Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (5 page)

Yuyudhana rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Might I suggest we all shut up and be on our way. Words don’t fill an empty
stomach, nor do they hasten a horse’s strides …’ He turned to Govinda, inviting affirmation, only to find that Govinda had
already set off down the road. Shaking his head, Yuyudhana followed.

A GUST OF WIND HOWLED ITS WAY THROUGH THE FOOTHILLS AND
disappeared with a shriek into the snow-capped mountain peaks. Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa took in deep of the cold air and
released the snow pigeon from his tender grasp, watching it fly to its cote on the hillside. The place he called home, his
hermitage, lay at the foot of the Great White Mountains, the Himalayas. He took in the white-crested mountains in the distance
and the crisp green-blue foliage that dotted the nearby cliffs with a content heart. His wanderlust had earned Dwaipayana
many a nickname since his youth, but few had understood his desire to travel far and wide. To him, it was not the going away
but the coming home that mattered. Now, even home was no longer the same, he dully reflected. The one sanctuary in all of
Aryavarta, the holiest of places, had been defiled by violence and blood. Ghora Angirasa’s blood.

Dwaipayana found it disconcerting on many levels.
Why would a man who has lived in hiding, who has been an exile for so many years, return all of a sudden, courting death?

It was not a question with easy answers.

Once, the legend went, Firewright and Firstborn had toiled side by side to raise Aryavarta to unparalleled glory. Now legend
was all that was left. The Firewrights had been doomed, run into oblivion by their own. Ambitious, fearful and crafty, they
kept secrets from those of their own order, even as they shared – no,
sold
– their warcraft and weaponry in return for power. Their other skills – healing, astronomy and the like – had ceased to be
important or profitable. It had been a slow, almost imperceptible, decline, but each generation of Wrights had left behind
less than what they had inherited. Most of it was now lost. The dilution of their knowledge was, Dwaipayana believed, the
ultimate evidence of their decay. Indeed, most of the so-called Wrights he had met in his lifetime had known nothing more
than the formula for a mild antidote or the design of a better wick-lamp. And then there had been Ghora Angirasa. The Secret
Keeper of the small, reclusive group of scholars who strove, hidden, to preserve and
extend the knowledge of their ancestors. Perhaps, Ghora would have been the man to bring the Wrights back to their former
glory.

But not after what had happened at Matsya, Dwaipayana noted, bristling with rage at the memory. Not after the Firewrights
turned the verdant, blooming land that had been the heart of a mighty empire into barren nothingness. The scourge that had
followed, as retribution against them, had been bloody but essential and completely justified. Eventually, the last-known
settlement of the Wrights had been found and destroyed and Ghora forced into hiding, a fate better than what had befallen
the rest of his kin. Most of them had died, and not painlessly.

Dwaipayana had, for many years, nursed the secret dread that Ghora Angirasa, the Secret Keeper of the Firewrights, would die
in the anonymity of some far, foreign land. It would have been the seed of yet another legend that kept their memory alive.
In a way, he was thankful that Ghora’s death, tragic as it was, had been less than dramatic.

The fault is ours. We made them out to be monsters, magicians, in order to destroy them. That reputation won’t fade easily.
Especially now … The age of Kali is upon us
.

The scholar set little store in the fears of some dark age that lay ahead. To him Kali was a different sort of blackness.
It was the heavy, black iron that Aryavarta, and much of the world, still used. The Wrights had tamed this blackness, tempered
it in fire, to make a light-weight silver steel, or Wright-metal, as it was commonly known. It had made for the best weapons,
giving the Wrights their reputation. It was why they had been revered and feared.

Perhaps, Dwaipayana noted, he could put the panic, while it still lasted, to good use. Ghora’s death would serve to heighten
the mutual distrust and fear among the rulers of Aryavarta, Jarasandha included, making it the perfect political climate to
set his own plans for the future of the realm into motion.

Acknowledging the greetings from the residents of the hermitage and their families with a polite nod, he walked towards the
secluded group of huts meant exclusively for him and his acolytes. He entered the enclosure to find someone waiting for him.

