The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 Page 9

  Devala sneered, ‘Now who’s making the mistake of underestimation? You misjudge Govinda Shauri.’

  ‘On the contrary, it is you who underestimate Govinda Shauri. I, on the other hand, know what he is capable of. He’s not an idiot. He was one of Ghora’s best students, or so it was said.’

  ‘Much was said, not all of it deserving.’

  Sanjaya gazed indulgently at the Firewright before him. Devala’s anger reminded him of his own, of how, in the past, he would openly question Govinda’s intentions and competence only to have Dwaipayana indulge him with explanations. He thought back to those days, those long years of playing the obedient acolyte as he gently guided the Vyasa’s hand, allowing him to let Govinda build this empire. An empire that Sanjaya would now use for his own purposes. The notion made him feel important, benevolent and wary all at once.

  It was the first of the two feelings that led him to explain, ‘Govinda’s plan to create an empire and take control of Aryavarta was not a bad one, and it would be folly to think otherwise. He had the foresight to set into motion a mighty chain of events, one that ended with Dharma Yudhisthir occupying the imperial throne. But that was his singular mistake. He chose Dharma Yudhisthir.’

  ‘He chose Panchali. If only she’d been born a man…’

  ‘Then he wouldn’t have chosen her at all. In the name of Agni, stop thinking of Govinda as an idea. He is a man. All men have weaknesses. As for Dharma, once Dwaraka falls…’

  ‘But will it fall?’ Devala still sounded unconvinced.

  ‘My dear Devala, you astound me. Is it your own skill as a Wright you doubt or…? You are going to help arm Saubha’s forces yourself. How can Dwaraka not fall?’

  ‘I doubt my mother’s virtue when it comes to anything related to Govinda Shauri. Call him a man, an idea, or whatever you like. I’d prefer to call him dead.’

  Sanjaya considered the statement. ‘You have a point. Dwaraka may be more vulnerable and easier to take down if Govinda is out of the way.’ He was silent for a while and then said, ‘Once you are done equipping Saubha’s forces, find Govinda and finish him off. He has been wandering Aryavarta ever since the Coronation. Kill him before he reaches Dwaraka.’

  ‘That’s nothing. I know where the dramatic fool will end up, sooner or later. But, there is one last thing…?’

  In answer to the unspoken question, Sanjaya said, ‘Asvattama? He won’t come after you. You’ll be released on Syoddhan’s secret orders, as it were, so he won’t be a problem. Nor will the old pair of king and Regent. But still, remember to be discreet.’

  ‘What about Syoddhan? I did not see that particular bull being so easily tamed with fire but, clearly, I’ve underestimated you.’

  Sanjaya ignored the compliment, though he was hardly displeased. ‘He still has his doubts, but once Dwaraka is his it will be too late for him to change his mind about us. Saubha and Jayadrath will present arguments that Syoddhan cannot refute – not if he wishes to rule. And in the same vein, if Saubha and Jayadrath wish to remain persuasive forces, they will need us and our weapons. Either way, Aryavarta will be ours.’

  Devala grinned maliciously at the thought. ‘Well done! Rational and methodical. I like that in a man.’

  ‘Of course I’m rational and methodical. I’m a Firewright.’

  10

  THE TEMPERAMENTAL SUMMER BREEZE WHISTLED THROUGH THE trees on the verdant hillside and sang over the water of the nearby stream. Occasionally, it came forth as a forceful gust, picking up just a touch of spray from the foam-flecked surface and landing as drops of sunlight on the grassy banks. Satisfied, it ebbed for a few moments, allowing birdsong to occasionally fill the air, till it decided it was time to resume its performance and rushed back to the trees and the water.

  Govinda Shauri smiled, enjoying its cool, playful touch. He ran his fingers lightly through his dark, wavy hair, pushing it off his face with a contented sigh. The grass he lay on felt soft and scratchy on his bare back, tickling a particular spot along his spine. He could smell the freshness of the forest around him. In the silence, welcoming and comfortable, he could hear the forest breathe. Drawing in his fill of the crisp air, he revelled in a sea of simple, acute sensations. These forests, these lush glades and the sparkling river – this was where he had played as a child, fought and loved as a man, lived as a cowherd and a prince. This was the heart of Aryavarta, the land that he loved and revered.

