Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (11 page)

Govinda let go of her wrist, and Panchali almost gasped out loud at the loss. She felt his fingers pull gently at the jewelled
pin on the crown of her head. Ever so carefully, he undid the tight, complex braids into which her hair had been set that
morning, his fingers weaving through the dark waves of her hair, soothing, comforting. Panchali soaked in every sensation,
as he combed each long strand gently with his fingers. She revelled in the very smell of him, mingled with the faint aroma
of flowers from her hair. There was something indescribably intimate about the moment. It would be her secret to keep, she
decided. He need never know what she felt.

Her eyes fluttered open and her dark, thick lashes glistened with a hint of tears. She studied the lines of his face, etching
every curve, every angle into her memory. His eyes were constant, a deep, dark ocean of endless existence. She teetered, suddenly
dizzy, and let herself go limp, dreaming of drowning in that eternal ocean, praying silently that it could be so.

Govinda quickly held her, hissing in surprise at her childlike surrender as she let him take her weight. With a wistful shake
of his head, he steadied Panchali back on her feet and let go. Instinctively, she reached out to him. He took her hands and
squeezed her fingertips in reassurance. Looking steadily into her eyes, he took a
couple of steps back, letting her fingers slip out of his grasp till his hands were empty.

They stood in quiet stillness. Somewhere in the palace a gong sounded loudly, announcing to the various guests that the evening’s
festivities were soon to begin.

‘I must go,’ Govinda said, gesturing with his head in the direction of the banquet hall. ‘I’ve strained your father’s goodwill
enough by coming here tonight.’

Panchali dully nodded. Govinda placed a quick, light kiss on her forehead and left. She heard him start whistling a tune as
he walked down the corridor, as if he did not have a care in the world.

‘
IMPOSSIBLE!’ DHRSTYADYMN EXCLAIMED IN A HUSHED VOICE
.

He stood on a dais that commanded a full view of the huge arena. Every pillar and alcove had been decorated with flowers.
Golden statues, each the size of a man, gleamed as sunlight streamed in from the circular opening overhead, and auspicious
symbols drawn in fragrant pastes on the floors and the walls filled the space with a heavenly smell. Rows of seats for the
contestants and royal spectators rose step-like along the walls and the King’s ornate throne had been set at the highest level,
facing the dais. A pool of crystalline water sparkled in the middle of the arena. From this pool rose a towering pole, on
top of which revolved a wheel set with five spokes. At the outer edge of each spoke was the metal sculpture of a fish, hardly
larger than the palm of a hand. Despite the minuteness of each statuette, the metal fish had been wrought with immaculate
attention to detail, right down to the black orb inside the eyes. Five arrows, one each to pierce the five fish-targets, were
arranged on a velvet-lined tray that rested on a low table near a massive, unadorned stone slab, now empty. A powerful iron
bow, crafted in the purest of fires and wrought on the hardest of stones, rested askew on the marble floor of the arena.

Next to it, Syoddhan of the Kurus lay in a stunned daze. The rest of the hall was still.

The silence broke. The air filled with shouts and yells. Competitors and spectators alike sprang from their seats and clambered
towards the fallen man. Vasusena, the King of Anga and Syoddhan’s dearest friend, pushed through the unruly crowd and ran
forward to help him. Syoddhan waved him back and slowly stood up. His fingers were still wrapped around the bow. With resigned
steps he walked up to the stone slab, set the bow back on it, and returned to his seat. Many of the other contenders, who
milled around awaiting their turn, tried to ask him what exactly had happened. He did not even look up.

Panchali was as astonished as everyone else, but she remained as she was on the dais, next to Dhrstyadymn. She tried hard
to show no reaction, staring instead at her henna-decorated hands, the fine golden weave of her silk robes, the heavy bangles
on her wrists. They proved to be of little use as distractions. Closing her eyes, she tried to focus on the less pleasant
sensations she felt – the mild irritation of her large, round earrings brushing against her cheeks, the way her heavy waist-girdle
seemed uncomfortably constricting and, above all, the many eyes boring into her, evaluating her usefulness in more ways than
one.

