Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (19 page)

With a vigorous shake of his head, he forced both women out of
his mind. He went over to the window and stood looking down at the wonder that was Dwaraka, trying to decipher the mystery
of Govinda Shauri. A knock at the door intruded on his thoughts. To his surprise, Sunanda entered the room. This time, she
was alone.

No doubt she comes to tuck me into bed
,
or to put out the wick lamp
, Partha sardonically noted, waiting to see what she did.

Eyes lowered becomingly, the young woman walked over to where he stood and placed a knowing, expert hand on his chest. When
he did not react, she gently guided his hands to the curves of her shapely body. Partha needed no further encouragement.

PANCHALI FOUND IT HARD TO PRETEND THAT HER MEETING WITH
Asvattama had been of no consequence, though she managed to satisfy Dharma’s curiosity with truthful, though incomplete reports
of how much she had enjoyed seeing the pastoral side of life in Aryavarta.

Her own curiosity was far more difficult to settle, and she spent many sleepless nights trying to rationally order what she
had now found out about the Firewrights and the Firstborn. Caught in a silent turmoil that she could share with no one, she
settled for focussing on the more immediate mystery of how Wright-craft had played a role in bringing her to Hastina.

She took to poring over maps and reading through the few descriptions of the Kuru–Panchala region that she could lay her hands
on. Most of all, she spent days listening to the bards, the keepers of history through the songs and ballads. It bred nothing
but frustration but Panchali pushed on, trying to make sense of the lyrical metaphors that somewhere, deep inside their keeping,
held a glimpse of fact.
One more good-for-nothing little saamanta described as a heavenly hero and I’ll give up
, she promised herself almost every other day.

But she did not. And then, in some obscure lay about one of her great-grandfathers, she found a small reference to a gift
from the gods to the kings of Panchala. A bow.

The
bow. Panchali’s mind instantly jumped to the archery contest where she had been the prize.

And that bow is here
.

Making no effort to curb her excitement, she braved the stinging wind that swept the corridors in a prelude to some great
storm and half ran towards the small armoury on the eastern end of their palace. The chamber was empty, given that it was
almost midnight. A solitary guard was posted at the door. He looked at her with curiosity, but quickly snapped to attention
and admitted her inside.

Panchali savoured the change from the chilling gale that screamed outside. Rows of torches burnt merrily in iron brackets
set on the walls, their even arrangement throwing shadows in overlapping patterns on the roof of the armoury. Armouries were
customarily built of the hardest stone and were naturally dark, but always kept well-lit in case of an exigency. The steady
flame of oil-soaked linen was preferred to the more accident-causing wick lamps used in other rooms. Panchali smiled as she
stood looking at the soot-stained walls, the familiar smell of oil-smoke bringing to mind the feel of strapping on battle
armour, sliding a sword into its scabbard, the solemn yet joyful injunction to die well, the clear clanging sounds of heated
battle and the flash of golden sparks as metal caressed metal. Thrilled at her surroundings, she ran a practised eye over
the carefully stacked array of weapons.

At the far end a rack housed a number of wooden bows, all of them embellished with gold and small gemstones in tasteful patterns.
Dharma’s bow bore the insignia of a winged creature, Nakul’s had the image of suns. Bhim’s was marked with elephants and Sadev’s
with flowering creepers. Where the empty space for Partha’s bow ought to have been was now
the
bow she had been looking for, the one he had brought back from Kampilya.

Panchali touched it reverently, marvelling at its strength and suppleness. Closing her eyes, she went over the events of the
contest in her mind, trying to pick out the details that her eyes had seen but her mind had not quite marked. She tried to
remember the way she had been won, as if she were a … a thing, a lifeless object. Her mind
flitted despite herself to what had happened next, the way she had been passed on like an unwanted prize and married off to
another, how she remained an object, a thing of use. Anger coursed through her as she remembered the touch of Partha’s hands,
his unabashed desire for her.

Maraka! Every curse in existence upon your head, Govinda Shauri!

