The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (20 page)

Govinda did not smile, but the strained lines on his face disappeared. ‘I’m too old to try to please a woman and gain her favour, Panchali. What you see before you is a man domesticated into obedience, a creature of habitual submission.’

‘Submission? You? Aren’t you the bull that can’t be tamed?’ She laughed out loud.

Govinda did not join in. He stood up straight and crossed his arms. ‘Do you doubt me too?’

‘No, I don’t doubt that you’d…you’d…’

‘That I’d what?’ Govinda snapped, finally turning away from his parchments.

‘That you’d lay waste to Aryavarta for me…’ Panchali dully said.

‘You
are
Aryavarta, Panchali. This Empire has been tormented and violated the way you have been. I cannot see the difference between the two anymore. I cannot bear to let it go on. This is rebellion. This is revolution.’

‘Spare me your wordplay, Govinda.’ Panchali said as she threw herself into a chair and idly reached out for one of the parchments. She studied it briefly and then let it fall from her hand. ‘We’ve had numerous conversations such as this one and we both know where they lead. There is nothing I can say that will change your mind.’

‘Then why do you persist?’

‘Because I must do what I must do.’

‘As do I. But go on. You know I love to hear your thoughts.’

Panchali was solemn. She knew it would come to nothing, but she could not help but speak. ‘Then listen,’ she said. ‘True rebellion takes courage of a different sort. True rebellion takes letting go. Do you have the courage to let go, Govinda, to destroy power rather than claim it for your own, admittedly noble, ends?’

Govinda considered the woman before him, wondering at her strength and courage as he had several times before. He reached out to tuck in a stray curl of Panchali’s long hair behind her ear, but the wayward strand soon slipped back on to her face. Govinda pushed it away yet again, this time letting his fingers linger on the skin of Panchali’s neck.

He said, ‘Do you remember anything, Panchali? I mean, from before the fire… Do you remember who you were?’

Panchali gasped. It was no secret that she and Dhrstyadymn were King Dhrupad’s adopted children, the sole survivors of a fire that had taken all traces of their past, including their memories, with it. It was a topic Govinda had taken care to avoid all mention of, even in casual conversation. Panchali had always assumed that he was simply being considerate though, she had thought, excessively so. She now concluded that there was another reason for his recalcitrance on the matter. ‘You’ve never asked me that in all these years, Govinda! You’ve never spoken to me about it.’ She sprung up from her chair. ‘You… You know who I am, don’t you? You’ve always known! By Rudra, Govinda, how could you not…’

‘Because,’ Govinda cut in, soft yet firm, ‘because, as far as I’m concerned, you were not born of that fire or made by it. You were unmade; you were reforged.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Govinda looked into the dark eyes that searched his face for answers. He chose his words carefully. ‘We are defined by what we learn, Panchali, by experience and wisdom. The problem is the same experiences that inform and educate us through childhood and youth also bind us. We become biased in ways we don’t know. But you… You are pure wisdom, pure knowledge. The fire left you your memory of information, but no memory of your emotions. You knew things, but you had no context for them; you spoke of prosperity and gain, but without any understanding of your own self-interest. Yes, over the years you have changed, but the core of that unmarked parchment, that guileless reason, remains. And that is why you have been special to me, more so after the fire that wrought you than before…’ He trailed off, unable and unwilling to finish. At length, he added, ‘When this is over, when it’s all over, ask me again, and I will tell you. That is, if you still want me to.’

Panchali stared at Govinda. Questions formed in her eyes, not about who she was or where she had come from, because all that seemed irrelevant in the face of the fact that she had once known him or, at least, that he had known her. She wanted to hear him speak of what they had been, what they had shared, she wanted him to confirm that the nameless bond between them had once had a name, that it had once been beyond question of propriety or fault. But before the questions left her lips she realized that was precisely what made what they now shared all the more precious. A bond that was nameless, formless, undefined, of endless potential, unfettered by systems and scripture. It was the purest affection there could be, not unlike Govinda’s love for humanity.

Panchali felt a poignant, solemn joy, fill her entire being. Once, Govinda had told her that she made him believe in all that was good and worth protecting. Now she understood. Willingly, Panchali let go of all sense of self, past and present, becoming nothing more than an idea, Govinda’s idea, his hope.