Finally, she gave in and glanced at Govinda, sitting on the balcony with Balabadra and the others of their family. He did
not seem in the least taken aback and was whispering something to his brother, the expression on his face pleasantly ambivalent.
He caught her looking at him and winked cheekily at her before continuing with his conversation.

Panchali turned away at the touch of a hand on her arm. Dhrstyadymn apologetically met her eyes. ‘Panchali …’ he whispered,
not knowing what more to say or do.

‘Hush. It’s not your fault. We’ve all been misled …’

Her quiet acceptance cut Dhrstyadymn to the core. He felt sick, enraged even, and wondered if perhaps he ought to do something,
anything. Image after terrifying image flashed through his mind, of what might happen next. He tried to think, shutting out
the sounds around him – the rising tumult, Panchali calling to him, her touch
as she desperately clawed at his arm. Then he heard the twang of a bowstring. Before he could look, the bow sang again – not
once, but four times. A stunned silence filled the hall yet again as high above them all the wheel softly creaked to a stop.
The five arrows were still embedded in their targets, the metal heads piercing the eye of each wrought metal fish.

The arena exploded with enthusiastic applause and roars of rage. Near the target stood a man dressed in the coarse linen robes
of a scholar–sage. His hair had been pulled back into a knot, and a thick beard obscured most of his face. The man’s forearms,
however, had the tell-tale scars of a professional archer. As ordered, the bards and musicians in the arena had already struck
up a victory song, but the atmosphere was far from the jubilant gathering they lyrically described. Insults and jeers rained
down on the dubious victor, who was joyfully embracing four other men, all dressed like him in rough ochre robes.

Dhrstyadymn turned to Panchali. She remained expressionless. Even more anxious than before, he looked to King Dhrupad for
guidance, but the monarch was sitting with his head in his hands. He somehow found the words, saying them out loud to his
sister as though he needed to hear them himself. ‘You’re bound, upon your honour and mine, to marry that man. To marry whoever
wins this tournament.’

‘I know,’ Panchali evenly replied.

‘But … I … we …’

The sounds of dispute, of heated words, began to intrude on their strained conversation. Slowly, the two siblings realized
that they were not the only ones who found it strange that some unknown, bedraggled scholar could have succeeded where a mighty
prince like Syoddhan had failed at the task.

The disgruntled suitors began to hurl accusations of Panchala trickery and sabotage, their rage rising as the full extent
of their humiliation slowly sank in. The musicians stopped playing, as Satrajit gave them an angry shake of his head. The
murmur of discontent grew louder still, taking on the trappings of an argument. Some of the gathered nobles gestured towards
Panchali. Others strode angrily towards Dhrupad, demanding, rather violently, an explanation for the
turn of events. Royal guards instantly got into formation and stood in the way of the angry suitors.

‘By Hara! No!’ Dhrstyadymn exclaimed as he emerged from his shock. He jumped off the dais and began to make his way towards
the centre of the confusion, Panchali right behind him.

‘Stay here!’ he instructed, over his shoulder.

‘No, I’m coming with you!’

‘Panchali …’

Before he could finish the clang of metal rent the air, followed by loud cries of pain. The nobles had attacked Dhrupad’s
personal guards and three of the men already lay dead. More suitors now joined the fight, though some others, including Syoddhan,
watched, uncertain what to do. Hopelessly outnumbered, the guards fought on, even as Dhrstyadymn shouted frantic orders to
his soldiers. He bounded across the arena towards his father, as did Satrajit, but both of them knew they were too far away.

More soldiers fell and two of the attacking nobles retired, wounded, but many others took their place. The small space at
the foot of the stairs leading to Dhrupad’s throne had turned into a battlefield. Panchali winced as she heard the whiplash
of a blade descending and the soft, sickening sound of it renting through flesh and bone. ‘Father!’ she cried and ran towards
the throne. She was pulled back by a firm hand around her wrist.

