The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (56 page)

‘And his dream is but a mirror of ours, a mirror of the hopes we have always had for our people. A realm based on reason, where the people are masters of their own destiny and rulers of their own fate. A realm where the emperor is beholden to his subjects first and the gods and nobles next…’ Asvattama sighed. ‘Did you think it would be so difficult? I’d thought the task was nearly done when Govinda made Dharma emperor the first time.’

Shikandin shook his head. ‘To be honest, I’d thought so too. It would have, had we had enough time. But well before change could be effected, Dharma Yudhisthir played dice…’

‘The fault for what happened next lies with us all.’

‘True. Though Govinda holds himself to blame.’

‘Because of Panchali.’

‘No, Asvattama. Panchali’s pain has been and will always remain a wound to Govinda’s heart. What he really blames himself for is not seeing that true change comes when the existing system is defied, not bargained with. He had hoped to use the Emperor’s paramount power over his subjects to set in place a rule by the people. But…’

‘You wouldn’t have failed him, Shikandin. If he had made you Emperor…’

‘He didn’t. And he had his reasons.’

‘But… When the world looks back on these eighteen days, Shikandin, when future generations look back on us, what will they say? Will they say that Govinda Shauri cleansed Aryavarta of evil? I don’t really care whether they blame him or adore him for it, but will they lay a repugnant culling, this slaughter, on him? Or will they see this for what it was – a revolution? Will they see that this was no murder but sacrifice, the inexorable willingness of people to die for what they believed in?’

‘What does it matter, Asvattama? It is almost done now. We are nearly there. We cannot know what history and legend will follow our names, or Govinda’s, and it ought not to matter at all. All that remains is for us to show one man that this was true revolution, that this dream can be a reality. We must show him that the faith he once had in Govinda was not misplaced.’

‘Indeed, my friend. The Secret Keeper must know what it is we have all fought for, what it is that one of us must now die for. We are no longer different, are we? Not from each other, and not from anyone else.’

It was a statement few could have understood, but both men had no doubts as to its meaning. Like Govinda, they too could see beyond their own fleeting, transient identities. Shikandin spoke the words, relishing the precious privilege of finally saying them out loud: ‘We are common citizens of Aryavarta, and there could be no greater honour.’

With that, he drew his sword.

Asvattama did the same.

Then the two warriors fell on each other.

2

GOVINDA LOOKED AROUND HASTINA. IT WAS CHEERLESS, BEREFT
of all life and joy. No lamps were visible, and an air of mourning lay heavy over the entire city. The palace was shorn of all grandeur and majesty, its hallways and chambers empty and untended. There was no weeping, no wailing, no women cursing and mourning, no men swearing death and revenge. There was nothing. In a strange way he found it consoling.

Like land, barren after a harvest
, Govinda mused.
It needs to be ploughed and tended before it blooms, verdant once again
.

He had agreed with Dharma’s suggestion that they pacify the mourning elders – King Dhritarastra and Queen Gandhari – at the earliest. Without their blessings, Dharma was just a bloody conqueror and not the legitimate king. Such legitimacy would have to be purchased at a price. Someone had to the bear the brunt of Dhritarastra and Gandhari’s anger, particularly as Dharma delivered the news of Syoddhan’s fall.

Govinda stopped mid-stride as Queen Gandhari’s recent wrath rang in his ears: ‘You will know this pain someday, Govinda. You will cry over the corpses of your sons, as I cry over mine!’ He had accepted the curse without protest, and left Dharma and his brothers to console the grieving king and queen.

It was, Govinda knew, also the appropriate occasion for long-hidden truths to emerge. Pritha would have to reveal her secret to Dharma, disclose the complex bonds of blood that explained much of all that had happened. Vasusena, Sanjaya… It was imperative that Dharma understood that his dubious entitlements to the Kuru crown were not the reason why he had been placed on a throne, yet again.

And so, many loose ends would soon be tied up, and that was a good beginning. For his part, Govinda had a few things that he needed to deal with. One needed resolution; the other, however… Govinda let the thought trail away as the smell of parchment ash and burnt stone hit his nostrils. He realized that he had arrived at his intended destination, though he had not recognized it as such.

