The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (60 page)

‘How low will you stoop to defend yourself, your pride?’ Devala hissed. ‘Don’t you see what your precious revolution has done? By destroying the system that has supported us, helped us survive for generations, you have weakened us beyond measure. We are defenceless, Govinda, against the world, against ourselves. Remember, Aryavarta is but half of Jambudvipa, which itself is but one of the seven continents of this earth. The Yavanas will, sooner or later, attack us and it won’t be a tiny skirmish. The Danavas and other foreign nations too will probably join them. Your
Empire
will soon cease to exist. Aryavarta will be conquered – and for that I blame you! Destiny is a Firstborn word, Govinda, but if it holds true, then clearly you were born to end this age. You are the demon that has destroyed us all, and I’ll be the one who ended your bloody slaughter.’

‘My, my! A Firewright whose faith in magic is stronger than his faith in science. What sort of loyalty is that, Devala?’

Devala was enraged, but kept his voice toneless. ‘Thank you for your thoughts, though I find them childish and ridiculous. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s much left for me to do… I hope you see what you’ve brought on your own people. Your precious city, the city you’ve built, filled with hopes and dreams of…what was it? Ah yes, the people’s rule…Well, this city shall fall. You can’t stop it!’

‘Where you see that this city will fall,’ Govinda said, ‘I see that a new world will rise on its rubble. The Eternal Universe knows no coincidences… but I’ve said that far too many times already, and I’m bored of hearing it… Let’s finish this!’ He drew his sword.

Devala shouted with anticipation, ‘I’ve waited for years for this, Govinda. Decades! Come, let me have the satisfaction of avenging all those who have died to satisfy your bloodlust!’ He threw his burning brand from his sword-hand to the other and pulled out a shiny, sharp weapon from the scabbard at his waist.

‘Remember this blade, Govinda? Ghora Angirasa wore one like it once, as did his son and grandson… and his great grandson…’

‘Yes, and they all gave it up for a greater cause…’

‘There is no greater cause to me than your death! Yeeaargh!’ Devala rushed at Govinda.

Their swords met with a deafening clang.

Govinda was, by all expectations, the better warrior, but Devala fought with malice, which gave him an inhuman strength. His sharp sword caught Govinda on the side of his arm, and would have severed the limb had Govinda not dodged in time.

Govinda struck back, but in his haste he caught the Firewright with the flat of his sword, rather than the edge. Devala grunted with the pain of the stroke, but it quickly passed. He slashed at Govinda with the flaming brand, causing the warrior to stumble. Making good on the opportunity, Devala brought the brand up to his mouth and blew. A blast of fire made its way towards Govinda. It did not burn him, but he was again blinded by the fierce glare. Devala used the opportunity to land a powerful kick on Govinda’s chest before bringing the brand down in a backhanded swing, landing a blow to his neck.

‘You keep spouting all that stuff about Time… It’s time now, Govinda. It’s time for you and your city to be destroyed. And there’s nothing you can do to stop it.’

With a wild yell, Devala brought his sword down in a killing strike. But this time Govinda was ready. He bounded up on to his feet and, with both hands, drove his sword straight into Devala’s unprotected chest, pushing, running the bald man up against the wall.

Devala’s sword fell from his grip; he tried desperately to fend off Govinda with his bare hands. With a grunt of exertion, Govinda pushed further, the sheer force of his blow burying the end of his blade in the stone. And then he let go. The gleaming metal pinned the Firewright to the wall and he thrashed about in mid-air, suspended helpless above the nitre he had so eagerly laid out. In a desperate attempt, Devala tried to throw the flaming torch down into the nitre. Govinda caught the brand as it fell from Devala’s weak grasp. Panting from the effort, he stepped back and studied the defeated man. Devala writhed and flailed, tears streaming from his eyes.

Govinda recognized them as tears of defeat and not pain. He was moved by the agony he was sure Devala felt, and was driven to explain, ‘You don’t understand, Devala. I don’t want to stop you. I have always known, since the moment I laid the foundations of Dwaraka, that I’d someday have to destroy it. I suppose that is why I let it be so beautiful, so magnificent, because it was a fleeting thing…’

The words spurred Devala’s anger. Gritting his teeth, he found the will to retort, ‘You couldn’t bear to let anything of Firewright make endure, could you? Why did you hate us so, Govinda? Was it because of
her
, because you could not have the woman you loved? Why make Dwaraka the repository of every Firewright secret and now destroy it?’

