without an empire, we can’t. That is our dilemma, Agraja. We’re dependent on the empire – unless the empire prospers we cannot! Our well-being is linked to its trade and commerce, even its politics. If it collapses, if Aryavarta goes back to being a bunch of small kingdoms squabbling with each other over land and water, there’ll be no trade, and no one will have any use for us anymore. We need the empire. What we don’t need is an angry and ambitious Emperor determined to destroy us.’

  ‘What do we do? What can we do?’ Balabadra sounded angry.

  ‘This thing isn’t going to solve itself by sunset. While we try to find some other solution to this mess, I’ll try to see if Panchala can help us.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous, Govinda,’ said Dhaumya, disapproving. ‘The only thing Jarasandha hates more than your nation is you. This is his chance to get rid of you without too many questions coming up, and he won’t want to lose it. His spies watch Dwaraka day and night; he’ll anticipate your every move. Trust me, you can’t cross into central Aryavarta without running into his assassins. They’ll be waiting to hunt you down.’

  ‘In that case, I’d better get going. I’d hate to disappoint Jarasandha or his generals.’

  The scholar clucked his tongue in exasperation and looked to Balabadra, hoping he would dissuade his younger brother.

  Balabadra looked far from discontent, but made a show of grumbling. ‘As always, you’re going to get us into trouble, Govinda!’

  ‘What’s new?’ Govinda retorted. The look he gave his brother was one of great affection, but his eyes held some other veiled emotion. The two men had fought many battles together; together they had overthrown Kans, built a mighty city and led their people to this new nation. Balabadra had always been there with him, playing the part of a responsible older brother and running things with crisp efficiency.

  Someday, Govinda promised himself, I’ll tell him everything, I’ll explain it all. Just, not yet …

  3

  EVERY MORNING, DEVAVRATA, REGENT AND PATRIARCH OF THE Kuru kingdom, known to all as Bhisma the Grandsire, woke to the heavy tread of Jarasandha’s soldiers as they marched with impunity through the capital city, Hastina. Every day, he was reminded that his kingdom was less than a day’s ride from Mathura, where the Emperor’s huge garrison prepared itself for war, and that Emperor Jarasandha would soon trample over them all.

  Devavrata considered himself in the burnished mirror. His silver-white hair and his wrinkles only served to make him seem more authoritative as he aged. But then, he noted with satisfaction, he did not remember looking any different from the way he did now. He was as strong today as he had been forty years ago, still able to defend his reputation as an unbeaten warrior. It was the greatest honour any Arya could hope for. Yet he saw his reflection stoop just that much, as he came to terms with the truth: His notions of honour would soon mean little. Being Arya would soon mean little. Kali, the age of darkness, drew near.

  As a child, Devavrata had asked his father, King Shantanu, why the Creator had filled the land with vile commoners when He was capable of creating exalted beings, such as the Aryas.

  His father had been direct in his response. ‘It is destiny, my son. They’re meant to serve us, just as we serve the gods. In return, we rule them with a balance of authority and benevolence. It’s what the gods have ordained. An Arya’s duty is to fulfil the destiny that has been chosen for him by the gods.’

  How much longer before their ambition, and our kindness, doom us? Bhisma wondered. Perhaps, it is already too late.

  Even now, Aryavarta was overrun by Sutas – children of Arya fathers born to concubines and slaves. They were neither truly noble nor base commoners. Many were raised as playmates to princes and grew to be counsellors to kings, and Sutas born into scholarly lines became bards and administrators. But no matter what the kinship, or their position, these children were not Arya. They could train, but they would never be true warriors. They could learn, but they would never be scholars. To be born Arya was a blessing from the divine; it was destiny. It was as immutable as the gods. It had to be.

  Yet, as things stood in Aryavarta today, it was not. The Emperor of Aryavarta, Jarasandha, saw no reason to live by these rules, especially since allowing Sutas to serve as his saamantas – vassal lords – increased the sheer number of his armies fourfold. No Arya king, however skilled, could survive an attack by the Imperial Army, which left most kings with the eventuality of diluting his own reign with Suta vassals. It was that, or to give in to Jarasandha and become what was politely termed a ‘loyal ally’. This was exactly what the last of the old kingdoms, including Kuru, had done. Better to be a mere saamanta with honour, than to rule with none. And this was, very simply, why Jarasandha of Magadha was Emperor.

  Bhisma clenched his fists in despair. Once, his ancestors had been Emperors of Aryavarta; his grandfather had ruled a sprawling Kuru kingdom. Now, the ancient kingdom was effectively nothing more than a common vassal to an undeserving overlord, lying in the shadow of the Emperor’s largest garrison. What was he, Bhisma Devavrata, to do when the kingdom was threatened? When their way of life, righteousness and morality were all threatened?

  Why did it have to happen in my lifetime? Why me – when I’ve spent my entire life protecting these very ideals? The answer came to him, soothing his troubled thoughts like a summer shower or a spring breeze. The gods had chosen for him a life of great deeds, of great responsibility and even greater sacrifices. He was Bhisma, the blessed one. This was his destiny.