Fallen pillars, rubble and ruin were all that remained of what had once been the library of Hastina. Govinda reached out to place a hand on a soot-blackened pillar and, in an unusual show of emotion, rested his forehead on the back of his palm, letting the gravity of all that had come to pass distil in him. After a while, he drew himself together and began to make his way deeper into the ruins, when the muffled sound of conversation came from the shadows. The man Govinda had come to see was not alone.

‘…tell me!’ the words echoed from the stones. ‘I know Dwaipayana has spoken to you, that he has told you who the Secret Keeper is. Tell me, or in Agni’s name your blood shall wash the soot off these stones.’

‘What’s the point, Devala…’ a voice Govinda recognized as Sanjaya’s came, sullen, through the hollows. ‘It’s too late.’

‘Too late?’ Devala’s malicious rasp left no doubt as to his further intent. He affirmed as much with his next words. ‘You traitor! I shouldn’t have trusted you.’

‘As I said, it’s too late…’ Sanjaya repeated, his tone defiant in the face of Devala’s aggression.

The tell-tale ring of a blade being drawn from its scabbard. Govinda began to run, jumping over piles of rubble, in the direction of the voices. He passed through what had once been corridors into a moonlit space that had, not too long ago, been a working area for the scribes to see Devala in the act of swinging his sword down at a helpless, kneeling Sanjaya.

‘Devala! No!’ Govinda shouted, drawing a dagger from his waistband and hurling it in the Firewright’s direction. The blade went precisely through Devala’s wrist, making him drop his sword and scream out in pain. The few moments were all Govinda needed to get close to the two men.

‘Puuya!’ Devala cursed out loud at the sight of his challenger, but did not attempt to retrieve his weapon, nor did he intend to give fight. He turned to run, pausing only to knock down a pile of loose wall stones to block Govinda’s path, expecting the other man would give chase. Govinda did not. Instead, he came to a stop where Sanjaya lay toppled over, his hands tied behind his back.

Govinda quickly undid the bonds and helped Sanjaya to his feet, all the while watching with a frown as Devala made his escape, clambering out from the ruins and running across the deserted palace grounds to scale the unguarded outer walls and disappear.

‘Go…go after him…’ Sanjaya gasped.

‘No, Sanjaya,’ Govinda said. ‘Now is not the time.’

The declaration seemed to remind Sanjaya of all the hatred and animosity he bore Govinda, for the courtier’s eyes flashed with rage. The anger faded away as swiftly as it had come, and he asked, dully, ‘Is that your decision, or the Secret Keeper’s?’

Govinda smiled, though not unkindly, for he saw the torment in Sanjaya’s eyes. The same secret that had destroyed Dwaipayana had also claimed Sanjaya. For completely contrary reasons, neither man could bear the thought that the Secret Keeper of the Firewrights had been hidden, all these years, in the heart of the Firstborn. And now, after a great war and much bloodshed, it was time for this singular fact to serve its ultimate purpose.

‘The decision is mine,’ Govinda said. ‘Though you might find it more bearable if I told you it was his. Truly, he and I have never been at cross-purposes…’

‘And what purpose was that?’ Sanjaya snapped.

Govinda let his breath out in a loud sigh. In a dull voice, he said, ‘With the war, all Firewright weapons are gone, the anointed keepers of those weapons are gone, and with them gone their way of life, built on hierarchy and power, is in the past. As for the future – we have a chance to make a fresh start. What we call knowledge, where did it come from? It wasn’t handed down to us from the skies, or dug out from stone. It is we who sought it out, and we who found it. When our forebears had the ability to reach for the light of truth, why do you doubt that those who follow us won’t?’

‘They will. I don’t doubt that. But I also don’t doubt that they will inevitably stand at the brink of war, as we did.’

‘Those concerns I will leave to the Govindas and Sanjayas of that age. We have our own concerns to address.’

‘Will you address one for me? Will you answer one question, just one question for no reason other than that I ask?’

‘If I can, yes.’

‘Why did you save me? What do you want from me?’

Govinda placed his hands on Sanjaya’s shoulders. The courtier flinched at his adversary’s touch. Ignoring it, Govinda asked, ‘Is it so difficult to believe that I do something simply because it is the right thing to do, the kind thing to do? I owe much to your grandfather and father, and their request alone would compel me to protect you. But that is not the sole reason, Sanjaya. You are one of us. And I believe that you are still capable of loyalty.’

‘Loyalty to whom, Govinda? To your Secret Keeper? By Agni, I’d spit in his face…’

‘Then you’d spit in the face of the one in whose name you have done all that you have done. You’d spit in the face of Ghora Angirasa and his legacy.’

