Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (44 page)

Shisupala’s voice was soft as he said, ‘As were the mountains of Kandava, the rock and stone that once stood in this very
place … Perhaps, my friend, a kernel of truth lies hidden in the most absurd of tales?’

‘Shisupala …’ Syoddhan looked at his friend askance.

‘They also say the Danavas helped build Dwaraka. Even helped design Indr-prastha, if rumour is to be believed …’

Syoddhan gradually understood where this was leading and even the mere suspicion made him feel uneasy. He shook his head
in an attempt at denial. ‘Dwaipayana … he would never allow it. You remember how he maligned Jarasandha’s name by saying he
harboured Firewright magicians? How then could he approve of Dharma’s actions if …?’ He glanced at the largest of the six
ritual fires, at which the Vyasa sat officiating as chief priest.

Shisupala appeared not to have heard. His eyes rested on a figure that stood laughing and bantering with a group of Yadu chiefs
and nobles.

‘Look at him,’ he hissed, contemptuous. ‘Look at that cowherd strutting around as if he were one of us! I first saw him when
he was about seventeen. I was the same age. He looked every bit the lowly commoner he really is. And now? Does no one see
what I see, Syoddhan? Or have we all become wilfully blind because all we care about is ourselves, our thrones and kingdoms,
and our greed. Won’t anyone ask how a man can come to this, how he can build a veritable empire, if the very demons of the
earth haven’t become his slaves? Hai! Even your Vyasa … even
he
makes his peace with the evil Govinda is, just to see his grandson on the imperial throne. The blood of Varuna and Pururavas
have indeed both failed!’

Syoddhan frowned. ‘Are you saying this because of Vidharbha? Because of what happened there?’

‘Vidharbha, Pragjya, Kashi, and who knows how many other places. Right from that whore Panchali’s wedding …’

‘Shisupala!’ Syoddhan instinctively railed at the insult. ‘By Rudra, what’s wrong with you all today? First Vasusena, then
Sanjaya, and now you?’

A strained glance passed between the two friends.

‘I’m sorry,’ Shisupala eventually said. ‘Look, just forget what I said. We’d better take our seats. It’s time for the final
ceremonies. We’ll talk about this later. If you want to, that is …’

Syoddhan nodded. Shisupala managed a wan smile and left to join his father and others of his family.

As he went to take his own place next to King Dhritarastra, Syoddhan tried hard to put the conversation out of his mind, to
remove all suspicion and ignore all regret. The sight of Dharma
hurrying over to where the Vyasa sat in conference with Bhisma, Sanjaya standing meekly behind them, caught his attention.
He reminded himself not to stare. Instead, he looked around the hall, at what Shisupala had called the true might of Aryavarta,
trying to find pride in his beloved homeland.

Despite his efforts, Syoddhan did not entirely succeed.

DHARMA YUDHISTHIR WAS A HAPPY MAN, BUT NOT AS HAPPY AS
he ought to have been. He strode the length of the hall, returning the many greetings and congratulations directed at him
with the perfect balance of warm humility and pride that became a benevolent ruler, and meeting every smile with a nod that
was neither overly respectful nor excessively condescending. The former, he found, was much easier than the latter. The occasion
apart, the sheer splendour of Indr-prastha made modesty difficult. Dharma smiled to himself at the thought of the many monarchs
who had stood astounded by the marvels of the coronation hall, and of course, the city itself.

Indr-prastha, he thought as he silently enunciated the word, was a fitting imperial capital. The capital of an empire that
was his, yet not. Just as he was happy, yet not.

Dharma dismissed the notion and bowed lower than he had all day as he came up to where Dwaipayana Vyasa was seated. Next to
the scholar, the Grandsire Bhisma shone resplendent in his finery.

‘Acharya, you sent for me?’ Dharma respectfully enquired.