  With a sigh, he brought his attention back to the moment. An attendant knelt before him respectfully, his head bowed low with the privilege of serving his superior, awaiting instructions.

  ‘Show him in.’

  The attendant withdrew. Bhisma tried to quell the discomfort that stirred in him at the thought of his guest, the rising disgust that had instinctively surfaced since his very first meeting with the man.

  Sage Krishna Dwaipayana of the Firstborn. My stepbrother.

  Devavrata had been in the prime of his youth when his father had fallen in love with Satya, the young and exceptionally attractive daughter of a fisherman. He dutifully set about seeking her hand in marriage on behalf of his fathe
r. Satya had agreed to marry the king, but on one condition – the prince would have to forgo his right as heir to the throne and further ensure that the Kuru kingdom passed on to Satya’s line in perpetuity. It took Devavrata many years to understand why she had imposed that condition. At that moment, however, he had reflected joyfully on divine predestination, on the fame that would be his forever because of his noble actions. He not only gave up the crown, but also swore himself to a life of celibacy. He would have no descendants who would compete for the throne with Satya’s children. The oath had earned him the title of ‘Bhisma’, one who undertakes a terrible and insurmountable task. It was now his name.

  When Shantanu died, Bhisma installed Satya’s elder son as king of Hastina, but the young King Chitrangada died soon after. Right away, Bhisma crowned Satya’s younger son, Vichitravirya, in his stead. But the boy was just that – a boy – and Bhisma had no choice but to become Regent of Hastina. Under his rule, both the new king and the kingdom grew strong. When the boy became a man, Bhisma secured for him eminently suitable wives – two of the three princesses of Kashi. The princesses, Ambika and Ambalika, turned out to be very attractive, both politically and aesthetically, but perhaps a bit too suitable for the young king. The might of Hastina continued to grow, but its king soon lost himself in the pleasant company of his wives. After a short life of royal indulgence and over-exertion, he, too, died. More to the point, despite his untiring efforts to procreate, he died without leaving a single heir. A sliver of hope remained, for he had left behind two fertile and attractive wives, the queens of Kuru.

  It was at this time that Satya had called on Bhisma to break his vow of celibacy for the sake of the Kuru dynasty and future of the nation. He refused.

  ‘It’s nothing new or abhorrent, my son,’ Satya had pleaded. ‘Our scriptures clearly sanction it. When a king is unable to produce heirs, his wives may join with his brother or a man of great nobility and virtue to have children and so ensure the continuity of the royal lineage. These children are raised as the king’s own and have incontestable claims as his heirs.’

  ‘In that case, mother,’ Bhisma argued, horrified, ‘why don’t we marry our women to many men? We encourage our kings to take more than one wife to make sure that the dynasty lives on. Why not do the same with our queens?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Satya had wistfully said, ‘I think you’re still the same, innocent Devavrata who has learnt nothing in all these years. You still believe that the world runs on duty and piety, not on politics. Our dynasties are traced through the man. The problem with polyandry is the question of identity. The only way we can ensure the identity of the child’s father, is by excluding the possibility that another man could have sired the child. Imposing chastity on a man may seem morally attractive, but it serves little purpose. A woman’s chastity, however …’ she trailed off, a disdainful look on her face.

  ‘Mother?’

  ‘Which is why women like me keep their secrets well, Bhisma. I have another son. He was born before I met your father.’

  And so, Bhisma had sent for Dwaipayana, the great scholar–seer and Satya’s son by Parashara of the Firstborn. The line, as Satya had unfailingly pointed out, of Vasishta the Elder.

  Vichitravirya’s widows had begged him and Satya not to force another man upon them. Ambika cried, while Ambalika argued.

  ‘When your brother married us,’ she said, ‘it was with the sacred fire as witness. By that holy fire he pledged to protect us. Now that he’s gone, you think you can force any man you choose on us? We loved our husband. Can’t you honour that devotion by allowing us to mourn in peace and live with his memory?’

  ‘Daughter,’ Satya tried to explain, ‘when you married my son, you also agreed to share his responsibility as king. It’s that duty that one of you must now fulfil by producing an heir to the throne.’

  ‘Responsibility!’ Ambalika spat, standing tall, while her sister hid behind her, sobbing uncontrollably. ‘That’s something your son should have thought of, Mother, before he turned the whole of Hastina into his personal playground. Besides, does this responsibility rest only with my sister and me? I don’t see anyone forcing the esteemed Bhisma to fulfil his duty. What makes his vow greater than the vows of fidelity that my sister and I made to our husband? Isn’t it enough that the great Bhisma forcibly brought us here from Kashi, destroying our city and our people to satisfy your son’s lust? Isn’t it enough that we lost our sister Amba? Must he now destroy the two of us with his vows as well?’

  Her arguments had been in vain. When Dwaipayana arrived, Satya’s instructions to him were clear: He was to take the women at all costs, against their will, if required. He was to impregnate them without fail. Bhisma had shuddered and struggled in torment when he heard the queens’ fervent pleas to Dwaipayana to spare them. Their screams had pierced the walls of the palace as they were forcibly ravished. All Bhisma could do was remind himself that destiny was ordained by the gods and its intricacies were intelligible to few.