‘Why do
you
destroy it, Devala, if you believe it to be the respository of Firewright knowledge?’

‘Because…’ The bald man’s voice began to falter as strength ebbed from his dying body. ‘Be…because, I’d rather our legacy was reduced…to nothing than let it fall into the hands of the Firstborn… But…but what would a traitor…like you understand of these matters?’

Govinda sighed. ‘Again, we come back to the same old story. Treachery and rivalry, Firewright against the Firstborn. By the flames of Agni, I am tired of these squabbles. And that is why I’ve done all that I have done. But if you have come this far along and still don’t understand, I doubt further explanation shall suffice. But I shall tell you this, more for my vanity’s sake than for your wisdom: I do not destroy Firewright knowledge, I would not. You are not the only one who believes Dwaraka to be a hidden hoard of Firewright treasures, like Indr-prastha. If left long enough, that belief will become legend and myth. Myths have a way of surviving, of returning to haunt us. Who knows what wars will be fought over and over for treasures that may or may not exist. But, most of all, the rivalries will survive. No, this needs to end with us. Indr-prastha will fall of its own accord and very soon, but my people are a stubborn lot, Devala. I shall have to destroy Dwaraka. If not, it will be the same story all over again: yet another upstart king who builds a system to justify his control of all martial and scientific power, and yet another tale of hierarchies and battles and political power-mongering.’

‘Despite…all your posturing,’ Devala said, blood oozing from his mouth with every word, ‘you don’t want any…anyone to have what you… c-c-cannot, did not. It makes us quite the same, Govinda.’

‘On the contrary, Devala. I want everyone to have what I did. Our knowledge shall now belong to the people of Aryavarta. That was the final task left to the Secret Keeper, and it is now done. I do not, cannot destroy Firewright knowledge. It is now safe where none will look for it, for better or worse.’

‘Stop talking and be…be…done with it, you sentimental fool.’

‘Sentimental? Yes, I suppose. You see, I stopped you only to give the people time to get of out the city. As for rock and stone…’

Devala’s bulging eyes strained; he glared, distrustful, at Govinda, and then screamed out loud as he realized he had failed, after all.

Govinda Shauri, Commander of Dwaraka, raised his torch and said an age-old prayer to Agni, the God of Fire and first of the Firewrights. Laughing, he thrust the torch into a nearby heap of nitre.

The explosion rumbled through the foundations of Dwaraka.

On the shore, people screamed, terrified as the earth shuddered, and the ground beneath their feet splintered and cracked, threatening to open up and swallow them.

The shaking stopped. There was an instant of tranquility, in which even the waves were muted. And then, as the citizens of Dwaraka watched, the sea withdrew from the shore with a huge, sucking sound to reveal the rocky shoals and shards that had lain underwater for centuries, the very fleshless skeleton of the earth itself. For the first time, the people saw the huge mountain on which Dwaraka rested. The little island they had lived on all these years was the tip of a huge monolith that rose from the seabed.

A loud crash sounded as the promontory crumbled to nothing and a vast fissure opened up, shooting across the floor of the sea. Slowly, gracefully, the crystal towers of Dwaraka, its gardens and buildings, courtyards and gem-studded pavilions all fell into the waiting womb of the earth.

A cry of woe arose, turning into screams of terror as a huge wave, as high as the towers of the city, made its way from the depths of the ocean. Some people tried to run, while others stood numb and petrified, watching this frightening but wondrous spectacle.

Just as it seemed that the wave would hit the shore, its waters curved, forming a huge, swirling wall, hundreds of feet high. Rock and debris floated in its strong embrace like bits of wood and straw. The wave rose higher still, as though towering in a salute to the city that had stood there. With a deafening sound, it crashed down on to the seabed and died.

Moments later, a languid sea edged back towards the shore and foam-flecked waters once again teased the golden sands of the beach. The call of seagulls, the chirping of sparrows and the bracing caress of the sea breeze filled the air. The eternal ocean continued to wash against the everlasting earth.

But Dwaraka was gone.