The man was thin and angular, but also distinctly regal in his stance. At first glance he could easily be mistaken for a monarch
rather than one of the ruled. He sported a moustache and beard, and his hair fell below his shoulders, in keeping with fashion.
In all, he lacked the general air of self-deprivation and strict discipline that one would associate with the disciple of
a great scholar. But that was exactly what Sanjaya Gavalgani was. The son of an Arya soldier and a slave-maid, despite his
birth as a Suta, Sanjaya had risen to the rank of a minister in the service of the Kuru kings. He was also Dhritarastra’s
favourite counsellor and most trusted advisor. Rumour even named him as the next Prime Minister of Kuru. Despite his significant
success, the young man had remained disconcertingly humble. It suggested, Dwaipayana observed, an enormous ego well-concealed
at the insistence of an even more astounding intellect.

Sanjaya greeted Dwaipayana on bended knee, remaining that way till the scholar urged him to stand.

‘Welcome, my son. I didn’t hear you arrive. I really must be getting deaf in my old age.’

Sanjaya chuckled at the statement. Seers were, in general, rather long-lived. Some attributed it to their piety, others to
their simple, healthy lifestyles. Sanjaya simply found them to be resilient. Dwaipayana, he estimated, would be less than
ninety years old. The Elder had a good forty more to go, by the average lifespan of his kind.

‘Well?’ Dwaipayana enquired. ‘I know it must be a new development and one of some importance, else you wouldn’t have hurried
here …’

Sanjaya knew better than to be astonished. The preceptor was both observant and astute, and put the qualities to good use.
Dwaipayana had been at Kampilya just days ago and Sanjaya could have easily met him there. That he had not, showed the matter
was a recent one. And that he had then made the journey to these remote parts, foregoing discretion in favour of speed, showed
it was also a matter of some weight. The conclusion was obvious.

‘Govinda Shauri …’ he declared, a note of contempt in his voice.

‘Ah yes, Govinda Shauri,’ Dwaipayana was mildly amused. ‘Commander of Dwaraka. The gwala boy who defended Mathura against
Emperor Jarasandha’s forces. Not once, mind you, but many times.’

With a respectful familiarity that had not been painless to earn, Sanjaya pointed out, ‘There is such a thing as too much
credit, Acharya. Govinda held Mathura for just four or five years. Despite his supposed ancestry and all his efforts, he surrendered
the city to Emperor Jarasandha and retreated to the western shores, claiming to have founded a new nation. If it weren’t for
your support, I doubt he’d even have emerged from obscurity.’

‘Well, I hear he’s become a full-grown man, and a fairly intelligent one at that. Some claim the new city of Dwaraka is unrivalled
for its splendour in all of Aryavarta. And, of course, their armies, the specially-trained Narayaniyas, are feared even in
foreign lands.’

‘Acharya, I …’ Sanjaya paused and then continued with determination. ‘You favour him too much … He’s a charismatic flirt,
a swordsman of some repute and I know he has been outspoken against the Firewright menace, but is that reason enough to …?’
He stopped, realizing he had touched a chord.

‘Why does he bother you, Sanjaya?’ Dwaipayana asked. ‘Why have you come all the way here to speak of him?’

‘Jarasandha has been amassing forces at Mathura. Sooner or later, he will attack Dwaraka. Isn’t it likely that Govinda intends
to somehow ward off such an attack?’

‘Indeed, it is what any sensible commander ought to do …’

‘To have a man running around Aryavarta making his own plans … Grandsire Bhisma feels it puts our entire strategy at risk.’

Dwaipayana did not miss the hint of a smile on Sanjaya’s lips. ‘And you? What do you feel?’ he asked.

‘I don’t like it either. But I can’t indulge him, or ignore him the way you do.’

The Vyasa considered his disciple in silence. It struck him that his own son, Suka, could not have been more different from
Sanjaya. Yet the two men were the closest to him and also the most committed of
his disciples. It was ironical that Ghora Angirasa had died in Suka’s arms. Dwaipayana had wanted nothing more than to leave
his son with the holiest of legacies, a realm free of Wrights, of their power-mongering and intrigue. Undeniably gifted though
Suka was, he had neither the aptitude nor the training to deal with a political morass and Dwaipayana did what he could to
keep it that way. There were few people he trusted and none as much as he did Suka. Where the Vyasa was the conscience-keeper
of all of Aryavarta, Suka was the minder of
his
, and Dwaipayana sought his son’s advice on every matter of import. Except, of course, when it came to matters of politics.
Such things were best left to men like Sanjaya.

‘Govinda has never been unfaithful to me, or to the Firstborn order,’ Dwaipayana pointed out. ‘He could have had all that
the Wrights had to offer, he could have protected them, used their skill to defend his throne. Instead, he chose to surrender
Mathura, give up his kingdom rather than embrace the unrighteous path.’

