Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) (20 page)

Panchali shifted uncomfortably, as she realized that her own little drama, the way she had been played as a political toy,
now felt trivial in comparison. ‘What do you want from me?’ she finally managed to say.

‘I ask for little, Panchali. In fact, I ask for nothing more than that you follow your heart, that you do what you know to
be the right thing.’

Panchali tried to keep the quiver out of her voice. ‘What … what do you want me to do?’ she asked.

‘Govinda Shauri.’

‘Govinda?’

‘Yes. He’ll listen to you. Perhaps only to you. You alone can turn him from the bloody path that he plans to take.’

‘Govinda? Bloody path? I don’t …’

‘Understand?’ The Firewright smirked coldly. ‘I’m not surprised. Few men hide their intentions as well as Govinda does. There’s
only one thing Govinda wants, my dear. He wants to be Emperor.’

‘Emperor? Govinda?’

‘Think about it. Think of how he slowly earns the gratitude of the Kurus and Panchalas, even as he undermines Jarasandha’s
power. He’s not stupid. He’s a consummate politician; in my opinion, a better diplomat than he is a warrior. Even the Vyasa
fails to see where that cowherd is dragging them all.’

Panchali flinched at the Wright’s derogatory tone. ‘While you of all people seem to be able to see right through him?’ she
challenged.

‘Yes. Because I know better than to trust him. Ever.’

Panchali was all set to retort, but hesitated as a mix of emotions struck her. Her first response was, strangely, happiness,
even pride at the thought of Govinda as Emperor, ruler of all Aryavarta. It lasted only for a moment as the sad truth hit
home. He had played her, toyed with her, spun half-truths to serve his ends. He had given her up for a greater cause – the
cause of power, of empire. His empire.

The pain of the realization gradually filled her, turning into disgust, anger and, ultimately, the bitter heartbreak of betrayal.
Tears stung her eyes, and she looked away into the distance, careful not to meet the eyes of the man in front of her. Yet,
as she inhaled sharply to clear her
head, Panchali could not imagine Govinda as Emperor without some sense of hope and even anticipation. She had no doubt that
he would be a good ruler to his people. That was the most important thing.

‘I can’t help you stop him if that’s what you want,’ she snapped at the scholar.

He grimaced. ‘I don’t think we could stop him even if we tried.’

‘What do you want then?’

‘Help me save those that can be saved. Help me avoid bloodshed and battle.’

Panchali felt a shiver run down her spine. Not too long ago she would have thought Govinda incapable of wanton violence, just
as she had once thought him incapable of betraying her trust. She suddenly felt afraid, but with each passing moment her fear
gave way to a focussed confidence.
There are no coincidences in the Eternal Universe
, she reminded herself. Everything had a meaning, a purpose. She had found hers. Her own silent acceptance, her helpless acquiescence
to the way she had been manipulated and used now felt like purposive patience, as though she had been waiting for fate to
bring her to this juncture. It was her destiny.

She looked up at the Firewright, her eyes filled with a dull pain. ‘How?’

Devala Asita smiled. ‘When the time is right you will know what you must do. Till then we must be patient.’

LIFE HAD NEVER BEEN BETTER FOR PARTHA, NOR HAD HE EVER
been happier than in the few months he had spent at Dwaraka.

Govinda was capable of companionship without speaking a single word, even for hours on end. They rode around the countryside
together, sometimes hunting in the wild or else marvelling at the scenic beauty that surrounded them. At these times, Partha
could just about believe that Govinda had once been a cowherd, but hardly a common one. The man loved nature and seemed to
be a part of
it, always. He could blissfully sleep on the grass, like he had never known the silk sheets and soft mattresses of his palace
and he would drink water from a clear, gurgling stream as though it were ambrosia. Once, Partha had gone down to the stables
adjoining Govinda’s mansion, to find him stripped to a short waist-cloth, rubbing down Balahak and his other three Qamboja
stallions – Shaibya, Sugriv and Megha – the way a stableman would. Yet, as the oil-stained, sweaty Govinda kept up an incessant
conversation with his horses, Partha could have sworn that the animals not only understood him but also clearly answered in
their own way.

At other times, Partha sat discreetly as an observer during Council meetings, marvelling at the way the Yadus ran their nation.
He was most amazed by Govinda’s ability to take control of any and every situation. Even after all these days, he still could
not understand exactly what it was about the man that was so compelling, but there was no denying that behind that lop-sided
grin and the light banter was an incisive mind and a keen sense of justice. Govinda was honest, undeniably honest, but not
above innuendo, both in jest and as a tool of persuasion. His warm smile disarmed even the most hostile of opponents, and
his equanimity was beyond belief. Nothing ever quite moved him, and the only extreme of emotion that he showed was to occasionally
laugh out loud.