‘Let go of me,’ she hissed at the bearded man, the supposed victor of her calamitous wedding contest.

‘It’s not safe,’ he cautioned.

Panchali continued to struggle. ‘Let go of me, or by Rudra you will not leave this place alive!’

Astonished, the man complied.

Panchali glared at him and his four accomplices, then ran forward to where Dhrstyadymn stood. ‘Father …’ she began, and then
gave a sigh of relief.

Dhrupad stood by his throne, a little ashen but otherwise unharmed. His would-be assailants were on the ground a few feet
away, one of them alive, but barely. Two more had been cleanly
beheaded. Towering over them stood Shikandin. He held his bloodied sword casually, resting its tip on the ground, as he glared
at the others who thronged in front of Dhrupad’s throne. ‘We can talk, or we can fight,’ he announced matter-of-factly. Panchali
wanted to laugh with relief, but settled for squeezing Dhrstyadymn’s hand.

Meanwhile, two of the five scholars, such as they appeared, had come up behind the two siblings. The other three had used
the moment of confusion to discreetly leave the arena.

‘Shikandin!’ one of the scholars softly exclaimed.

Panchali was filled with an inexplicable ire. ‘That’s Prince Shikandin to you!’ she snapped.

A loud chuckle punctuated the moment, followed by a familiar voice. ‘Ah, you have a tough task on your hands with this tempestuous
young woman!’

Panchali turned to see Govinda standing right behind her. His eyes remained on her, as he softly said, ‘Take good care of
her. She’s my life, my very soul.’

‘Your Highness, rest assured, I shall.’

Govinda laughed. ‘No, I’m no king or prince, for you to address me so. I’m just an ordinary man.’

The archer exchanged looks of surprise with his bearded companion, even as Dhrstyadymn studied them intently. With a polite
nod, Govinda walked away.

Panchali now noticed that Balabadra and Yuyudhana were standing next to Shikandin, and the three men were trying to resolve
matters. Syoddhan stood listening respectfully as Balabadra spoke to him at length, a familiar hand on the man’s shoulder.
None could hear the words that passed between them, but Syoddhan first looked amazed, and then confused. Eventually he turned
to the angry mob of noblemen and began to act as mediator.

Many of them, including Syoddhan’s brother Dussasan and Vasusena of Anga, were not persuaded. They clamoured around and began
arguing loudly with Balabadra. It was all the man could do to keep Yuyudhana and Shikandin from striking again. Just as another
skirmish seemed imminent, Govinda appeared in their midst. He
patiently dealt with each enraged nobleman, meeting their anger with warmth, responding to their insults and their offensives
with reason. Soon, the other nobles too were nodding in agreement. But the damage had been done, and little remained of the
mood of jubilation expected on such an occasion.

The guests began to disperse, a few of them glaring at Panchali as they passed her. She met their gaze without flinching.

Finally, when the arena was near-empty, she turned to Dhrstyadymn with a determinedly bored expression. ‘What now?’

It was the archer–sage who answered, ‘Come with me.’

Seething with quiet, cold anger, Panchali silently complied.

To her surprise, the man first led her to one of the small ante-rooms nearby. ‘Here,’ he thrust a set of rough linen robes
in her hand and looked at her haughtily, waiting for her protest. Without a word she began to remove the heavy jewellery she
wore. The man went outside to wait while she changed.

A little while later Panchali stepped out of the room, looking surprisingly at ease in the rough attire. The red silk robes
she had worn earlier were now neatly folded. Her ornaments – the necklace set with the largest and finest of gemstones, earrings,
bangles, anklets and the heavy musical waist-girdle – were placed on the robes. She held out the bundle to the archer. Taking
it from her, the archer walked over to where Dhrupad and his sons stood, watching anxiously. He held out the robes and the
jewels to Dhrstyadymn, who stared at them, aghast. Reassured by Govinda’s firm nod, Shikandin stepped forward instead to take
the bundle.

