The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (24 page)

And with those simple words, it was over. Govinda understood, and the weight of comprehension crushed him. He had let Panchali down before, but she had always been his sacrifice. This time, it was apathy, betrayal, failure, folly…a senseless sacrifice, an offering made in vain. He had no words to convey the unbearable grief that took him, twisting him beyond redemption into a lifeless creature that he had never known he could become.

At last, Govinda Shauri realized what force it was that had ended the dice game, stopped Dussasan mid-act and brought the entire assembly of Hastina to a stunned silence. It was the very same force that had stained Dharma’s conscience, shattered his pride, and reduced an Empress to exile. In her moment of excruciating agony, when she had lost sight of all hope and meaning, Panchali had let just one word fall from her lips…

Govinda.

25

THOUGH HE DID NOT SHOW IT, SANJAYA GAVALGANI WAS A HAPPY
man. If an omnipresent observer had even suggested as much, Sanjaya would have denied it, because he preferred to think of himself as far too disciplined to indulge in personal pleasures while there remained important tasks to be completed. Or, as in this case, two important tasks that were connected in mutual fulfilment, like the fragile balance of a jeweller’s fine scales.
One by one
, he reminded himself as he came into the former Vyasa’s presence.
One by one
.

Diminished. That was the word that came to mind when he saw Dwaipayana. Sanjaya knew well that conflicting emotions – guilt, rage, pain, self-recrimination – had left the old scholar in this state. Yet, above all, ruled a poignant regret mingled with pride. Dharma Yudhisthir, the man on whom Dwaipayana had pinned all his hopes, had failed. Yet, Dharma Yudhisthir, Dwaipayana’s beloved grandson and moral heir, had succeeded. He had done that which Dwaipayana himself had been unable to: He had spurned the might of the Firewrights, cast aside the tainted empire that Govinda Shauri had built for him, on sheer principle. Sanjaya knew that this one act alone was enough to compel Dwaipayana to forgive Dharma his every transgression and excess and hold him up as the beacon of morality. It was the only way the former Vyasa – or Veda Vyasa, the compiler of the great books of knowledge, as Suka had now taken to calling him – could maintain his own moral integrity in the face of all that had happened. As far as Sanjaya was concerned, Dwaipayana’s situation was entirely to his benefit. Now, more than ever, the Veda Vyasa was under his control. Now, more than ever, Dwaipayana would rely on Sanjaya to keep his biggest secret safe.

Appearing very much like a man who could not be cheered even by the hearty mountain air, Sanjaya walked up to the two men – one sitting on the threshold of the hut, the other standing next to him. Dwaipayana looked up from his mournful huddle as Sanjaya approached, but spoke no words of welcome. Next to him Suka looked alternately unconcerned and worried. It struck Sanjaya that if at all the younger scholar cared about the situation, it was for reasons far more trivial and selfish than any of them might have anticipated. All Suka wanted was to be left alone. Sanjaya relished the prospect of fulfilling that particular wish someday, quite literally. Right then, however, he had to deal with Dwaipayana.

After a brief, awkward silence, Sanjaya hung his head, looking shameful, and said, ‘I’ve failed you, Acharya. Forgive me.’

‘After all that I’ve lived for…’ Dwaipayana began in a tremulous voice, ‘…after everything that the Firstborn have struggled to do… One miserable dice game… A chain of events started by a single, stupid act… Look where it has brought us! Hai!’ Suka placed a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder, at which Dwaipayana forced himself to calm down. He turned back to Sanjaya, ‘Who can understand the workings of destiny, my boy?’ he said. ‘Don’t be so harsh on yourself.’

Sanjaya nodded, even as he observed the silent exchange of glances between father and son with interest. Not once had Suka shown Dwaipayana’s zeal, his commitment to the Firstborn order. He had been happy, even relieved, it was said, when his father had passed the title of Vyasa to the elder Markand. Such lack of ambition was something Sanjaya had never been able to understand or come to terms with. One day, he promised himself, he would spit in Suka’s face. He would spit in the faces of both the Vyasa’s heirs who had taken from him his rightful due. But this was, he knew, not the time for such ruminations. He had a task at hand, one that he could not compromise. ‘Acharya,’ he softly began, ‘I
will
keep my promise to you. I
will
see your blood, Queen Satya’s blood, rule Aryavarta. The glory of this line shall not fade.’

