Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) Page 9

  They did not speak, not a word, but both of them knew what had to be done. She found her thick, woolly cloak on the floor and tried to wrap it around them both – ineffectively, for she was too short and her brother too tall. He bent down to pick her up in his arms and bundled her close to his chest. She covered them both as best she could with the thick material, letting it fall over her brother’s head and around them in a protective mantle, which she held shut with her hand. With whispered words that might have been a prayer, her brother stepped through the fire towards the faint patch of light and colour, which they hoped was the doorway.

  After that all she remembered was a blurred flash of images. The two of them laughing, breathing deep of the clean, smokeless air, glad to be alive. People milling around, trying to put out the fire. A couple moving toward them, the man embracing her brother as though he were a gift from the Divine, while the woman cried at their pitiful state – blackened faces, mild bruises and burns, and a fair amount of disorientation and shock, all of which could easily be set right.

  ‘Welcome, my children. Welcome, Dhrstyadymn, the future of Panchala, and its saviour,’ the man had declared. ‘We’re your father and mother, my children. We have been praying incessantly to the gods, the Benevolent Ones who’ve brought you to us.’ At that moment, the statement had sounded no less believable than the suggestion that anyone could escape alive from that infernal blaze.

  Right away, the two siblings had left with their newfound parents and their royal retinue for the capital of Panchala, Kampilya. That night, and for many after that, they stayed in one of the smaller palaces on the way, although, as Panchali later found out, Kampilya had been but half a night’s ride away. A few hours after they arrived there the man who had declared himself their father, King Dhrupad, asked to see them in private. He greeted them with warmly and served them wine himself. No attendants were present, nor was the queen. Even though she had still felt bewildered by all that had happened within the past day, Panchali knew, with an instinct that she could not explain, that all of this was most strange.

  After some awkward small talk, to which Panchali and Dhrstyadymn had simply contributed with silent nods, Dhrupad had gently but pointedly asked them, ‘Tell me, what can you remember from before the fire?’

  The siblings had confessed that they remembered nothing, not even the names they may have had. All they knew was they were brother and sister, and that too was a feeling rather than the certainty of knowledge. Dhrupad, however, had been relentless in his questioning, asking if they recalled where they used to live, whether it had been warm or cold there, their dwelling large or small, whether they remembered any of their kin, if they spoke any other languages, how old they were, where they had been schooled, and many such details, in an attempt to kindle their memories. At the end of the night the two had remembered nothing that could point to their prior identity. It nevertheless took many such nights of inquisition before their father had been satisfied.

  At length, he had smiled and declared, ‘You are born of my penance and the sacrificial fire. You are blessings from the Divine.’

  At that moment Panchali had hesitantly inquired, ‘What’s my name?’

  Dhrupad was taken aback, as if the thought had not crossed his mind in all these days. Flippantly, he declared, ‘Panchali.’

  It was bland, but fitting, Panchali had decided. After all, she had neither memory nor identity. She only was, as her name meant, a woman of Panchala.

  The very next day, they had left for Kampilya.

  Hardly had Panchali settled into the royal palace than Queen Gandavati sent for her. Panchali had rushed over, driven by respect and a dutiful stirring of affection for the woman who was now her mother.

  The Queen came straight to the point. ‘We’re hardly mother and daughter, Panchali,’ she began, ‘but we share this much, that our lives shall never be our own.’

  She gave a hollow, chilling laugh, and continued, ‘I told Dhrupad that we should have picked up orphaned infants, that you are both too old. Whether you remember your past or not, you are who you are, and it’s too late to mould your characters, your nature. But then, when did my husband ever listen to me? Yes, there were times when I could have sworn he almost felt love, especially in those months that I carried the Crown Prince in my womb – the same Crown Prince whose right you and your brother have now irrevocably taken away. Nevertheless, I am thankful to you both. You may not be aware, but it’s an open secret, and one sanctioned by scripture, that kings in need of an heir may ask other men … men of nobility, such as great sages, to sire children in their wives …’

  Panchali had felt a sense of dread creeping up on her as, for the first time, she saw the larger implications of their adoption. She never would forget that moment when she had finally brought herself to meet Gandavati’s gaze, for it was then that she had been gripped by an indescribable fear, despair at the notion that her life as a whole was about to be reduced to nothing.