As her fingers clenched the weapon she felt a slight unevenness on its surface, just at the grooved grip. Not quite sure if
she had imagined it, she ran her fingers and then her palm over it a few more times and carefully examined the metal. She
missed it the first few times and had to run her fingers over the shiny surface again to find it – an engraving. Panchali
felt her heart speed up. It was not uncommon for weapons of such craftsmanship to be engraved with a mark or symbol identifying
the maker or even the warrior meant to wield it. Squinting, she scrutinized the surface. To her surprise the engraving was
not a symbol, but script. The lettering was tiny but unmistakeable. Her breath came heavy with excitement. Who else but the
Wrights could have used writing so many generations ago, she supposed. Holding the metal up to the light, Panchali read the
words.

Blessings on the Noble Lords of Panchala. May he who tames the elements bear this bow to great fortunes. Agni the Effulgent
himself hath made this, and Varuna, Lord of the Waters, hath held it in his keeping
.

Panchali smiled as, like the sun breaking out from behind storm clouds, she understood.
A bow made by Agni and kept safe by Varuna
. Agni, she knew, had to mean the Wrights. Varuna, she supposed, was a reference to water. And in all of Panchala ‘water’
meant just one thing. The Life-Giver, the River Ganga.

The next day, she demurely expressed her desire to visit her parents for a short while. Dharma was quick to oblige her.

Panchali was affectionately welcomed at Kampilya. She responded with mixed feelings to the news that Shikandin and Dhrstyadymn
were both away on military duty and arranged for a message to be sent to them. Much as she longed to see her brothers, she
was glad
that they were not around to notice her movements and ask her questions. She had to act quickly, before they returned.

A couple of days after she arrived, once the excitement of her arrival had somewhat abated, Panchali asked for her horse to
be saddled for her usual ride around the countryside. Her mother’s matron and nurse protested, ineffectively, that she simply
could not be as irresponsible as before now that she was married. Panchali silenced her with a glare and set off, her pace
casual and unhurried. She rode towards the forestland near Utkochaka, but instead of entering the woods she turned eastwards.
As the heat grew oppressive Panchali stopped to rest, settling herself in the shade of a tree while her horse grazed nearby.
She pulled out from her saddlebag some leavened bread that she had requested her matron to have packed for her and a roughly
drawn map she had brought from Hastina. She unfurled the map and studied it once again while she ate.

Panchali traced the course of the Ganga on the scroll. The map as well as the gradient of the land around her suggested that
her path should have intersected with that of the river. But it had not. To her right the forest went on, unbroken. To her
left she could see the bright flash of the river as it descended along the highlands in the distance and then merged indistinctly
into the vast green-blue plains of the lowlands. It did not seem to enter the forest at all. There was nothing ahead but field
upon field, simple, verdant and inviting.

Unlike Utkochaka.

Instinct drew her towards the ominous forest, the theme of many colourful, even frightening legends. Most of these tales were
fantastical and implausible, but they served to keep out the villagers who tilled these lands. They had kept her out, Panchali
noted. An involuntary shiver ran through her at the very notion of invading its depths. Rebuking herself for being silly,
she swung back onto her horse, urging the animal on in a gallop before she could change her mind. She slowed down as the forest
drew near but kept going and soon entered it. The woods – a thick mix of towering mahogany and sprawling banyan trees – clustered
dark and heavy around her. Bramhi creepers fell in familiar curtains every now and then
and Ashwagandha and other fruit-bearing shrubs grew clustered in places where sunlight came through the foliage. In these
spots, Panchali could catch a glimpse of the sun but the view was never clear enough to check her direction. Eventually, she
pulled out her direction-pointer, a light fish-shaped piece of iron hanging from the string that was passed through it, and
used it as her guide. She was still going the right way, along the supposed course of the river that the map had indicated,
though she now began to wonder if it would lead anywhere at all. Promising herself that she would turn back after a muhurrta
or so, she headed deeper into the forest.

The landscape changed little as she moved forward and it seemed to Panchali that every clump of shrubs and cluster of trees
she passed looked exactly the same. If it were not for her direction pointer, she would have thought that she was going around
in circles. And then she heard the gurgle of running water. Panchali listened, trying to locate the direction from which the
sound came. She urged her horse right into a thicket on her left, hissing slightly as a branch she pushed away whipped back
and caught her on the shoulder. Just when she thought to draw her sword and hack away at the thick foliage in her way, she
came upon the river.