‘The glory of this line?’ Dwaipayana cried out, enraged. ‘Muhira! What glory do you speak of, Sanjaya? The glory of my two sons – the blind fool and his impotent brother? Or that of my grandsons – one a gambler, the other a malicious beast? For years I have kept the records of our times, preserved the history of Aryavarta, and now the history of my line, Queen Satya’s line, has been besmirched forever. If Dharma is held up as the noble, righteous king that I had expected him to be when I helped him become Emperor, it makes Syoddhan an evil, greedy demon. And if history speaks of Syoddhan as the reasonable, honest man he is, it leaves Dharma as little more than a cheap gambler. What would you have me choose as my legacy? And if I make the wrong choice…then what? Sanjaya, my ultimate failure is not even that my grandsons behaved like common gamblers. My ultimate failure is that such events, such great events swept across the face of Aryavarta, and yet the Firstborn knew nothing, did nothing. Morality was lost and faith was broken and the Firstborn… They were good for nothing but a few words of prayer and blessing when all was done and broken! Did we not know or did we not care?
We
are broken!

‘Please…’ Sanjaya said, earnest, his eyes glimmering with tears of raw emotion. ‘Trust me to do what I must. Let me take care of this. Acharya, you’ve taught me much. The least I can do is repay you by putting those precepts to good use, as best I can.’

‘But how…? What can you do? What can anyone do?’

Sanjaya looked once again to Suka, hoping for words of support or reassurance to the weary Dwaipayana. The scholar, however, stood by his father, expressionless, as though he were nothing more than a serving boy waiting for orders. What kind of a man could remain so unambiguously apolitical? Fighting back instinctive disgust, Sanjaya reminded himself that Suka’s malleability was an advantage. He said, ‘These sordid affairs need not occupy you… or Suka here. There are things best not known to you. You’re both men of the gods, while I remain a man of the world. Do not ask me for details, but simply know that what is done is done for the greater good. You have my word. A Kaurava shall rule this empire, now and forever.’

Dwaipayana remained quiet, his eyes showing doubt. Sanjaya persisted, his voice low, even though he knew that the elder alone could understand his veiled words. ‘You’ve carried more than your fair share of earthly burdens, of
terrible secrets
. There is no reason why Suka, or anyone else, should inherit this load. Let me deal with this. Let me make the choices you are not in a position to make. There is yet another tiger that can be tamed to our use…Asita Devala, the prisoner…’

‘Are you out of your mind, Sanjaya?’ Dwaipayana snapped, a little harsher than he had intended to. His heart raced as he studied Sanjaya’s face and the pang of disappointment that crossed it, and he could not help but wonder whether someday the courtier might discover the horrible secret that he hid away in his heart. And if that were to happen, would Sanjaya have the strength and the loyalty to preserve such a terrible secret? For if Suka ever found out…Dwaipayana looked at Suka, who returned the gaze with even certitude. He knew it would destroy his son if he ever found out who his father really was. And that brought him back to Sanjaya.
What choice do I have but to trust him
, Dwaipayana silently admitted.
My hold over Aryavarta weakens. The Firstborn’s hold weakens. We need Sanjaya
.

‘Can I rely on you to act in the interests of Aryavarta, Sanjaya? It is not enough if Syoddhan rules in Dharma’s stead. You must counsel him towards peace. You must use your political craft to set things right. The realm cannot be compromised. Divine Order cannot be forgotten.’

‘I shall do as you command, Acharya.’

‘And what about…the tiger that I failed to tame? What about Govinda Shauri?’

‘He is of no consequence. At best, he is already dead. At worst, he soon will be – either by his own hand, or that of one of his kinsmen. It’s been just days since he has returned to Dwaraka, and already the Council has asked that he step down as Commander. Without Govinda at the helm of affairs, the Yadus will inevitably regress to the infighting and squabbling that has been their lot. They don’t matter to us anymore.’

‘All right, then. Go with my blessings. Varuna protect you, my son. Aryavarta is now in your hands.’

Sanjaya bowed, glancing at Suka as he did so. His heart nearly quailed at what he saw. Like a simple-minded child whose broken toy had just been mended, Suka was smiling.

26

THE SECRET KEEPER WATCHED THE SCENE UNFOLDING IN THE
heart of the hermitage with well-veiled satisfaction. For a moment, personal affection reared its head and he wished that things had not come to this. The lapse lasted for just a fraction of an instant before trained rationality took over. He had
had
to do what he had done. Govinda knew that as well as he did.