Dwaipayana nodded. ‘It’s time, my son. The rituals are done. It’s time to call things to order and begin the coronation,’
he declared. He gestured towards the congregation at large. Dharma saw that the attendees were being ushered into their seats.
At one end of the rectangular area at the centre of the hall was a slightly elevated dais on which the imperial throne now
stood, awaiting its new master. Under Dhaumya’s supervision, Sadev and Nakul carried a heavy, gem-studded cup of arghya to
a pedestal placed in the large space
that had been cleared at the base of the dais. Despite the anticipation, the arrival of the penultimate moment took the Emperor-designate
by breathless surprise. He grinned, revealing an unusual nervousness that was charming in its own way.

Dwaipayana laughed softly at that before saying, ‘There still remains a matter that must be discussed and decided upon – the
First Honour.’

Dharma turned his attention to the two senior men, a hint of consternation on his face. ‘Acharya, if there’s room for discussion
on that, it is perhaps on who ought to receive First Honour between the two of you. That delicate issue, too, I thought had
been resolved by your kindness in acting as the hotr, the presiding priest, for the ceremony.’

‘You think it ought to be your grand-uncle, then?’

‘Certainly. Even Jarasandha offered him First Honour. As did Ugrayudha, Asvattama and countless others … Really, I can’t think
of a coronation or investiture in the Grandsire’s lifetime where he wasn’t honoured as best among us all. Where you are first
of the Firstborn, he stands as first among warriors. To honour a lesser man implies that I know nothing of honour, that my
own rule is blemished! I …’ Dharma stopped short at the doubtful expression on Dwaipayana’s face. He turned to the Grandsire.
Bhisma sat silent and sombre.

‘Acharya …’ Dharma uncertainly began.

Dwaipayana clucked his tongue in mild disapproval. ‘What is the purpose of this public declaration of allegiance, Dharma?’
he asked.

‘To show beyond doubt the power and the legitimacy of the emperor. By swearing their allegiance, the kings of Aryavarta derive
their authority to rule and command from the emperor and, in turn, they legitimize his reign as their sovereign.’

‘And how do they then continue to show their allegiance?’

Dharma looked peeved at being quizzed, but nevertheless replied, ‘Through the tributes and taxes they pay. The process of
affirming allegiance also has an economic significance. That’s as self-explanatory as it is basic governance.’

‘Correct. And whom do we traditionally call upon first to so declare allegiance? To whom do we show First Honour?’

‘To the one who most deserves it. The best of fighters, strongest of monarchs, the most learned of men. To the best of them
all, the …’

‘Isn’t that supposed to be the emperor?’ Dwaipayana softly interrupted. ‘The best of them all?’

Dharma frowned, uncertain. He glanced from the Vyasa, to Bhisma, to Sanjaya. Their expressions were inscrutable. He floundered
for words, but could find nothing appropriate to say.

With a sigh, the Vyasa continued, ‘In moments you will be Emperor. You need to accept that politics is as much a part of your
coronation as it will be of your rule. My son, the First Honour is given to the best man there is – the man who is most powerful,
economically and politically. It’s given to him so that the emperor’s rule is legitimized beyond a doubt and accepted by the
one who is in a position to question it, shake it and even defy it. Recognize your greatest enemy and make him your friend;
make him duty-bound by law and honour to defend your reign. Show First Honour to the one man who could have been Emperor,
but isn’t.’

Dharma’s voice was hollow, as he said the name out loud. ‘Govinda Shauri.’

‘Yes. Govinda Shauri. Bind him to you, Dharma. Bind the man who helped build your empire to you, so that he can never bring
you down.’

In the silence that followed, it seemed to Dharma that the tumult around them had grown louder than ever. He forced himself
to think over the Vyasa’s words, to see things with the cold, political acumen that was now expected of him. But he simply
could not. Anger, regret and the ever-present sense of owing everything to Govinda cloaked him and left him with a heavy heart.

Dharma turned again to Bhisma, to the man he had longed to become, silently beseeching.