  So it was that the seed of the reclusive ascetic achieved what the strength of the Kurus could not. Ambika gave birth to Dhritarastra, blind but virile, who would be King of the Kurus and father of a hundred and one children. Ambalika had brought forth the younger prince, Pandu. It later emerged that in his enthusiasm to fulfil the duty assigned to him, Dwaipayana had also impregnated the queens’ loyal friend and handmaiden. She, too, brought forth a son – Vidur the Wise.

  That was a long time ago, Bhisma told himself, though it did not make him feel any better.

  Now, Syoddhan, the eldest of Dhritarastra’s sons was heir-apparent and had been so for the past six months – ever since Pandu’s five sons and their mother Pritha had disappeared. The six had been at the summer retreat of Varana when a fire had broken out, supposedly killing them all. The charred bodies of five men and one woman had been recovered, but Bhisma did not believe they were the corpses of the princes and the queen any more than he believed that rumours that the fire was part of Syoddhan’s plan to kill his cousins.

  Would this have been the state of affairs if the true blood of the Kurus – my father’s blood, my blood – had continued the line, Bhisma wondered. It did not matter. As long as he lived, he would do whatever it took to protect this kingdom, and the glory of the Kurus. And right now he needed Dwaipayana. Willing himself to remember that, Bhisma turned to welcome the man who entered the room.

  4

  KRISHNA DWAIPAYANA, THE VYASA, WAS A DARK, DIMINUTIVE man. His white beard was not as well-groomed as Bhisma’s, but its unruliness was becoming in its own way. His manner seemed docile, cheerful almost, like that of a good-natured, gentle grandfather, but his pitch-black eyes sparkled with the fiery intensity of an intelligent, even youthful, mind. Despite his physical appearance, the Vyasa was not, by any reckoning, a man one could ignore. He was the head of the Firstborn, the one who received First Honour at any gathering of nobles, the most respected man in all of Aryavarta. And the most powerful.

  Bhisma was unimpressed. He came directly to the point. ‘Can I trust you, Dwaipayana?’

  Dwaipayana took no offence at the question. He replied, ‘If you’re asking me whether I had anything to do with Ghora Angirasa’s death, the answer is no. I’d have the decency to protect a man who stood in my home, even if he was my enemy. Besides, if I were involved, I hope I’d have the good sense to avoid even a hint of suspicion. That Ghora was killed in my hermitage is unfortunate, but it serves rather well to exonerate me of all doubt.’

  ‘Then who …?’ Bhisma countered.

  ‘Who doesn’t stand to gain from Ghora Angirasa’s death?’ the old scholar sneered. ‘For one, an old warrior like you, one of the few ever to be trained by a Wright, who now has no equal. Isn’t that a strong temptation?’

  Bhisma could feel his breath quicken, but he said nothing. Consciously, he adjusted the glittering crown that adorned his head. He may not be king, but he was still a prince of the Kurus and had served as Regent for over fifty years.
He would not be treated with impunity and accused of murder.

  Dwaipayana was unaffected by the blatant display of grandeur. He thought the Regent looked overdressed in his silks and wore far too much jewellery. For his own part, he wore only the mandatory strings of beads around his neck and both his wrists. His hand moved to adjust the former as a matter of habit, but he stopped himself. It would seem insulting to point out the contrast between them, and tempting as it was, it would not do to provoke Bhisma.

  He spoke softly, but his voice held a clear note of bitterness. ‘Perhaps that’s the smallest of the prizes, and the worst of our current troubles. We call them “heathens” and “those meddling Firewrights”, but in all fairness they were also a great line of weapon-makers. Unfortunately, they also had the arrogance and ambition that goes with such ability, and we all know where that left us. My father spent his whole life ridding our lands of their kind, but his success brought with it a peril of another kind – I’ve lost count of the number of Wrights and Wright-impostors who’ve sold themselves to the highest bidder, even to would-be foreign invaders. At least, the name of Ghora Angirasa, the fear of the Secret Keeper, kept these mercenaries and their masters in check. With his death … You realize this changes the situation in Aryavarta completely?’

  Bhisma nodded. ‘This is the kind of weak ambivalence Jarasandha has been waiting for. He’ll use this opportunity to solidify his hold over Aryavarta. Most likely, he’ll try to make us all fully-subjugated vassals, rather than amicable allies.’

  ‘My sentiments exactly. The Emperor has little allegiance to any cause. Firewright, Firstborn – all are the same to him.’

  ‘The fault is yours! If the Firstborn had not stood so firmly behind him, Jarasandha would never have risen so quickly to become Emperor. He only had to promise to rid Aryavarta of every living Wright and you and your father were more than eager to see him rule. You did not even realize that he owed you no loyalty, nor did he do you any favours. The Firewrights were the reason why the previous Emperor, the King of Matsya, was reduced to nothing, and Jarasandha knew better than to make the same mistakes as his predecessor. At the same time he is not above using the Firewrights for his own gain and, indeed, he has brought some of them into his service under the pretext of destroying them. Now he is unstoppable, and it is the kings of Aryavarta who must pay the price for the Firstborn’s folly!’