‘No, Govinda,’ she said. ‘I do not want to know. I do not need to know. I think the very fact that you have known but kept it from me, from us all, explains much. I can venture a guess, but I don’t want to. I am what I am. It is enough.’

Govinda struggled not to show emotion, though his eyes glistened, moist. ‘Panchali, I’d swear you are me and I am you. By Govardhan, it feels like I am looking into a still lake on a clear day and seeing my own reflection. If someone had heard only of my thoughts, my words and did not know who I was, and then one day they met you, they’d think you were Govinda Shauri.’

Panchali said, ‘I have no aspirations of becoming Govinda Shauri. But yes, I do aspire to the highest possible devotion anyone will have for him. Does that not deserve truth, as a reward?’

Govinda exhaled hard. ‘Then here is the truth you seek. I do not want war. I do not mean to lead us to war. Indeed, I have promised Dharma that I will do all I can to keep us from war. What I want is for all Aryavarta to see, for Dharma and Syoddhan and every man and woman who call themselves Arya to see…’

‘See what, Govinda? Two armies under the control of their respective kings? A realm at war for the very notions of hierarchy you claim you want to destroy?’

‘Oh, Panchali. How is it that you ask me such questions, when you know the one thing there is to know about me is…’

‘Govinda Shauri always has a plan,’ Panchali finished. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see this arrogant, self-assured side of you again, Govinda, but for this silly notion that I can’t get out of my head – that you can no longer stop this war even if you want to.’

Govinda smiled. ‘I once heard your father tell you the story of Vasudeva Narayana. You will not remember that incident, but perhaps you know the story?’

‘Yes. It is said that Narayana, the Supreme Being, would never forsake Sri, the very essence of the earth.’

‘Remember that, Panchali,’ Govinda said, laying a hand on her head. ‘When I am gone, remember that…’

‘What! Why would you say something like that…?’ Panchali was alarmed.

Govinda immediately shook his head, smiling. He changed his tone, forcing evenness into it. ‘Now, it has been a long day, and it is time we both went to our respective beds. Off you go!’

Slowly, Govinda pulled his hand away from the warmth of her skin. Panchali closed her eyes as she felt his touch fade. When she opened them again, he was gone.

26

‘
WHAT, IN BRAMHA
’
S NAME, COULD BE SO SACRED ABOUT THIS
place?’ Dhrstyadymn exclaimed, running his eyes over the huge expanse of land known as Kuru’s Fields.

In the weeks it had taken them to lead the mustered men from Upaplavya to the hills they now stood on, his mood had turned dark, partly under Dharma’s influence and partly due to his own inner confusion. Now they were here, the advance teams having already set up their camp, into which the last of their allies’ soldiers now marched. All that remained was for Chief Virat’s army to arrive, and for its commanders and their personal guards to take their places in camp. The precaution of getting the soldiers to take positions first had been Dhrstyadymn’s – that way, they could avoid any traps the enemy may have set for them at Kuru’s Fields. Contrary to his expectations, there had not been any attacks on the way, nor had any fighting been required for the soldiers to take up their posts. It made him wonder if, like them, Syoddhan too intended to use war as a feint, a threat.
If so, who will win this game of postures, and how?
The question was but one more of the many that haunted him.

‘My ancestor, Emperor Kuru himself sanctified this earth,’ Dharma said, in answer to Dhrstyadymn’s earlier question. ‘They say, those who live after fighting here are the truly blessed.’

‘And those who die?’

‘They go to the celestial realms and are honoured amongst the ancestors.’

‘Supposedly…’ Govinda interjected.

‘After this hell, anything would feel like Indra’s realms,’ Dhrstyadymn muttered. Panchali, a constant presence in their midst, squeezed her brother’s hand in reassurance.

The battlefield, such as it was, appeared remarkably ordinary, but for the fact that both approach and retreat were possible from only two directions. The field was bound on one side by the rocky but verdant hill range that they stood on and on the other by the River Hiranvati. Both approach paths had been taken up by the two armies; the sprawling camps small against the boundlessness of the battleground. Nevertheless, there was something impressive about the immaculately ordered array of tents, equipment, animals and soldiers that filled the plains before them.