  This was where he had become who he was.

  A Firewright.

  Govinda was not one to indulge in reminiscence, for it got in the way of his dispassion. He simply remembered, his mind bringing to life images and scenes in a clear, ordered fashion.

  He had been about eighteen when, disillusioned with his new life as the Prince of Mathura, he had sought out the Sramanas, a sect of dark mystics. Following their ways, he had tested his body and mind to the limits of endurance, fasting for days on end, standing in the rain and the sun without so much as twitching a muscle, daring to lie on the ashes of cooling pyres embracing the bones of the dead. He had imagined his own death time and again, till it held no fear, no fascination, just an unruffled acceptance of mortality, oblivious to individual existence. He had been alive, but hardly sentient. He breathed, he ate if fed, and he never slept.

  Finally, his teacher had led him to a village. This village.

  Here, there had been laughter. He could hear it now, the fearless laughter of a child, and in his mind he followed the sound through the village to find himself at its furthest boundary, on the river’s edge.

  A girl sat thoughtfully on the bank, watching leaves and flowers float by on the current, whirling through eddies and dancing over rocks in a show fit for an empress. A bustle of excitement went through the calm little hamlet of thatched huts, as two figures slowly entered the village. The adults left their huts and thronged around the duo, and the girl ran to join the chattering group of children that stood on the fringes of the crowd of adults. Their vision completely blocked by the crowd, the children stood ineffectively on tiptoe, hoping for a glimpse.

  ‘Is Great-grandfather back?’ her brother, a lanky boy, asked. ‘May we see him, Father?’

  A young man stepped back from the crowd. ‘Not yet, little ones. He is very tired. He’s been living a life of harsh asceticism in Dakshinavarta.’

  The boy gasped. ‘With the Sramanas?’ he asked, a little fearfully.

  ‘Yes, with the Sramanas. He has not eaten for a long time and his body has gone through much hardship. He needs to rest. You won’t disturb him, will you?’

  The two children had assured their father that they would not. The man was about to leave when the boy asked, ‘Who’s that with Great-grandfather? That man?’

  ‘His student.’

  The memory moved from morning to afternoon. The initial excitement in the village had died down, helped by the hazy stupor of the summer day. Few dared venture out in the blazing heat. Only the most enthusiastic of children, who intended to take full advantage of the fact that most adults were indoors, and in all probability, asleep, were about. He saw her then, smiling softly in a lazy reverie, curled up in the shade of a tree by the river.

  Moments later, he realized, the girl was up and frowning at a small group of her playmates who were stealthily approaching the hut where the Sramana rested. Her brother was not with them. She ran over to the group.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  The boy leading the group grinned conspiratorially as he realized her reluctance. ‘We just want to take a look at the other man, that’s all.’

  ‘He is a disciple and a Sramana. Treat him with respect. Leave him be,’ she said.

  ‘He isn’t a Sramana. Your great-grandfather has brought back a wild man from the southern jungles.’

  ‘I’m going to find father,’ she said, unsure of what was to come.

  ‘Are you scared?’ one of the other children teased.

  ‘Of course she’s scared,’ the first boy went on, ‘sh
e’s scared of the wild man.’

  Her little hands rolled into fists. She knew she could not win a fight against all these children, but she did not care. The only dissuading factor was the inevitable punishment from her father. She decided not to throw the first blow and let her hands fall to her side. ‘I’m not scared!’

  ‘Then come with us…’ the boy said.

  She considered the offer and nodded in agreement. Grinning, the boy took her hand lest she run away. She glared at him in response and took a step forward.

  As one, the children huddled into the hut. A shuffling sound came from its dark depths. One of the smaller children whined, terrified. The sound provoked a response. Something was approaching, but its awkward, angular movements were hardly human. With yells and squeals, the children made to run away, the boy in the lead included. He bolted for the small crack of light that indicated the doorway. The heavy curtain swung in his face and he flailed wildly, bringing it down and letting a wide beam of light tear into the darkness of the hut before he fled from the scene. The others followed him out, still screaming loudly.