‘Don’t you dare lay claim to his legacy, you…!’

‘Not I, Sanjaya. There is another. The idea of hiding the Secret Keeper of the Firewrights amidst the Firstborn came from Ghora’s own heir and was agreed to by the Acharya himself. Ghora Angirasa’s death, the empire that I once built for Dharma Yudhisthir…all those were but means to that end. Yet, somehow, somewhere, this story became bigger than those plans, bigger than any of us, and…’

Govinda stopped short as Sanjaya grabbed his upper arms in a rough mirror of his stance. ‘Is it true?’ the courtier said, wide-eyed. ‘Tell me, Govinda. Who…who is he? By Jatavedas, now it all makes sense. He alone could have had the influence it took to get the Secret Keeper to stave off your death. He alone could have brought us to war, and…’ Sanjaya shook Govinda in rough earnestness. ‘Tell me, Govinda. Who? Who is he?’

‘Who is
he
, Sanjaya? Surely, you are being presumptuous, are you not?’

The beginnings of comprehension dawned on Sanjaya. He stared, unseeing, at the rubble around him and then again at Govinda. This time, his eyes held a question.

Govinda shrugged. ‘I’ll leave you to your conclusions. Now, I believe I am wanted elsewhere, as are you. The King and Queen have decided to retire from worldly affairs. Your father intends to accompany them.’

‘As shall I,’ Sanjaya said. His voice no longer held defeat; instead, there was acceptance. ‘My work is done. Now, I shall spend my days learning all that I failed to despite these years of study.’

‘It would be days well spent,’ Govinda said wistful. ‘For my part, those are luxuries I cannot afford for the time being. There is much to be done. I need to find Asvattama and…’

‘Asvattama?’ Sanjaya said. ‘He is not at Hastina. In fact, he has not been here since the march to Kurukshetra, over eighteen days ago.’

The equanimity on Govinda’s face vanished and was replaced instantly with muted trepidation. He left without another word.

3

THE SUN ROSE, LARGE AND RED, IN A HARSH DAWN. FIRES RAGED
over the entire expanse of Dharma Yudhisthir’s war-camp, and the distinct smell of nitre and burnt flesh filled the air. Once-human figures lay charred and bloodied. Where the blaze had spared flesh and skin, the remnants of the horror that had visited could be seen in the petrified expressions that had frozen on the faces of the dead. Whatever it was that had killed them, it had been a quiet attack, but hardly a quiet end. Soldiers of the same camp lay in positions that suggested they had turned on each other, driven either by suspicion of betrayal or, worse, a trance of terror.

Animals, too, had not been spared. Horses and elephants were stiffened into unnatural positions on their backs; their flailing limbs evidence of a tortured, painful passing. Their bloated bodies burst now and then, adding to the already overwhelming stench of decaying. Underneath the unbearable stink remained a trace of the toxin that had brought things to this – an acrid tang that made no effort to be pleasant.

An eerie creature, once a carrion-eater that had been feasting on horseflesh, was attacking its own. At the sound of the newcomers’ footsteps it flew at them, slashing and biting, all beak and talons and madness. Swearing under his breath, Govinda picked up an axe that lay on the ground and brought it down on the bird’s neck, setting it free of its hallucinations. That done, he willed his attention to the carnage.

Burnt tents and mangled bodies covered every finger’s breadth of the ground. The few soldiers who were alive – those who had been fortunate enough to be away from the camp on some errand or the other – were pulling bodies out of the rubble, but the dead outnumbered the living many times over. Unearthly screams rang through the camp, in voices that came from neither man nor woman; not even animal.

A dazed survivor, a man who wandered through the destruction, covered unrecognizably in blood that was not his, pointed wordlessly to the centre of the camp, in the direction of a partly burnt tent. Shikandin’s tent.

As one, Govinda as his companions began to run in its direction. Their eyes first fell on Subadra, slumped in the shade of a collapsed canopy. Partha cried out and ran to her, falling to his knees by her side. The others paused to look at each other with dread, and followed. As they neared the tent, as one, they staggered back. The sight that greeted them was worse than anything they had feared or imagined. Despite all the battle and devastation they had seen these past days, nothing compared to what they now felt, the sense of futility and resignation, the hopelessness at the thought that it was not yet over and perhaps could never truly end.