8

THE WAVES THAT LAPPED AGAINST THE SHORE WERE PEACEFUL;
their wrath was now exhausted. But the incessant rhythm of ebb and flow now seemed to have a tone of arrogance, as if the sea knew that she was inexorable. Barely days after Dwaraka had crumbled, Panchali stood on what had once been the mainland, watching the waves rise and fall, trying not to think, trying not to look. Nothing remained of the mighty city except for the shattered stones that had been washed ashore by the tide. That, and the devastated survivors.

In the aftermath of the calamity, Daruka and Raivati had worked incessantly, trying to rally their fellow citizens, to somehow get the people through the day. That was till Partha and his men had brought back Balabadra’s body from the bloody fields of Prabhasa. After that Raivati had lost all strength and courage, becoming merely one more in the mass of bereaved survivors.

Daruka had managed to take stock of what food was left in the granaries farther inland. The herds in the grasslands bordering the mountains had survived, as had those who tended to them. Survivors from all along the coast, as well as those of the nation of Dwaraka who did not live on the island – herdsmen, farmers, and their families – had gathered at what used to be their capital city’s shores. Men and women of the wandering Abhir tribes, survivors of the huge waves that had swept ashore leagues north of Dwaraka, had made their way south in search of safety and shelter. There was little of the latter, for it would take much effort to rebuild the city, bring in the least semblance of order and civilization. For now, it was all they could do to build pyre after pyre and cremate their dead. Anything more would take courage and hope.

Hope. The one man who could give them that was…
Panchali refused to entertain the end of that thought. It could not be. It simply could not be.

‘Panchali…’ Partha called out to her.

She met his eyes, dreading the worst.

‘We can’t find him. The last of the bodies trapped in the debris have been moved. Divers have checked under the water, and men have gone up and down the coastline for great distances…. We can’t find him…’

Panchali looked away, gazing at the endless sea in front of her.

It can’t be! He is Narayana, the one who rests on the Eternal Ocean, these waves can’t harm him!

‘He is dead, Panchali,’ Partha said, his voice trembling. ‘Govinda is dead.’

Panchali felt her breath come in a gasp, as it hit her, as Partha repeated the words over and over, as she saw the devastation around her for what it was and heard the wailing, the screams of sorrow and pain. She wanted to add her own screams to that universe of agony, but did not.

‘Men die, Partha,’ she slowly said. ‘Men die. Not legends.’

‘Panchali….’

‘Look!’ she grabbed his arm and made him face the remains of the tragedy. ‘Look, he’s everywhere…’ she said, smiling and crying at once.

And Partha saw. He saw the earth, fresh and full of life; the ocean replete with joy and energy. Two strangers, the young son of a Yadu nobleman and a wandering tribal, worked side by side, building such shelters as they could. He saw mothers and fathers feeding infants that were not theirs. He saw children running to play among the very waves that had left them destitute. He saw hope, the irrepressible force inside them all that gave them the will to survive, to believe that some day they would all be happy and prosperous once again.

He turned back to Panchali, tears running down his cheeks. She squeezed his hand in reassurance. Letting her own tears fall, Panchali closed her eyes, remembering the day Govinda had stood in front of their armies, his arms open, his head thrown back and curly hair blowing in the wind.

Remember me! Remember Govinda! I am the Eternal Being that shines within each one of you
.

In a voice that was strong and undeniably proud, the Empress of Aryavarta declared, ‘We will rebuild this city. We will rebuild it and at its heart will stand a temple, a magnificent temple…’ She faltered, and then found the words she truly sought. ‘We will rebuild this city, for as Time destroys it also births resurrection, and we are but instruments of Time. And yes, there shall be a temple within, a temple enshrined in the hearts and minds of the people, a temple of ideas, of freedom from hierarchy and destiny, of freedom to choose, freedom to rule one’s self. And it won’t matter if waves tear the city down or wars rip apart this realm because what prevails, what matters, is who we truly are: humanity.’

Panchali felt the conviction of words warm her heart, heal her. She knew with certainty now that no matter how many times Dwaraka fell, no matter how many times Aryavarta itself shattered into pieces, or the very earth was destroyed, it would all be built again. Govinda would live. Mothers would suckle him as their son, their eyes filled with dreams of the future, and children would find in him their mischievous playmate, the promise of innocence forever. He would be the sacred lover, the loyal friend, loving companion, and defiant cowherd. Uncrowned, he would be the people’s king.