The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (17 page)

On the landward side of Dwaraka, however, the situation was one of concern. Govinda stiffened at the sight of the bodies and debris that littered the plain, chilling evidence of the war that had been fought there. Both the outpost atop the last mountain peak on the Raivata range as well as the one on its foothills flew the enemy’s ensign – the flag of Saubha, king of Salwa. The pastures and the homesteads on the plains had been burnt down and the occasional storage tent showed that Salwa forces now occupied the land. Well beyond the verdant terrain, just where the beach began, a barricade of sorts had been set up. A wooden pole defiantly flew the pennants of the various tribes of the Yadu nation, but it did not appear likely that it would remain there for long.

Govinda watched as the huge force advanced towards the barricade, the last post on land still under Dwaraka’s control. The earth seemed to shudder as the enemy marched out of the soft grassy plains and onto the deceptively hard, packed sand. The Yadu soldiers at the barricade did not move. They were waiting. The sand gave way without warning and many of the enemy soldiers fell headlong into the deep pits that had been dug underneath. Confusion reigned briefly amid Salwa’s forces as Dwaraka’s archers began shooting at those still advancing towards them.

Moments later, the gates opened, letting a group of men out across the single bridge that led to the mainland. At the same time archers appeared on the turrets of the city’s walls and began letting loose their arrows. Clearly, Balabadra had kept a passage open in the hope that the Emperor would come to their aid. But Govinda knew Dharma would not. No one would. Saubha would have rallied the Nagas and Nishadas to his aid, along with Chedi and Vidharbha. Dwaraka had been isolated completely.

And right now Dharma is probably presiding over some diplomatic assembly or the other, blissfully unaware of what is going on here…

Govinda imagined Panchali frowning over a parchment or listening intently to administrative reports, an expression of graceful indifference on her face. Pushing the image out of his mind, he led Balahak ahead. If he could make his way down the cliff, there was a chance he could race along the sand and across the bridge while the barricade still held. Once that too was conceded, there would be no way across to the island city except by boat.

The path was little more than a goat-trail, and it was with difficulty that horse and man made their way down the hill. No beast other than Balahak would have so trustingly followed his rider down the treacherous, slippery path, nor could any man other than Govinda have commanded such faith. Even so, the two soon reached a small ledge and could go no further. Below them, the cliff angled inwards all the way down to the sea.

Govinda gently patted the stallion on his haunches and swung back into the saddle. ‘Ready, my friend? Now!’ he commanded, urging the horse forward in a short burst of speed. Then rider and horse leapt off the ledge.

They hit the cold, frothy waters with a hard splash. Govinda held on tight, his arms around the horse’s muscled neck, as their weight dragged them both deep into the water. Balahak kicked his powerful legs in an attempt to surface, even as Govinda slithered off and began to swim alongside him. The currents were powerful, and Govinda had to let go of the reins and use both his arms. He kept his head up, out of the water, and constantly called out to Balahak, shouting encouragement and instructions. Eyes wide with fear, the horse managed to battle his panic and stay at Govinda’s side.

Just when he thought his strength had finally run out, Govinda realized that Balahak was wading. With a shout of effort, he kicked hard, willing himself to swim the next few feet against the tide’s incessant pull. Finally, he felt his feet skim the ground and a little later he was on the shore. He gave the snorting, heaving Balahak a moment of rest, but that was all they could afford – the barricade had fallen and the few men that remained had drawn back to the bridge.

Govinda urged the stallion on at a gallop, riding into the thin gap that divided the two warring fronts. He was now close enough to see the carnage, hear the cries of rage and pain. As he drew near, he realized with a shock that more than half the elite Yadu forces known as the Narayaniya had already fallen, and the rest were hopelessly outnumbered. Those who remained had formed a human wall, protecting a person or thing that was being carried back towards Dwaraka. Looking towards the tower over the city gates, he caught a glimpse of Balabadra’s horrified face. It made him fear the worst, only to have it confirmed as he neared the scene – Yuyudhana and the second of his adopted heirs, Samva, were together carrying the bloody, listless form of Pradymna, his elder son.