The river ran crystal clear through the forest itself. The canopy of trees had given way here to let the sun illuminate the
water in an almost incandescent green glow. Panchali dismounted. From the direction of the flow and the incline of the land
she concluded that this was a hidden stream that had branched off from the river just before it hit the plains.
But the map shows no such thing
… She pulled out the parchment and looked at it a second time, tracing the current path of the river, as it ought to have been
drawn, with her finger. She gasped involuntarily as the explanation struck her. What if this had once been the main course
of the river? As she considered the kind of effort it would take to divert the stream, she felt a renewed hope surge through
her. Only the Firewrights would have had the knowledge, and the ability, to carry out such a diversion. Perhaps this was the
right way after all. She washed her face and arms in the cool water, resisting the temptation to swim. As
her horse drank thirstily from the stream, she settled on the grassy bank wondering what to do next.

‘Upstream or downstream?’ she said out loud, ostensibly asking her horse the question.

‘That depends, Mahamatra, on whether you can keep a secret.’

Panchali jumped to her feet and whipped around to face the speaker, her hand instinctively moving to the hilt of her sword.
A young man in rough ochre robes stood facing her, casually smoothing his short, dark beard. Panchali tried not to look too
affected, but could not completely hide her surprise. There was no mistaking the familiar features, the undeniable resemblance
to the scholar–priest Ayodha Dhaumya.

The man seemed to understand her confusion. ‘You’re wondering who I am, and the answer to your suspicion is, yes. But, beyond
blood, my brother and I have nothing in common. My name is Devala Asita. As for who or what I am … Tell me, can you keep a
secret?’

Recovering quickly, she said. ‘Ah! That depends on what the secret is.’

The ochre-clad scholar did not reply, but stepped forward to take the reins of her horse. ‘Come.’

Panchali followed him as he headed downstream, walking casually along the riverbank. He did not seem surprised to see her
at all, and made light conversation, occasionally pointing out plants of medicinal value or identifying a bird by its call.
Ahead, the river split into two, divided by a huge rock that was part of its bed. Panchali noticed that the smaller of the
two streams had been diverted into a stone tank that was obviously of human make. At the other end of the tank, the water
flowed over and fell back into the stream, pushing past a familiar-looking series of wooden wheels set on a single axle. It
was, beyond question, Wright-work. The many-teethed cogs, the water wheel, the wooden beam pushing down into the ground, were
almost identical to what she had seen in Northern Panchala, except she saw neither grain bin, nor mill. Also, a series of
stone lattices were set into the ground a few feet away from the tank.

‘The mill is underground?’ she asked.

‘Not a mill, a forge. The water-wheel powers the bellows for the furnace.’

Panchali gasped, delighted, as she understood the functions of the mechanisms before her and consequently the origins of the
mighty bow. The wide water tank and the lattices were meant, obviously, to cool down the forge and make working there bearable.
Her happiness soon faded as she tried to take stock of her recent discoveries and what they meant.

The scholar waited patiently.

‘How many of these are there?’ she eventually asked.

‘Only this one. The one near Mathura lies broken to pieces. I’ve heard that Agniveshya Angirasa built another one during his
days in hiding, but I don’t know for sure.’

Panchali’s voice was a whisper, a sad, hushed prayer almost, as she asked, ‘How many more Wrights …?’

‘I’m the last of the faithful among my order. Many traitors remain – those trained by us, who’ve turned against us, joining
with the Firstborn.’ He shook his head dolefully. ‘I’m the last. I spent all these years in hiding. Few people know that I’m
still alive. After Ghora died, I’ve tried to find those of us that may be left. So far there’s been no one. Perhaps they’re
afraid to reveal themselves, or even think this is a trap set for them by the Firstborn,’ he finished quietly. Then he drew
himself up and fixed Panchali with an honest, compelling stare. ‘It doesn’t matter.
You
are here.’

‘Do you know why I’m here?’

‘I think I do. You have a good heart, Princess. Privileged you may be, but you haven’t lost your sense of justice or empathy.’

Panchali was too startled at his response to say anything.

‘We Wrights were inventors, discoverers, not just weapon-makers,’ he went on. ‘Through the centuries, we’ve found ways to
till the land, irrigate it, work metal in different ways, mix herbs and essences to create medicines and poisons both … To
be known as a Wright, even as the youngest of their students, was an honour across all of Aryavarta. But then, we were destroyed,
from the oldest man down to the smallest infant …’