  Only the girl remained in the hut. As the strange creature approached, she slowly moved back a couple of steps, uncertain and confused. Her every move, every expression conveyed meaning, just as if she were speaking aloud. Govinda knew she was terrified by what she saw: The occupant of the hut looked like a normal man, but he could well have been a wild creature. His body was bare, except for the scrap of cloth over his hips. Long, matted hair fell unkempt over his face, and his cheeks were covered with an uneven, scraggly beard. He was tall and grotesquely emaciated. His bones jutted out, giving him the look of a human insect, especially when he moved, as he did now. He crawled on his hands and knees, to where she stood.

  Children’s voices shouted from outside, telling her that others had run to get help. But the girl did not care. He knew that she herself was lost in the Sramana’s eyes, an ocean of endless life, of infinity. In that moment, the child understood the oft-repeated truth that learned adults around her longed to make sense of. In a hushed whisper, she said the words he would never forget. ‘I am the Primordial Being, Existence itself.’

  Govinda heard a guttural sound, a croak that was speech from vocal cords that had not been used in many months. Was it him? Or was it the Sramana? He did not know. For all he could see was the fire of compassion in the girl’s eyes. He was lost in its light.

  ‘Are you hungry?’ she gently asked, and without waiting for an answer she took the Sramana’s hand. ‘Come, we’ll find something to eat. But first, you must have a bath and offer your prayers to the Sacred Fire. We have rules here in this hermitage, you know,’ she said the last words in a conscious imitation of her grandfather when he addressed new disciples.

  The Sramana said nothing, but unsteadily got to his feet and let her guide him towards the doorway. She stepped out, but he hesitated, as did Govinda, fearful of the bright afternoon sun. The crowd that had gathered stared at them, aghast. The girl giggled at the sight.

  ‘Come,’ she urged. ‘Don’t be afraid. This is my family. I won’t let them hurt you.’

  The Sramana disappeared, becoming one with Govinda as he raised his head and let the sunlight fall on his face. With an exclamation of joy, her great-grandfather – thin, tired, but otherwise very much normal and clean – came forward to embrace him.

  ‘I feared we’d lost you, my son,’ the old sage tearfully confessed. ‘I feared you’d never return from the dark paths on which you travelled.’

  Govinda felt the girl’s chubby little hand, soft and warm in his large, calloused grip. He stood straighter, taller, like he had awakened from a dream. He was no longer watching now, but could feel every sensation.

  That night, Govinda had slept in the dormitory, with all the other students. As he lay struggling to sleep, he heard her voice through the darkness, as she and the other students cajoled her father to tell them a story. A strong voice finally began the narrative, and Govinda had listened, as spellbound as the children had been.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ the man began, ‘there was a goddess whose beauty and grace, form and spirit, were such that all the gods and celestials desired her. Her name was Sri. Wherever she went, there was always joy and happiness, and so, Indra, the king of the celestials, convinced everyone that she ought to be his. That way, Indra argued, Swarga would always be the happiest place in the Universe. And so it was. But poor, unfortunate Sri, who brought everyone such great prosperity, was herself unhappy.’

  ‘Why?’ a boy asked.

  ‘Because, little ones, whoever had Sri could be happy. But Sri didn’t have anyone. She didn’t have herself.’

  Govinda remembered that he had been amazed at the simplicity with which the man had explained such a complex notion.

  ‘And then,’ the narration continued, ‘Indra was cursed by a sage, and lost his throne. Suddenly, there was a mad scramble among the celestials, demons and even humans to become King of in Indra’s place. More importantly, to claim Sri, and become victorious and prosperous. The terrified goddess went into hiding deep inside the Ocean of Existence on which the weaver of illusions, Vasudeva Narayana, rests. She remained there for a long, long time. The war for Indra’s throne was catastrophic. Many died, demons and celestials alike. Finally, a truce was declared between them and they decided to churn the Ocean of Existence to search for the secret Elixir of Immortality. Can you guess what they found?’

  The young girl responded in a mesmerized whisper, ‘Sri?’