‘Ah, but he’s no faithful follower of yours, either. You could have raised him to even greater heights if he’d agreed. He’s
a man without ambition, and such a man is always dangerous. When you don’t know what moves a man, you can’t foresee his actions
… I’d sooner trust someone who’s selfish or greedy, for I’d know what drives him. I’d know the limits of his faithfulness.
But, Govinda …’ Sanjaya ended with a shrug.

Dwaipayana laughed. His eyes were wistful as he said, ‘True. Govinda Shauri is a very different kind of man. He’s brave, valiant
and his intelligence is far from bookish. The problem is, he’s also elusive – what you have just called a man without ambition.
He questioned his own right to rule Surasena, rather than submit to the gods that could’ve given him legitimacy, unquestioned
authority over his own kingdom, perhaps even Aryavarta. Instead, he refused to be what we – the Firstborn – could have made
him. It doesn’t mean he’s beyond control or any less useful. When you meet him, you’ll see what I mean. Or, maybe, you’ll
see through him where I’ve failed to. Either way, you’ll soon get your chance …’

Sanjaya looked surprised, but before he could seek an explanation
Dwaipayana continued, ‘The girl – Dhrupad’s daughter – is to be married. She is indeed the loveliest of Bramha’s creations.
I think the Creator must have laboured over even the drop of sweat that rests on her smooth skin …’ he paused, noting with
mild amusement that he could still find room for such youthful diction if not desires. With a self-recriminating shake of
his head he went on, ‘There’s no weapon in existence as deadly as a beautiful woman, Sanjaya. We can use her in our favour.
Generations who come after us will blame her or praise her for much that happens, whether she had anything to do with it or
not. As for the present, who knows how many will bend to our purpose, lured by her kingdom’s wealth and might, or simply the
prospect of winning such an attractive woman as a prize. Govinda Shauri will come to Kampilya, as will many others. You can
study him to your heart’s content then.’

‘And if he wins, Acharya?’

‘I thought you found his reputation unwarranted?’

‘With all due respect, I’ve heard he’s rather fond of the girl. Her brothers are his friends and they’d be happy to have him
as their brother-in-law.’

‘Fond? My dear boy, he has a fondness for all pretty women. Indeed, weren’t you the one to point out that particular distinction
of his?’

‘As a matter of fact, Acharya, it has been rather instrumental in influencing my opinion of him. As you’d once taught me,
reputations of excess are often ways of hiding deficiencies or even the total lack of accomplishment. Particularly, those
famed for their romantic prowess are cowards of the worst order …’

Dwaipayana laughed. ‘You’ve decided not to like him. Well, I won’t bother changing your mind. But remember this – Govinda
won’t think twice before throwing away a woman’s affections for greater political gain. As long as the threat of Jarasandha
remains over his head, he won’t interfere with our plans. He’s quite harmless. He wants a Kuru–Panchala alliance as much as
we do!’

‘And then? After the wedding?’

The scholar did not answer the query. Instead, he questioned, ‘What do you know of the training of wild beasts, Sanjaya?’

‘Acharya?’

‘When a tiger is first captured by trappers,’ Dwaipayana said, ‘it’ll refuse to eat when fed in its cage because the beast
is driven by its instinct to hunt. Some tigers eventually starve and die. Others break; they begin eating the meat that is
fed them. Once that happens, even if you release the animal from its cage it won’t hunt. Instead, it’ll wait to be fed. Only
then is it fit for use in a carnival, for it is tame and domesticated, and the hunter within has been lulled into impotence.
It can’t hunt anymore, or inspire terror or awe, and it becomes nothing more than a pet, a joke even. And so it is with men
like Govinda. If he is to be of any use to us, we must let him and everyone else believe that he acts of his own will.’

The Elder sat down in his customary place on the large porch that fronted his hut. He slowly crossed his legs into the lotus
posture, relishing the simple pleasure of sitting down on the well-worn mat that was his own. ‘Does it amaze you, my son,
that I can be so cold, so ruthless? Do I seem like a vengeful old fool to you?’

Sanjaya looked at his teacher with undisguised adoration. ‘The enlightened, civilized man rears animals, treats them with
kindness and tends them as best he can. Scholars and rulers nurture the common man the way he nurtures his herds. And just
as man decides what fodder must be given, what ploughing must be done and even purges the herd of sick beasts, so must men
such as yourself herd us all towards the divine light.’