With a defiant nod at them all, the archer took Panchali’s hand in his and walked out of the arena. His companion followed
them out.

PANCHALI’S ESCORTS LED HER QUICKLY AND DISCREETLY THROUGH
the city’s less frequented alleyways to a small, unremarkable hutment at the edge of the city.

As they approached, a man emerged from inside, exclaiming joyfully, ‘Ah, there you are!’

She stared uncertainly at the dignified figure in front of her. He looked to be in his late thirties. His bearing was noble;
he had a gentle voice and a countenance that could pass for pleasant. His dark hair fell straight to his shoulders and was
slicked back in the style that was common among royalty.

‘Welcome, my dear,’ he greeted her warmly. Then he addressed the two men who had brought her there. ‘Go on, Brothers. I’m
sure you’ll be glad to look normal again.’ The two disappeared into the hut.

So, Panchali noted, these were disguises after all. A sixth man came out of the hut to join the group. She considered his
immaculately trimmed beard and his ochre robes sceptically.

‘No, that one’s genuine!’

Panchali felt her heart skip a beat. Pretending to be unaffected, she casually admonished, ‘Really, Govinda! You’ve got to
stop sneaking up on me this way.’

The new voice brought her escorts running out from behind the hut. They too had finished shaving off their ascetics’ beards.
The five stood side by side, warily looking Govinda up and down.

Moments later, more footsteps were heard, and Balabadra came striding through the undergrowth, looking back at something on
the path behind him. He came to stand next to his brother and looked at the five with curiosity. ‘By Rudra, Govinda, you were
right after all!’

Govinda stepped forward. Bowing low to the first of the men, he introduced himself formally. ‘Your Highness, I am Govinda
Shauri, your kinsman by birth.’

‘What … how … How did you know?’

‘Ashes don’t hide fire, Cousin. I had no doubt that you are Dharma, son of King Pandu of the Kurus and my aunt, Queen Pritha.
These, of course, are your renowned brothers, and the scholar–sage there is my old friend, Ayodha Dhaumya of Utkochaka.’

Dharma regarded Govinda and Balabadra uncertainly for
a moment and then broke into a smile. He nodded to the others, and all four of his brothers stepped forward to greet Balabadra,
their elder.

Panchali looked on in surprise as each of the brothers introduced themselves – Bhim, a tall, broad-built man with a round
face. Partha, dark, with high, chiselled cheekbones, was the archer who had won her. Nakul and Sadev were twins, with handsome,
friendly faces. And, of course, the man who had greeted her when she had arrived – Dharma, the eldest and once heir to the
Kuru throne.

With a mix of irritation and astonishment she realized that this was probably another part of Govinda’s grand scheme. Syoddhan
had been nothing more than a means to distract other potential suitors. Partha had been meant to win all along. She didn’t
bother with anger, and stood there, benumbed, as around her excited greetings were exchanged.

Govinda and the archer were face to face for the second time that day.

‘So we meet again, Cousin …’ Partha exclaimed, pulling Govinda into a friendly embrace. If Govinda was bothered by the exuberant
display, he hid it well.

With the introductions done, Balabadra declared that it was time for them to leave. ‘We don’t want to draw undue attention
to you …’ he noted. ‘But from the look of things I’d say you were preparing to reveal yourselves. About time too.’

‘So I’ll see you both at the wedding?’ Partha asked.

Panchali noticed that Govinda paused for just a moment, searching out Dharma’s reaction. He replied, slowly, ‘Probably not.
I have some matters to attend to … at Hastina …’

This time, Dharma’s reaction was palpable. ‘Thank you, Govinda,’ he said softly and sincerely.

‘It’s my duty, Cousin. The princess here is very special to me. It’s the least I can do for her.’

With that, they left. Dhaumya accompanied them, promising to meet with Dharma later.