  ‘Yes, they found Sri. When they churned the ocean, she had to come out of hiding. Once again, a great clamour started, as each of the celestials and demons tried to woo her, abduct her, or claim her. But, you see, Sri was no longer the helpless goddess who had gone into hiding. She had found someone who cared for her and wanted her to be happy. He had borne her through her troubles and seen her true form. Do you understand, children? Not once in all those eons did Vasudeva Narayana ever seek to own her the way others had. Instead, he made her a part of himself. And now, Sri decided, she’d never leave Narayana, no matter what, for Narayana would never forsake the eternal truth, the universal balance. Vasudeva Narayana made her the source of his strength. Where he is Eternity, she is Nature; where he is Purpose, she is Action; and where he is the Soul of all things, she is the Manifestation. The scriptures describe her as a dark-hued jewel that lies forever in his heart. Whenever the great weaver of illusions descends to Earth, Sri, with the power of fire and the fragrance of lotuses, is born too. Always.’

  ‘Always,’ the girl had repeated.

  Her simple conviction stunned Govinda.

  The next morning, shaved, bathed and looking a little less wild, he searched her out and found her alone, revising her lessons with a diligence that appeared excessive for her age. She smiled as he approached, but did not interrupt her revision with speech.

  Govinda sat next to her, the silence between them comfortable. They remained that way for a while.

  Suddenly, she asked him, ‘They say you’re a prince. It must be nice to be one… Prince Govinda Shauri…’ she let the name roll off her tongue and continued, without pause, ‘when I was a little girl, I used to wish I were a princess so I’d never have to do chores, or study so hard, and I could eat what I wanted and not be told to finish without wasting any of it.’

  She shook her head in a precociously adult fashion, clucking her tongue at her own juvenile fantasies. ‘But not anymore,’ she concluded.

  ‘And what do you wish for now?’ Govinda asked, amazed at her propensity to speak on without a care in the world.

  The girl had replied, with solemn sincerity, ‘I want to know…’ She eagerly began explaining, the act second nature to her, ‘You see, all the knowledge in the world is still incomplete, because there are questions we haven’t answered yet. What does existence really mean? The scriptures say we each are as wide as Brahman, Existence itself, and Brahman is as small as the tiniest celestial atom inside us. It is w
ithin us, and we’re within it at the same time – but what does that mean in our lives, yours and mine? And even if I know everything there is to know, these questions still cannot be answered. Who knew these things, when I did not? How did it exist if no one knew it? All we ever learn is only that which can be known. What is the unknown? What is…?’ She trailed off, unable to explain what it was that she sought.

  ‘I am the Primordial Being, Existence itself,’ Govinda reminded her.

  ‘That is just the beginning of the road, Prince Govinda,’ she had said, eyebrows raised in an effort to look haughty and condescending. ‘It’s not the knowledge that matters, it’s the knowing.’

  And then she was gone, lost again in the formless weight of a life lived once, and then over and over again in memory.

  Govinda hissed as the breeze whipped a lock of his wavy hair into his eye, the light sting bringing him back to the present. He stood up and walked over to the tree that had featured so vividly in his recollections, even haunting his dreams. The swing he had built for her had long been severed and discarded, but to his eyes the faint abrasions left by the thick hemp rope still remained on the branch it had hung from. Govinda closed his eyes, letting his mind fill completely with her image, her voice, her laughter. If there was a word in the languages of Aryavarta, Dakshinavarta, or even foreign tongues to describe what had been between the two of them, he did not know it. She was a child, he was her playmate; she was a student, he was the teacher. Sometimes, he recalled, he had been the student and she the teacher. It did not matter. He had loved her. And he knew, in a way he could not explain, that if only they had had enough time when she had grown to be a young woman he would have fallen in love with her.

  Now, all of it was only memory. What had once been a village was merely strewn wreckage and debris, the sad remains of the Firewrights that he had destroyed. He looked down at his empty arms, remembering what it had felt like to hold her close and then to let her go. It had felt the same way when he let Panchali go on the eve of her wedding, when her fingers had slipped out of his grasp, leaving a void that could never be filled.