The Command Tent, the heart of Dharma Yudhisthir’s war, stood aligned with the centre of the field, though well within their camp itself. In fact, it was located inside the royal enclosure, which would house Dharma, his brothers and their close allies. Around them, the camp was arranged in blocks, along two lines. Lieutenants and seniors leaders flanked the central section on three sides, leaving it open on the side facing the battlefield. The allies’ armies, each now a division of Dharma’s grand army, had their separate campsites around this core. Each of these sites was further divided into housing for the soldiers, stables for the horses and elephants, as well as a small store and an armoury. Kitchens, too, were separate for each unit, and sometimes a single division might have two or three kitchens to feed its soldiers. This was done to reduce the risk of poisoning, whether accidental or intentional. Usually, equipment and vehicles such as supply carts, were arranged around the periphery of each camp, serving as a protective wall.

Towards the battleground, much of the campsite was left unoccupied in order to have adequate visibility and to allow the men to march out of camp quickly. Yet, it was far from unprotected. A series of small camps, comprising musicians, heralds, trumpeters and such dotted the landscape. The various commanders’ chariots were placed in between the camps in specific sequences that together formed a maze and so provided yet another line of defence. At intervals, gates, as well as guard-posts were set up. Those in charge of protecting the camp and those on sentry duty were not part of any of the divisions, but were to report directly to the Commander-in-Chief of the army – in this case, Dhrstyadymn.

Impressive as these arrangements were, it was what lay to their left and beyond that made the company breathless, though each one was loath to admit it: Dry, despite the river that flanked its southern border, and barren, despite the verdant hills they stood on, to its north, Kurukshetra was a massive tract that spread from west to east, vast enough to make most armies seem but a band of lost children. It was difficult to think of the place as a battlefield, but there was little else anyone ever called it. It had the structured appearance of an arena, but all sport played on this ground was bloody. Legend had it that long ago a lake had filled this entire region but that body of water had been lost to Firewright pride, just like the river that had once run through Matsya. No clear memory remained of the incident, and those who possibly knew enough to confirm or deny the myth were not inclined to speak of it. All that remained of both the vast lake and its tale was a small pond in the woods that bordered a minuscule part of the otherwise dreary field, a token remainder of a long-ago landscape lost against the inevitability that lay before them: A battlefield without compare and, at its far end, the enemy’s army, the size of which defied even the most fearful man’s imagination.

‘By Rudra!’ Dharma exclaimed. His voice fell to a whisper. ‘Is that really just the seven akshauhini we had expected?’

Govinda shrugged as though he had just been asked whether he thought it would rain later or not. ‘At last count, yes. Shikandin’s spies confirmed it…’

‘And we stand here with four.’

‘The same seven and four we had anticipated when we marched out of Upaplavya, Dharma. Nothing has changed.’

‘Indeed, nothing has changed, Govinda,’ Dharma said through clenched teeth. ‘Things have gone exactly as you planned, have they not? This isn’t battle you lead me to, nor is it peace. You want me to surrender to Syoddhan, don’t you? You want me to lose what little equanimity and respect I have found in all these years. Why? Why do you hate me so; why do you want to destroy me? Ah yes, but the answer is obvious, is it not? Truly, I cannot decide which lust of yours holds the greater sway – the one for blood or…’

‘Don’t, Dharma!’ Govinda’s voice was a malicious hiss. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t think it. That thought is the very end of the world, the fire of Pralaya itself. Once is too many times already, don’t think it again.’

Dharma stared, silent.

‘Agraja…’ Partha made to protest.

‘Vathu, Partha!’ Dharma ordered. He then glared at Panchali, defying her to retort. It was, however, Govinda’s voice that he heard in response.

‘Look to the west, Dharma,’ Govinda said. ‘Look.’

And Dharma turned to look. In the distance, above a low raincloud, rose the golden lion banner of Matsya. ‘Virat’s army. But…’ He stopped short as he began to see what Govinda wanted him to. Soldiers filled the space on the horizon, covered every foot of ground between the ravines to the north and south of the battlefield, their lines extending as far as he could see by the dim light of the sun, obstructed not by dark clouds but by the dust raised by the march of an enormous army. ‘But…’ This time, his voice held incredulity, not disdain. ‘That army must be at least two divisions strong!’