The Grandsire stood up and placed an encouraging hand on Dharma’s back. ‘He’s right, Dharma. Your reign is more important
than these trivial accolades. You will make a good emperor, a just and
honourable ruler. Aryavarta needs you. It’s important to accept that, and to do what it takes to support your reign. Let the
First Honour go to Govinda Shauri.’

‘No,’ Dharma shook his head. ‘It’s not right. It’s not fair,’ he persisted. ‘Sir, please …’ he looked back to Dwaipayana.

His pained reluctance made the Vyasa hesitate for a moment. The Elder exchanged glances, first with Sanjaya and then with
the one person whom he trusted the most – his son, the silent, discreet Suka. Both men nodded.

In a firmer tone Dwaipayana said, ‘Dharma, you must understand what I’m trying to tell you. Man’s only goal is to imitate
divinity, and to do so the cosmic order must be recreated on earth as a social order. The gods themselves have brought you
to this juncture; they have brought everything to this juncture. Your empire will be the mirror of heaven, the golden reign
of your forebears Pururavas and Hastin that the people still remember and long for. Don’t disappoint them. Don’t disappoint
me!’

Dharma opened his mouth to protest, but the significance of Dwaipayana’s words sunk in. He finally saw in his heart of hearts
that he had been appointed by destiny, charged by the very gods to carry the burden to protect and preserve their ordained
way of life. He hung his head for a few moments, trying to fight back the tumult of emotions within. At length he said, ‘And
if anyone were to ask how we overlooked the Grandsire …?’

Bhisma squeezed Dharma’s shoulder in reassurance. ‘I will announce Govinda’s name for the First Honour. No one will contest
it then. It’s as good as done, Dharma. Now, stand tall and take your place on the throne. It’s time Aryavarta swore allegiance
to you.’

‘
PANCHALI!’ DHARMA WALKED INTO THE ANTE-CHAMBER
where she sat with Subadra, sharing quiet memories of old times. ‘Come. It’s time,’ he held out his hand. The action clearly
contained
less joy and anticipation than it ought to have, but Panchali said nothing. Instead, she stood up and smoothed out her dazzling
red and green-brown silk robes.

‘Wait, let me treat you with a little insolence while I still may,’ Subadra teased as she helped settle Panchali’s robes into
place.

Panchali smiled her thanks and stepped out of the room, into the coronation hall. The mere thought of what was to follow took
her breath away for an instant, and she bit her lip nervously. Needing reassurance, she looked around the space. Her heart
brimmed with affection as her gaze fell on loved ones. Dharma’s brothers waited nearby, each one’s face reflecting the excitement
she felt. Next to them was Dhrstyadymn, looking every bit the king he would soon be. Shikandin, quiet and confident as always,
stood leaning casually against a pillar.

And then, the future – Subadra’s son,
her
son, Abhimanyu – the heir to Dharma’s throne. The boy stood at that precious threshold of youth where he had the bearing
of the man he would soon be and yet possessed the innocence of the child he still was. Even now his attention was divided
between the events around him and the game of tiger-and-lambs he was playing with his older cousin and best friend, Shikandin’s
son, Yudhamanyu. Pradymna watched them play with interest, his infant child in his arms. Aniruddha, Govinda had lovingly named
his grandson. Sovereign of his own self.

Panchali felt a slight smile form on her lips as she saw Govinda. He had traded in his simple robes for a warm, blood-red
silk cloth embellished with silver weaves. For once he wore a gemstone, a large ruby set in gold, which hung from a chain
around his neck. It came to rest right on the symbol of Sri that was marked into his skin, drawing proud attention to the
stories of his youth. She took in the slight smattering of silver-grey at Govinda’s temples and the fine lines that showed
at the corners of his eyes when he smiled.

While his friends and his sons found great mirth in dubbing him an old man, the truth was that Govinda’s presence had only
grown breathtakingly stronger as he came into the prime of his life. His eyes still sparkled with mischief, but he now exuded
a quiet power
and dignity. As always, there also remained that private darkness that no one, not even Panchali, could read. It made her
wonder if she looked any different to him.