A shout went up from the city walls as Govinda was sighted. It made the enemy hold back for an instant even as it gave the Yadus a renewed surge of strength. Govinda swiftly turned Balahak onto the narrow bridge and then slid off as the horse came to a stop. Drawing his sword, he raced back to the foot of the bridge, where the Narayaniyas were valiantly holding off the Salwa soldiers. He threw himself into the fray with a vengeance.

‘Father!’ Samva shouted after him.

Yuyudhana swung into action at once. ‘Samva! Take your brother and get back inside. Tell Balabadra to close the gates,’ he instructed, hauling the limp Pradymna across Balahak’s back.

‘But…’

‘Go!’

With a nod, the youth complied. Immediately, Yuyudhana turned his attention to the other men on the bridge, calling for them to retreat. Balabadra and the other archers stood with their bows at the ready. The first of the enemy soldiers was now on the bridge. Govinda fought on, stepping back slowly, hoping to give those still on the bridge enough time to get back into the safety of the city. Yuyudhana yelled, urging him to start moving back. It was only once Pradymna was safely inside the city that Govinda complied.

The path was covered with blood, still warm as it oozed out from the bodies of the dead. Govinda slipped, landed on his hands and knees, but quickly got up again to parry an attack by a Salwa lancer. He disposed of the man and looked down at his palms, coated with blood and pieces of flesh, the sight stunning him into inaction. Yuyudhana ran forward and dragged him for the last few feet. They had hardly stepped through the gateway when the heavy iron doors were swung shut behind him. The whistle of arrows filled the air, followed by a loud crash and many screams. Balabadra and the archers had set the bridge on fire.

Dwaraka was now completely under siege.

17

WHEN BALABADRA CAME DOWN FROM THE COMMAND POST AT THE
gate, he found Govinda gone. Anxiously, he set off along Dwaraka’s streets looking for his brother. Debris littered his path and haggard and tired faces could be seen everywhere. The city and the sky above it glowed with light – not the orderly, colourful artistry of a planned celebration but the red, primal glow from bonfires lit by those who were simply glad to be alive for one more night. People huddled with loved ones around the circles of light, singing sad songs or sharing old reminiscences. Some soldiers found escape in the arms of bewitching courtesans, others in sharpening their swords. There was a dull weariness underlying their activities. For what it was worth, Balabadra realized, his people did not despair. This was the sombre, unsullied tiredness of those who would fight to the last. When they fell, it would not be for lack of courage or hope.

Balabadra made his way to the infirmary, where Pradymna lay still and pale. Rukmavati and Samva sat by his side, their faces drawn in grief and fear. Govinda had already been there, he was told, leaving with a simple nod of his head when the medics told him that Pradymna might not last the night. The news made Balabadra frantic, and he continued his search of the city with renewed vigour.

Faint notes of music drew him towards Sudharma, the Hall of Justice that was the heart of Dwaraka. Through either a stroke of luck or some brilliant secret in its construction, the structure remained undamaged. Its crystal walls were, however, stained with soot and grime, adding a poignant steadfastness to the building. Balabadra peered inside. At first, its vastness looked empty. Finally, he spotted a forlorn form huddled in the darkest corner. He walked up to Govinda, who sat leaning against a sculpture of Varaha, the boar-unicorn form of Vishnu, lifting the Earth from the waters that threatened to destroy her. Balabadra chuckled softly. He should have guessed that his brother would be here.

From the sea came the first manifestations of life, and then came land, and all creatures including humanity,
Balabadra reflected,
but who made the sea, and what was the first form of life, the Hiranya-garbha or entity of creation? It is that force we name Varaha and worship. This force is what we search for all of our lives.

Next to Govinda sat a little boy, one of the simple farm-dwellers who lived in and cultivated the plains between the sea and the Raivata mountains. The boy played soft, sad notes on a reed flute like the ones the brothers had used years ago as children herding cows. For an instant, it seemed to Balabadra that the Govinda he saw sitting there was also just a boy – an innocent playful child – and not the great warrior who had set Mathura free and built the nation of Dwaraka against all odds. He felt a lump in his throat as he wondered where and how that mischievous boy had been lost.
Is it my fault? I’m his elder, yet he’s the one who leads us all. Why haven’t I protected him, as I should have?

The music stopped.