Govinda nodded at Panchali as he walked past her. It took every bit of self-restraint she had to not scream at him right there.
Then he was gone, and Panchali felt inexplicably alone.

‘Well …’ Partha looked enquiringly at his eldest brother.

Dharma was lost in thought, a look of consternation on his face. Govinda’s declaration that he was headed for Hastina had
suddenly opened a whole new world of possibilities. It made Dharma remember something that Dwaipayana and his mother had once
told him. Strange, that he should recall such a thing at a moment such as this. But then, he observed, such were the intricacies
of destiny, the workings of fate. The opportunity and the justification both lay before him. It was his sacred duty to act.

As a tense silence descended over them all, Bhim gently prompted him, ‘Agraja?’

With a sigh, Dharma declared, ‘Forgive me, Partha. But as your elder, it is my duty to save us all from sin. You’re not conversant
with the scriptures on this point, but it’s a terrible offence for the younger brother to marry before the older. And so,
I must … I mean, I know it is unconventional that I marry the woman you’ve won as a prize, but for all our sakes this is how
it must be.’

He paused, anticipating much discussion and debate. There was none.

Partha stared at him, eyes burning with fury. Bhim looked as though he wished to say something but could not. Nakul and Sadev
spoke volumes with each other through glances they exchanged, but remained silent to the rest of the company.

‘As always, Agraja,’ Partha finally said, his voice strained, ‘we shall obey you. It shall be as you say. Panchali will be
yours.’

Dharma spontaneously embraced him, relieved that it had been so easy, surprisingly easy, in fact.

Sadev frowned. He could not hide his concern. ‘Agraja …’ he hesitated, and at a nod from Bhim, continued, ‘the custom is that
the bride marries the victor of the tournament and, in effect, that marriage has already been consecrated. Partha took Panchali’s
hand
in front of the entire gathering. He walked out with her, hand in hand. If she now marries you it makes her wife to the both
of you. It would be deemed immoral by most. At the very least, it’s not right …’

Dharma responded, ‘Morality is subtle; even the gods can’t say for sure what is moral and just. I’ve earned by my word and
deed the name that was given to me at birth. I am Dharma.’ His pride resplendent, he continued, ‘By my own life, I uphold
that which is righteous and good. It’s impossible for me to think an unrighteous thought, or speak an untruth. That I have
considered this idea and come to this conclusion implies that it must be righteous and true.’

‘But it’s not fair to Partha!’

Dharma clucked his tongue in mild remonstration. ‘My dear Sadev, whether it’s you, or Partha, or Nakul, or Bhim, nothing is
more important to me than your happiness. Our ancestors had a practice, almost a law, I think, where every brother has a right
over the wife of his elder. In any case, anything that’s mine is yours. If Panchali married two of us, or if she married all
five of us … even that wouldn’t be against our customs. How, then, can this be improper?’

‘But King Dhrupad …?’

‘Dwaipayana Vyasa. He will convince Dhrupad to see that there is nothing inappropriate about this. In fact, it’s to his advantage
to become father-in-law to the future ruler of the Kurus.’

Bhim intervened, ‘Are you saying that you plan to go back to Hastina? But our uncle, Dhritarastra …’

‘Bhim, think! How can our uncle deny us our birthright? Especially since we’re now bound by marriage to one of the most powerful
kingdoms of Aryavarta. All the more reason for me to marry the girl, don’t you see? And then, there’s that man … Govinda …’

The name swept over them like a hopeful gust of wind. One by one, the brothers nodded their silent assent. ‘I’m sorry, Agraja,’
Sadev softly whispered. Dharma nodded graciously to indicate he had taken no offence.

With that, the brothers dispersed. Dharma walked away with his head held high, trying to remind himself that this was a burden
of duty he bore for his brothers, perhaps even a burden of sin.
Nevertheless, he felt jubilant with anticipation. The gorgeous Panchali would be his.