  The queen’s tone had become disturbingly sweet. ‘As a token of my gratitude, let me give you some advice. Not as your mother, but from one princess to another. Like it or not, no matter how much you fight or what you say, you can’t change the decisions that are made around you, for you. You cannot even begin to alter the life that’s laid out for you. All you can do is choose whether you’ll resist the occasional happiness that comes your way and be tormented by your own hatred and self-loathing, or you’ll spare yourself your own judgement at the least and take what you can get.’

  Those, possibly, had been the most maternal emotions Gandavati had ever shown her.

  The moment the queen had swept regally out of the room, her old nurse had entered. The woman had been kind and gentle in her examinations, but much to Panchali’s discomfiture, also obedient to the orders she had been given. That the nurse had reported to Dhrupad, with some relief, that his new daughter was in all objectivity an attractive woman of unblemished beauty had brought no comfort to Panchali. But it had irked her just a little that he had treated the news with the same decisiveness he had shown when the training commander had informed him that Dhrstyadymn was an exemplary soldier for his age: Dhrupad began making his plans.

  After that, Panchali had quickly understood the deeper truth behind Gandavati’s words. Day after day, she and Dhrstyadymn had been amazed by their own abilities, things they had not known they could do. They could read and write, which placed them as being of somewhat noble, if not royal, origin. Their knowledge was broad, ranging from astronomy to geology and the basics of medicine. Whoever had taught them had taught them well.

  It was then that the idea had struck them. Perhaps they could find out their former identities, after all. The siblings turned to their tutor – a young Firstborn scholar on his very first assignment as a full initiate into the order. Despite his youth the scholar was a learned man and enthusiastically engaged Panchali and Dhrstyadymn in discussions on such works of knowledge as the Vyasa permitted to be shared outside the confines of the Firstborn order. With his help the two siblings made a list of all the topics and premises that they were able to recall and tried to match them with a place of learning where they were commonly taught. In this way, Pançali hoped, they could identify their teachers, maybe even the hermitage where they had been educated. But it was what they had not known that had defined their fate. Most astonishingly, Panchali and Dhrstyadymn both found they had never heard of Firewrights.

  Their tutor’s reaction had been one of disbelief. He had sent immediately for his senior colleagues and as a group they had yet again expressed their dismay at the ignorance of the two youngsters. The matter was then referred with the utmost urgency to Dhrupad.

  Whether Dhrupad was concerned or offended at their ignorance, Panchali never did find out, but he had immediately sent for her and Dhrstyadymn. He led them down into the deepest levels of the castle that housed the dreaded dungeons. There, as screams rent the air, and the smell of blood and decay hung heavy over them, Dhrupad
had proudly explained to his children the strict laws that Panchala had against the Firewrights, those ruthless fiends who questioned the system of divine law and order set by the gods; tricksters who beguiled commoners, sometimes even kings, with their false promises of magic that could pervert even all-powerful destiny.

  He had then made them watch while a suspected Firewright was interrogated.

  Panchali had flinched, though she did not turn away, as the young man was painfully, brutally, blinded right in front of them. The memory still made her want to retch but, more important, it secretly kept alive the anger she had felt at that moment. For many nights after that, she had lain awake, tormented by what she had seen. No matter how evil the Wrights and how much hatred she could rile up in her heart for them, she still could not reconcile herself to the brutality of her own kind, of the noble, enlightened rulers of the land. It just did not make sense. But she had kept her thoughts to herself.