Govinda looked up at his brother. He had never cried in front of another person, not even as a child, and he would not do so now. But Balabadra saw the sadness in his dark eyes. In an instant it was gone, and Govinda was as tranquil as always. Balabadra studied him, then turned to the little boy. ‘Go find Raivati. Tell her I said you’ll be having my rations of tonight’s meal…and all the sweets you can eat.’ The boy grinned at that, his simple delight both incongruous and refreshing in their precarious situation. Balabadra gently ruffled his hair and sent him off with a light pat before sitting next to his brother, his back to the wall.

It was Govinda who broke the silence. ‘Have you seen this?’ He gestured to the arrow that he held in one hand. His voice was filled with admiration and amazement, as he went on, ‘Our enemies have outdone themselves. It’s quite impressive – it contains a small vial of a special kind of powder, right at the tail. When the arrow burns all the way down it ignites the powder, causing an explosion. Of course, even Devala hasn’t been able to solve the problem of how to ensure that the flame doesn’t go out as the arrow flies against the wind. The Firewrights have designed these arrows using a mix of powdered sulphur and rock oil for generations now. It’s still the flaming tip that’s the problem.’

‘Devala? But…’

‘He was captured. And now he is free.’

‘You should have killed him yourself!’

‘So I’d originally planned. But it would have defeated the purpose. Devala’s capture was meant to reaffirm the power of the Firstborn, of the Vyasa, after what happened at the Coronation. But he was taken to Hastina, instead of Indr-prastha. I don’t know why.’

Balabadra was far too taken aback to respond. Govinda did not notice. He continued, ‘Do you think I did the wrong thing? Was I selfish, Agraja? Were
we
selfish when we rebelled against Kans? Were we thinking only of our imprisoned parents, ourselves, our family? Did we really think about the people?’

‘We did what we thought was best, Govinda. We never meant to end up at Mathura, or even at Dwaraka. I didn’t think things would go this way.’

‘You’re right. I didn’t think it would go this way either. At each stage, I just thought of it as a task to be done. I’m not even sure I thought, really,’ Govinda admitted. ‘The first time we were brought to Mathura… I assumed that sooner or later we would go back to our village and life would be as it was.’

‘You mean back to your romancing and unabashed flirting with the women of our vraja,’ Balabadra said.

‘It was you they were all crazy for! I just tried to console them, as best as I could!’

The two brothers savoured their memories in silence.

Suddenly Govinda asked, ‘Do you remember…when the Naga Kaliya chief attacked the herds?’

‘Hmm…’

‘We were just gwalas, cowherds, all of us. But we stood up to him, we fought him and his warriors. Why? Where did a bunch of gwala boys find such courage?’

‘We fought for our own, Govinda. We fought for what was ours, for what we believed in. That is what everyone does. It’s not just the two of us.’

‘And Aryavarta? To whom does the Empire belong? Why don’t we, why don’t the people, fight in the same way for the empire?’

‘What empire do you want us to fight for? The only empire we – all of us in Aryavarta – have known is a fragmented sense of nothing. At the end of the day, nothing changes. We are many nations, subjects of many kings, no matter what glorious titles we give them. We are divided by borders and loyalties, we are fragmented and powerless… Or so we’ve been, till now.’

‘And now?’

‘Now, it might be worth fighting for.’

They sat for a few more moments, again in desolate silence. Slowly, Balabadra stood, and pulled a tired Govinda to his feet. He walked towards the door, assuming that his brother would follow.

‘Agraja…’

Balabadra turned to see that Govinda remained rooted to the spot. With a sigh, he retraced his steps. ‘Yes, Govinda?’

‘Tell me the truth, brother. Have I failed?’

Balabadra sighed. ‘No, Govinda. You haven’t failed. You’ve done right by Aryavarta, by the empire. But…and you must know this…Dwaraka will pay the price.’

‘But why? Because of who I am? Because I’m a Firewright? Or because I brought them down?’

‘Govinda, please…’

Govinda ignored his brother, needing to hear himself speak. ‘What was supposed to be the fall of the Wrights was a way to break them, break everyone away from their obsession with the past, with astra-weapons and poisons and destruction. Both Ghora and I, we thought that if we shook the order to its core the Wrights would once again, as a matter of survival, turn their skills to tools of prosperity instead of weapons of war. And Aryavarta would accept them. After all, knowledge doesn’t grow in isolation – society grows alongside, driving and being driven by it, by economics as much as politics. But…’