Panchali stood silent, as she had through the exchange between the brothers. The entire conversation had taken place in front
of her. Yet, not once had one of the five men glanced at her, leave alone asked what her wishes or desires might be. She was
furious; she felt a wrath so terrible that she feared it would burn her. Then, the cold light of reality, of helpless acceptance
dawned on her.

My wishes were forsaken long before Partha won me. I was abandoned much before this. All that remains for me to do is to breathe
in and out, for whatever time is mine
.

Numbed, she stood where she was, till eventually Queen Pritha came bustling out of the hut to lead her inside.

The next day, a little after dawn, Dharma and his brothers were received with respect by Dhrupad and Gandavati at the palace
gates. The five now looked the part of the fabled princes of Hastina. The gathered crowd greeted them with warm applause,
of which a fair part was genuine, not pre-arranged by Dhrupad.

Panchali was led away to be dressed in ceremonial red silks and then taken back to the arena, where Ayodha Dhaumya, the scholar–priest
she had met the previous day, sat in front of the sacred fire chanting the wedding mantras. Dharma stood dressed as the groom,
radiant with happiness. At Dhaumya’s instructions the couple walked around the fire repeating the sacred vows of marriage.
A proud Dhrupad occupied a place of honour, while Gandavati sat alongside a tearful Pritha. A confused-looking Dhrstyadymn
and an impassive Shikandin stood to one side. Panchali did not look at them, nor did she search the room for anyone else.
Govinda, she knew, would not be there.

The nuptial chamber was splendidly decorated with lamps and flowers. A knock, and then Dharma entered, shutting the door firmly
behind him. Panchali rose from her seat and greeted him with the proper degree of hesitation and shyness that was expected
of her. She smiled uncertainly as he studied her, a peculiar expression on his face. He slowly walked to stand in front of
her, staring, almost breathlessly.

Panchali was no ignorant child, but she had expected a few moments of polite conversation, some small talk. Instead, without
a word, Dharma reached out for her upper robe. Suddenly, he checked himself, like he were about to do something despicable.
It was then that Panchali understood the emotions that he was struggling with. He was caught between his desire for her, and
his hope for a life of near-renunciation, a life devoted to moral pursuits and not material pleasures. She felt disgusted,
nauseated at the thought of her own unclean, irresistible, sinful self, which could lead a guileless man astray. To Dharma,
she was a symbol of sin, of all that he longed to be free of.

Including politics.

With grim resignation, Dharma silently led her to the bed and they consummated their marriage in a rough, ritualistic way.
The two of them did not speak a word after, or through the rest of the night.

The next morning, Panchali rose with the dawn and quietly left the chamber. A solemn calm surrounded Kampilya. The tired revellers
of the city were yet to awaken. Thankful for the illusion of privacy, she rushed to the bathing chamber adjoining her own
room. But no matter how long she washed herself or wept, every time Panchali remembered the expression on Dharma’s face as
he had reached out to touch her, she felt sullied all over again.

Dharma did not seek her out that night. Panchali speculated that it would be a while before the pressure to produce an heir
overtook his self-imposed asceticism. She was glad. Her room, her bed and her sleep were still her own. Or so she could pretend.

In the early hours of the following morning, she woke abruptly, struggling yet again with the instinctive guilt, the sense
of filth and shame that she had felt every moment she had been in Dharma’s embrace two nights ago. For a moment, she had the
strange feeling that she was looking at two shadows of herself, each caught in the throes of a different point of view. Each
had to overcome, to
destroy, the other shadow-self in order to survive. She watched as both forms struggled ineffectively, each doomed by its
incomplete, hollow nature. Eventually, she gave up and fell back into a medley of dreams in which she laughed and ran through
cool, fragrant forests, splashed her feet in the clear water of gurgling streams, danced to the soft rhythm of raindrops as
they caressed her skin and hair, and played as a child by a river that flowed through a happy, serene village she had never
seen before. She slept without a care, dreaming that she was in the strong arms of a faceless, formless man whom she had always
known.