With a twinge of guilt Partha admitted to himself that he felt a lot more at ease with Govinda and without his brothers around.
He loved the four of them, but with Dharma the Noble, Bhim the Mighty, Nakul the Handsome and Sadev the Wise around, Partha’s
only claim to fame had been his reputation as a womanizer. Of course, he had been the one to win Panchali … With grim determination,
he forced the thought out of his mind. It did not matter. Not here. The friendship and camaraderie he had found was far more
precious, for Govinda neither judged nor indulged him. Partha made a firm resolution that in this matter he would remain unique;
none of his brothers would ever be friends with Govinda the way he was.

Finally, reassured by his newfound friendship and the air of informality and camaraderie that was far removed from the staid
routines of Hastina, Partha was ready. He found Govinda discussing the arrangements for the next day’s mountain festival with
Balabadra and Subadra. After a moment’s hesitation, partly because he was reluctant to interrupt and partly because he felt
his heart skip a beat when he glanced at Subadra, Partha asked Govinda if they could talk in private. Govinda looked surprised,
but immediately obliged. Partha left the room without looking at the others. It was time for the conversation that had made
him come all the way to Dwaraka.

The two men sat in Govinda’s personal chamber, an airy room with large windows on every wall. By accident or by design, the
soft mats on the floor and large seating cushions were all in shades of white and blue. At the far end, the room opened out
on to a large terrace, set with the shining white fluted balustrades that were characteristic of Dwaraka. Partha felt like
he was sitting on a piece of the evening sky or on the very ocean itself. Whether it was the pleasant dissipation of his anxieties,
or mainly that Govinda was a patient listener, but he soon found himself recounting every incident, pouring out every feeling
he had known, since the tournament at Kampilya.

Govinda showed no emotion throughout the narrative and stood staring out of the window, at the sea.

Then Partha tonelessly spoke of the events leading to his departure from Hastina.

Govinda said nothing still, but for just one moment, every line in his body, every muscle, every nerve, went rigid and taut.
Partha did not dare justify his actions. ‘Help me, Govinda,’ he said, earnest and sincere. ‘You have to help me.’

When he replied, Govinda’s voice was even. ‘What would you have me do, Partha?’ he asked.

‘Tell me, how can I make up for my actions? How can I go on with the rest of my life this way?’ Partha met Govinda’s gaze,
as he admitted, ‘We each wanted Panchali, there’s no denying that. I won her, we all stood ready to defend her and Dharma
married her. But to whom does she truly belong? How can we, all five of us, go on this way? What do we do?’

‘Even if I told you what to do, you wouldn’t be able to do it, Partha,’ Govinda said. ‘But I’ll tell you anyway. Do nothing.’

‘How can I do nothing? Don’t you realize what a terrible position we’ve placed her in? Why did she react that way when I touched
her? How can we set her free?’

Govinda chortled in disdain. ‘Panchali isn’t someone you set free. You can’t tame her or cage her in the first place. She
makes her own decisions, and she decided to submit to the circumstances and marry Dharma. You’re not responsible for that.’

‘What am I responsible for?’ a disconsolate Partha asked.

‘Yourself. Only yourself.’

‘And you, Govinda? Do you hold responsibility only for yourself?’

Govinda paused. This was not something he wasn’t ready to discuss with Partha. Not yet. He said, ‘If you can’t take responsibility
for yourself, Partha, then there’s no question of being responsible for more.’

They talked long into the night, but did not refer to Panchali again. Eventually, Partha bid his host goodnight and left.
He retired to his room and lay on the bed in a daze. The sound of anklets sang softly on the wind. Partha quickly went to
the window overlooking the courtyard. He remained standing at the window long after the pleasant tinkle had faded away.

Govinda sat on the cold stone floor of the terrace adjoining his room, leaning against the wall. Sleep eluded him. It was
a few hours before dawn when, woken up and summoned by a pensive Govinda, Balabadra came to join him. To Govinda’s surprise,
so did Subadra. She sat next to him, her head on his shoulder, while Balabadra stood leaning against the low crystal railings
that bound the terrace, looking at them both. Bit by bit, Govinda shared with his siblings what he had learnt from Partha
that evening.

Subadra shivered, though it was not cold. ‘What he tried to do … to Panchali …’ she began, and then, with a meaningful glance
at Balabadra, continued, ‘I suppose this makes your case for my marriage to Syoddhan even stronger, doesn’t it?’

‘How did you know …?’ Balabadra growled.