  The incident had been their last trial, and from that day Dhrupad began to lavish great affection and pride on them both. They had become his children, without question, shadows of his own soul. Soon their lives were no different from that of any other prince or princess of Aryavarta. Their tutor was recalled to the service of the Vyasa and the siblings were forced to abandon their research into their past. Instead, they were guided towards activities more suited to their new station in life. Panchali was taught to sing and paint, and Dhrstyadymn was put into intensive military training. Their spirits were tamed and lulled into submission and the two of them became nothing but prisoners held in luxury.

  Then, Shikandin had returned home to Kampilya from his post near the Eastern Forests. The palace had filled with rumours of a dark past, of how he had driven Dhrupad to hatred and shame. Panchali and Dhrstyadymn, however, had neither time nor thought to spare for such gossip, filled as they were with guilt at the thought of the Crown Prince they had dethroned. Their fear had been as ironical as it was redundant, for Shikandin was nothing like they had expected him to be. Only after his return had the two siblings dared to laugh and live and feel – it was he who had truly made them the prince and princess of Panchala.

  Dhrstyadymn’s voice brought Panchali back to the present. ‘Do you ever wonder who we are, Panchali?’

  She was momentarily taken aback by the question. ‘Every single day,’ she finally confessed. ‘I … I feel terrified, Dhrstyadymn.’

  ‘Why are you afraid, dearest sister? What are you afraid of?’

  ‘What am I afraid of?’ she screamed out loud, giving vent to emotions suppressed for so long. ‘What is there to not be afraid of? An exiled Firewright returns to Aryavarta after decades and dies. Within days, armies are mustered and moved all over the empire, long-lost friends return, bringing death and danger on their tail, and it’s decided that I am to be married within weeks. What in this do you not find disconcerting?’

  Dhrstyadymn threw his arms around her in an encouraging embrace. ‘Oh, Panchali! It’s only natural that you’re afraid, I suppose. I should have realized. But don’t worry, more than half the contest has already been played out, across assembly halls and private audience rooms, at dinner feasts and in courtesans’ beds … not just in Kampilya, but all over Aryavarta. Many will come, but not compete; and many will compete, but not win. This was instigated by Bhisma, the Grandsire of the Kurus. In fact, Dwaipayana, the Vyasa, came here straight from Hastina and settled everything with our father. You’re to be married to Syoddhan, heir to the Kuru throne.’

  ‘What? But …’

  ‘Trust me, Panchali, you’ve got nothing to fear. Everything has been arranged. You, my dear, will be Queen of Hastina!’ he joyfully concluded.

  Panchali longed to retort, but the happiness on her brother’s face made her hold back. Our lives are not our own. Once again, Gandavati’s words had been nothing less than prophetic.

  ‘Come,’ she said, forcing cheer into her words, ‘we ought to head back. I’m famished. Besides, Shikandin will worry when he finds us missing.’

  Dhrstyadymn shot her a strange look. ‘He and Govinda left, not long before we did, I suspect. The attendant found their horses gone when he went to fetch ours. No one can tell where they were headed to.’

  Panchali sighed. ‘And what’s new about that?’

  11

  ‘WHOEVER DID THIS …’ SHIKANDIN BEGAN AND THEN FELL SILENT, his knuckles white from his tight grip on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘…had no choice. He has his loyalties as we have ours. We can’t hold it against him,’ Govinda declared, calmly surveying the carnage around him. It had taken them one night to reach the Eastern Forests that lay on the border of Panchala, but they had spent the better part of the next day searching for the first of the destroyed villages. From there on, the trail was unmistakeably clear. ‘Still, we’re too late to save anyone,’ he dully admitted.

  The two men walked past the still-smouldering debris to the hut at the edge of the village. Tethering their horses to a tree-stump outside the hut, the two stepped in and looked around.

  ‘He was here,’ Shikandin remarked, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly as though he could still smell the previous visitor’s scent. His eyes took in the clean cut in the thatching where the warrior had slashed at the roof, and he reached up thoughtfully to pull at a loose straw. Letting it drop to the ground with a quiet sigh, he came to join Govinda, who was perched on one knee, examining a dark stain on the ground.