Your greatest strength is also your biggest weakness.

The Secret Keeper remembered the day Ghora Angirasa had told him that. Govinda had been by his side. It had been a long time ago, and felt longer still. He had been young then, and full of optimism, too much so to believe that Govinda could ever become weak. But it had happened. Finally, the man had broken under the great burden of them all: guilt. Panchali’s refusal to come with him, her confession that in her great need it was his name she had called out – it had destroyed him in a way no one had expected. The same dispassion, the detachment that had once made Govinda the most efficient and strategic thinker in all of Aryavarta, had left him bereft. Govinda had not, and could not contemplate a world where sacrifice was in vain. He had given up everything for a cause, but when the cause itself was lost he had nothing left to hold on to. Nothing in his world made sense once that rule had been broken.

Nothing except pain.

‘Do you want to leave Aryavarta?’ the Secret Keeper had asked Govinda soon after he had returned from Kamakya to Dwaraka. Or rather, he had asked the man who had once been Govinda, for the shadow that had stood in front of him was a vacant corpse, a shrivelled soul.

‘Do you want me to?’ Govinda had said, at length.

‘No. I think it’s best you stay here, where the rest of Aryavarta can see you, so they know that you are...’

‘That I am...?’

It had hurt the Secret Keeper to say the next words. ‘They must see that you are harmless, Govinda, that you have been conquered and tamed and are no longer a threat to any of them.’

At that, Govinda had laughed, cold, mocking, bitter. He had said, ‘Bring them here and tell them to spit in my face. I deserve it. I deserve that and more.’

‘I would, if it served any purpose. All I need now is for you to let the Council try you as a Firewright and sentence you as they will.’

‘To death?’

‘No, not death. You need to stay here, alive, a symbol of the Firewrights’ complete defeat. Only then can I fulfil the ultimate task that was left to me, Govinda. Forgive me, my friend, but even the affection I hold for you cannot get in the way of that.’

Govinda had said nothing more. The Secret Keeper had sat with him in silence for a while, before leaving him to his misery. The scholar’s own path lay towards the future, and he had no time for regret or repentance. True, men like Govinda came once in millennia, but the Secret Keeper was a practical man. He would make do with the resources he now had in hand: Sanjaya.

The Secret Keeper did not completely understand why Sanjaya acted as he did, but that did not make it difficult to predict what he would do next. Using Devala’s power, Sanjaya would support Syoddhan’s rise, a rise that would be built on Govinda and Dharma’s downfall. It was not the most desired outcome, but the Secret Keeper had planned for it nevertheless. Govinda’s empire had depended on peace and commerce to bring about prosperity and, with it, the resurgence of the Firewrights. Syoddhan’s empire would be one of equal prosperity and resurgence, but be built on strife and mutual distrust as the various nations of Aryavarta fought to outdo each other. But it was the only way forward.

The Secret Keeper felt age hit him anew as he remembered that once Ghora Angirasa, too, had made such a choice and failed. But then, there had been Govinda. Now, there was no one.

We are on our own. Govinda is a spent force. His time is over.
With a sigh, the scholar turned his attention to the four-year-old acolyte tugging at his robe with all the endearing impatience of childhood.
The future is what matters. One man for an empire. That is a very, very good trade…even if that man is Govinda Shauri.

Part II

1

SYODDHAN KAURAVYA OPENED HIS EYES AND STARED INTO THE
darkness. Twelve years as Aryavarta’s virtual ruler had done little to dim his trained instinct. He slept uneasily on most nights, that was if he slept at all. His dreams were nightmares of wakefulness, memories of a day twelve years ago that still came to him, heavy with silent accusation. The day he had rightfully won this empire from Dharma Yudhisthir in a travesty of a dice game. The day Panchali had been dragged into the assembly hall of Hastina…

He dismissed the thought and strained his ears in the darkness, trying to decipher what had woken him. All he could hear was his wife’s even, content breathing, and feel the warmth of her cheek as she slept with her head on his chest. He smiled at her in the dimness and, with a light touch, smoothed back her dishevelled hair – the result of their slow, passionate lovemaking, a ritual celebration of the deep bond they had shared over the years. It was an affection he had come to cherish, for it had nearly been lost.