Ever since Govinda had returned from the imperial campaign, conversation between them had remained at a minimum. They had
both been occupied with other things and he had also returned often to Dwaraka to see to the affairs of his nation. Panchali
had not complained, nor had she asked about Kashi, or Devala, or the many other incidents that had come to pass during the
campaign. Govinda, for his part, had offered no explanations;neither to her nor to anyone else. Nor had he spoken of what
she had known or done, and for that Panchali was grateful. It had become instinct now to hide almost every honest thought
and feeling from the one to whom she had once bared her soul.

The silent realization had a sobering effect, as her mind went to what lay ahead. Panchali fell in next to Dharma and the
two of them walked towards the dais. The musicians struck up a buoyant tune and, around them, people began settling into their
places.

As they neared the dais, Panchali could barely contain her excitement. She gently whispered to Dharma, ‘Is everything all
right? What did the Vyasa say?’

Dharma did not reply.

Panchali could sense his confusion, the horrible sense of wanting to hate the very dream that had come true, for it no longer
remained a dream, but was now reality. A stark reality that reminded Dharma, relentelessly, of how little he had done to deserve
it. She had neither words of congratulation nor consolation to offer him, though not for lack of kindness. Keenly aware that
everyone was watching them, she forced herself to look up, taking in the moment, the brightness around her. She saw her father
gazing at her with ostensible pride and perhaps the remnants of surprise that she had amounted to something after all. Vidur
beamed at her happily, just a hint of concern in his eyes, and to her astonishment Asvattama flashed her a small smile.

Try as she might to avoid it, Panchali’s attention, indeed her whole being, was drawn yet again to just one man. Govinda,
now
sitting flanked by Balabadra and Kritavarman. She knew it was just her imagination, but the quiet arrogance he emanated seemed
to fill the hall. She could feel his gaze bore into her back as she turned and ascended the dais to reach the glittering throne.
The music reached a dramatic high.

‘Sit!’ Dharma barked at her.

She silently complied, feeling none of the jubilation that the occasion demanded. Dharma’s harsh tone made her stomach churn,
even as it reminded her that indeed, she ought not to feel the least bit happy. This was wrong, terribly wrong. Dharma would
be Emperor yes, but of nothing. Govinda would mark Dharma’s reign indelibly as his own; this had been
his
empire since the day he had begun planning the campaign over ten years ago. This was what he had given up so much for.
Including those who’ve loved and trusted him. Including me
.

Panchali was tired of making her peace with that, over and over again. She was tired of being angry at Govinda, and longed
to see him as she once had, an honest, fearless man with neither ambition nor guile. Her eyes filled with flustered tears,
and she stared, unseeing, at the arghya vessel at the foot of the dais. She clenched her fists tight, willing herself to not
give in to emotion, not now. This time, she could not, would not fail. This time, neither she nor Aryavarta would become Govinda’s
puppets.

At last, the musicians stopped playing.

Bhisma stood up and raised his hand, signalling for silence as the entire assembly respectfully turned their attention to
him.

‘In the name of Rudra and Varuna,’ he began, ‘the heavens have descended today, bringing with them the gods and celestials,
for nowhere have we seen such a confluence of wisdom, valour, and virtue as have gathered here. Blessed are those who undertake
the sacred ceremony of imperial dominion as are those who conduct it, and on those who attend the sacrifice, too, great honour
is due. Now, my kings, it is time …’

Bhisma raised his stentorian voice, ‘Dharma Yudhisthir, of the line of Pururavas and Hastin, honours you as preceptors and
overlords
under his reign, beginning with the traditional First Honour to the best of us all. Accept Dharma’s recognition and so declare
him Emperor. Join me now in inviting the most worthy man here to lead us all in proclaiming our allegiance.’

A thundering applause greeted the Grandsire’s words, along with the booming of horns and the sombre rolling of drums. Into
that expectant crescendo, Bhisma dropped the words, ‘Govinda Shauri.’