  ‘Hardly a day old,’ Govinda said. Standing up, he fixed the other man with a steady gaze. ‘You still have your men posted in these parts?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Trusted men?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then how did he get through? Why didn’t anyone stop him? I can understand someone slipping past the Emperor’s ring of spies and guards, but how did they get past yours?’

  If Shikandin saw the least offence in Govinda’s questions, he did not show it. He stared at the blood-stained floor, then moved back slowly, step by step. ‘Come on,’ he called out, heading outside. The warrior they were following was adept at hiding his trail, and once outside the hut his tracks all but disappeared. It took Shikandin every bit of his skill to find a dislodged pebble, or the slight dent in the tender bark of a young tree – signs that their quarry had gone that way. It was slow work, but by nightfall they reached the river. Despite the dim light they could make out the smoking pyre, the last few embers still shining in the dark.

  ‘I can’t track any further in the dark, Govinda. We’ll have to wait till morning,’ Shikandin said.

  Govinda said nothing. He simply nodded and drew his sword, a long, flat blade with a straight hilt and open grip that spanned nearly four feet, from hilt to tip. The two-sided blade was inflexible, but strong and unusually bereft of the markings that narrated the lineage and victories of the sword and its owner. It bore only its own name as inscription, a strange one too for a sword – Nandaka, that which brings bliss.

  As unconventional as its name was the use to which Govinda now put the sword. In a move that most Arya nobles would have squirmed at, he stepped up to the pyre and used the blade to go through the ashes. Looking around, he picked up a dry branch from the ground and unceremoniously thrust it into the depths of the pyre. The heat trapped inside was enough to set the dry wood ablaze.

  He pulled out the branch and handed it to Shikandin. ‘Light a fire, will you.’

  ‘With this?’

  But Govinda had already walked away, toward the river.

  Shikandin sighed, looking down at the flame. ‘Oh well, I suppose death follows life, and all that …’ He walked for some distance along the riverbank till the fragrance from the night-blossom trees cleaned his nostrils of the ashen smell of death. Then he started a small campfire and led both their horses to the river, where he washed them and let them drink, before diving in for a cooling swim. By the time Shikandin had returned to the small campsite, Govinda was already there. From the looks of his wet antar
iya, he too had indulged in a bath.

  ‘Hungry?’ Shikandin queried.

  ‘Are you joking? Are you?’

  Shikandin said nothing as he sat down next to Govinda. ‘First Ghora, now him – Agniveshya Angirasa, Ghora’s own grandson …’ he began. ‘Dwaipayana certainly doesn’t leave things to chance.’ His tone was soft, but held an unmistakeable edge.

  Govinda said nothing. Without another word, they both turned in for the night.

  Shikandin woke up well before dawn. He saddled both horses and put out the campfire before he gently awakened Govinda. It was still dark as the two men led their horses back to the pyre but the smell of dawn was already in the air. The misty freshness of the forest was pleasantly invigorating and they felt light-hearted despite the task that lay ahead of them. As the outline of the bier loomed ahead, Govinda stopped and took the reins of Shikandin’s horse as well. He waited as Shikandin walked ahead and crouched down on the ground. The sun soon broke from the unseen horizon, and the forest came alive with light and sound.

  Govinda watched with a smile as Shikandin became one with the forest, keenly aware of every bent blade of grass, every broken twig and twisted leaf. Shikandin, he knew, was more than just a good tracker. He was a true hunter, a creature of the wild. Few men could see the forests as he saw them, a living tapestry of life and death. Still crouched on the ground, his eyes closed in concentration, Shikandin heard the territorial rumble of a tiger as it prowled the opposite bank; he noted how the wild hog ran, grunting, it’s scavenging complete; and watched as the smaller game began their day’s journey, heading downriver. All these signs told him that their quarry had gone upstream, to the north. Almost reluctantly, he pulled himself back into the world of men. Taking back the reins of his horse he began to lead the way. Govinda followed wordlessly, unwilling to defile the serenity around them with speech.