‘I listen at doors,’ she said snidely. The two brothers looked at her, astounded. She continued, calm, ‘I’m not being vengeful,
nor am I joking. I’m nearly nineteen, by Rudra! You should realize that I’m no longer a four-year-old with a runny nose, who
tends to get lost in the woods if she lets go of your hand.’

‘No, you’re not,’ Govinda admitted.

Balabadra continued, speaking for them both, ‘You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman, whom we both dearly love …’

‘You failed to mention my excellent sense of humour and my immaculate grace,’ Subadra responded in jest. She then fixed her
brother with a cool gaze. ‘There’s no need to pretend you haven’t considered this. Haven’t you been planning it for a while
now? Did you expect that I’d wait for you both to use me as a silent political pawn? I agree with you and so I act in consort
with you.’

‘And if you hadn’t agreed with our objectives?’ Balabadra asked.

Subadra laughed and ran her fingers through her soft, wavy hair. She did not answer his question directly, saying instead,
‘I once thought of eloping, you know.’

‘Who with?’ Balabadra demanded.

She grinned mischievously, revealing a stark resemblance to Govinda, and said, ‘It makes no difference, not anymore. If you
want me to marry Partha or any of the other Kurus, I shall. Except for Dharma. I won’t marry Dharma.’

Govinda laughed softly, but was interrupted.

‘Govinda,’ Subadra cajoled, ‘why won’t you let me have my share in your duty, my share of the honour? Do you believe that
I lack courage? If you truly considered me your sister, and not the child of your father’s other wife …’

‘Subadra, please.’

She fell silent in response to the admonition.

At length, Govinda prompted, ‘How did you learn to twist emotions with words so skilfully?’

Subadra gleefully replied, ‘I’m sister to the best, to the master of puppets.’

‘No one’s a pawn. No one’s a puppet. And I’m no puppeteer,’ Govinda stated flatly.

Before Subadra could respond, Balabadra intervened to prevent what he knew would become a habitual sibling squabble rather
than an argument on merits. He placed his hand on Subadra’s head in a loving, paternal gesture. ‘All right. We’ll talk more
about this. Seriously, we shall,’ he assured her. ‘Now go,’ he said, sending her on her way.

Balabadra and Govinda stretched themselves out under the open sky, as they often used to when they were children, and gazed
silently at the lightening expanse above. Gradually, lulled by the waves lapping against the city’s walls, the two men drifted
off to sleep.

Govinda dreamt of a sunny village by a river. A tree, its emerald-green leaves flecked with gold from the sun, caressed the
crystal blue waters as they gurgled by. Hanging from the hard bough, now arcing over the water, and now over the land, was
a swing, a simple plank of wood held up by ropes of hemp. Her long, black hair streamed out behind her, painting a dark blur.
Asleep under the mild winter sky, Govinda smiled.

The next morning, during the mountain festival of the Yadus, Partha thundered through the merry crowd on a chariot, two of
Govinda’s white stallions yoked to it. Pulling Subadra on to the vehicle, he sped away before anyone could react.

The Council met right away, and the angry representatives proposed to chase Partha and give fight. Govinda and Balabadra looked
uncertainly at each other, not sure whether Subadra had willingly eloped, even orchestrated the mock abduction, or, in fact,
had been taken against her consent.

Keeping his jumbled thoughts to himself, Govinda addressed the gathered leaders. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best, my friends. An
alliance with the Kurus is to our advantage, and in a way we might consider this an act of valour on Partha’s part, that he
dares take our sister from our midst. Besides,’ he observed, ‘he’s yoked two of my four stallions to his chariot. Even if
we give chase, we may not be able
to stop him before he reaches his own kingdom. Imagine then, the disgrace to us all …’

His words effectively dampened the fiery spirits of the assembled warriors. After further debate it was agreed that a message
would be sent to Hastina, informing the Kurus of Balabadra’s willingness to give Subadra in marriage to Partha. This done,
the Council dispersed.

Govinda and Balabadra sat quiet and still in the empty Sudharma Hall, not sure whether to consider the turn of events as providential
or unfortunate.

‘They took your horses,’ Balabadra pointed out. ‘It suggests that she was in on the plan,’ he surmised, hopeful.

Govinda sneered. ‘Do you dare ask her, Agraja? What if he’s taken her by force and we’ve let her down because we didn’t even
try to help her? Even now, don’t we already know …? It’s just easier to pretend we don’t.’

‘We have no choice. Even if we are sure, we have no choice,’ Balabadra said. ‘Subadra knows that. She knows that a conflict
between the Yadus and the Kurus could destroy us.’

Govinda nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Yes. Conflict would destroy us. An alliance on the other hand …’

The two brothers sighed, neither willing to admit that Partha’s visit could not have gone better.