The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (59 page)

‘Govinda…’ Balabadra called out. He needed the sanity that his brother alone could provide, though it was a madness of its own kind.

Govinda said, ‘It was a trap, Agraja. They were brought here and ambushed. I told Yuyudhana that I had misgivings, but it is my fault that I did not insist. I suppose a part of me hoped that Kritavarman had truly got over the past, both the events of our youth as well as all that happened during the Great War.’

‘Kritavarman never forgave Yuyudhana for taking your side during the Great War; nor could he forget the death of his friends and kinsmen at Yuyudhana’s hands. But why kill so many, just for vengeance against one man?’

‘That is what I want to know…and I think I’ve found the answer,’ Govinda said, bending down to turn over a partly crushed body. ‘Kritavarman lies here with the rest of them. Either he failed to get away in time or he was led into the very trap he had set by one who wants vengeance against us all…’

‘Devala!’ Balabadra spat out.

‘Yes. Devala. It would have also been a simple plan to suggest to Kritavarman, yet one that Devala could twist to his own needs. Already the garrison housed the men on armed forces duty; the leaders alone had been missing. Kritavarman’s invitation brought them and their personal guard here, right into Devala’s grasp. What men he didn’t kill with his explosions would have probably died fighting each other.’ With that he picked up a blood-stained sword.

‘No!’ Balabadra cried out, recognizing it as Pradymna’s. He began looking around for his nephew, holding an untenable hope that he was alive.

Govinda ignored him, lost in thought. Out loud he said, ‘But why here, why at Prabhasa and not Dwaraka? Unless…’

‘What…?’ Balabadra spun around.

Govinda moved swiftly to recover a bow and a partly damaged quiver of arrows from the dead grasp of a Narayaniya commander. He pulled out a vellum-wrapped coil of bowstring from his waist sash and proceeded to string the weapon.

‘Are you mad?’ Balabadra said. Still Govinda did not respond. It soon became clear why.

The incessant sea-breeze had cleared the smoke and Balabadra saw men pouring out of the woods. ‘Mercenaries!’ he growled, but renewed his objection nevertheless. ‘There’s not enough time, Govinda! Let it be…’

Rummaging around on the ground at his feet, Balabadra found a bar of hard iron – a pestle that had been used, in all probability, to pound spices to flavour wine. He picked it up. The mercenaries were closer now, advancing without hesitation. Two badly armed men against fifty or so were hardly reason to pause.

‘Govinda!’ Balabadra shouted. His brother was still engaged in fitting the string without hurry, as though he were on a pleasant hunt. Balabadra’s grip on the rod tightened and he swung with all his might as the first of the enemy attacked. He fought like a demon and soon had four men down, but two had already got past him and were almost upon Govinda. Balabadra was too far away to stop them.

‘No!’ he yelled, as one of the mercenaries raised his sword to strike. Govinda had not even glanced up.

The bow sang twice, two arrows flying from it in quick succession. Govinda did not wait. He advanced as the two dead soldiers hit the ground, taking aim at those further away. With unerring precision, he swatted down the enemy, arrow after arrow flying off the string. A reassured Balabadra continued to swing his weapon, bringing down every man within his reach, till he heard the enemy sound a retreat.

It was again just the two of them, surrounded by blood and ruin.

‘They will strike again,’ Govinda said. ‘We’ve hardly killed a fourth of their numbers; they are simply being cautious.’

‘Let them come. We’ll kill them all!’

‘No, Agraja, we don’t have much time…’ Govinda’s even tone belied the urgency in his eyes. ‘We’ve got to get back. Dwaraka is in terrible danger…’

Balabadra stood where he was, stunned senseless.

‘Agraja, please,’ Govinda was now firm. ‘We must go now. The target was not the armies alone.’

Balabadra slowly stirred as he heard a shrill horn. More soldiers emerged from the woods for an offensive, their depleted numbers now replenished by a waiting rearguard. This time, it would be a battle to the end. ‘Go,’ he said.

It was Govinda’s turn to be astonished. ‘What?’

‘Go, brother. Ride fast.’

Govinda did not move. Balabadra glared at him, willing him to understand. He had lost the will to live, the will to fight. He finally saw what they had become, driven by their pride, the intoxication of victory and success. In his own way, Balabadra accepted, he was a tyrant – a benevolent one possibly, but a tyrant all the same. From the pinnacles of Dwaraka he had looked down over land and sea, dictating what he thought was fair and good. He had not been wrong, he had not been cruel. But that was irrelevant. Like all those Govinda had destroyed, Balabadra too was a part of the decaying system that had to be uprooted to make way for change.
Someday
, Govinda had said,
I may even ask you to spill the blood of those you love the most, to destroy everything… Trust me, brother…

It was time.

If only, he noted, it were that easy. Balabadra looked at Govinda with unfettered affection. ‘Once more, you must run, isn’t it? Once more, you will place the lives of others before your honour. Poor Govinda! Have I failed to protect you, as I ought to have, little one? How many times I have wondered what my role in all this has been. Does your victory lie as blame on my head? Or have I been so selfish that I thought of myself alone, and not of you and your pain…’

Govinda turned, wide-eyed, to his brother. ‘Agraja…’ he began, but he had no words to go on.

‘Go,’ Balabadra repeated, this time gentle.

Govinda nodded. And then he was gone.

Alone, the burly wrestler got set to face the advancing soldiers. His mind was now at ease and the thrill of battle was upon him as he poised himself, feet firm on the ground, the iron pestle ready and swinging from his hand. Seeing that he was alone, the mercenaries rushed at him as one. With a blood-curdling yell Balabadra fell upon them, swinging the pestle right into the face of his attackers; grunting in satisfaction as the heavy rod smashed into the men’s skulls. His brute strength was enough to allow him to kill with a single blow. But for each man who went down, three more seemed to spring out of the earth. He was surrounded, outnumbered beyond hope. No matter, he told himself, he was ready to die.

It was as if someone had heard him speak the words aloud. A long-tipped spear ran through his gut with a searing pain. Balabadra staggered back only to receive a heavy blow from a mace. He could taste blood and bile in his mouth, and his vision blurred. This was it. With a soft smile, he let the pestle fall from his hand. He felt no pain as more blows rained on him nor did he feel the sword as it cleaved off his right arm.

Balabadra dropped to his knees. He imagined he saw his life, his soul, ebbing out of him and spiralling, snake-like, towards the sky, a golden mist merging into the blue sky above him – blue and clear like a fine summer day. A perfect day to take the cows out to pasture. To lie on the lush grass, listening to Govinda play on his flute; to be lulled to sleep by the potent fragrance from the blossoming trees and the shimmering haze of afternoon as Govinda dutifully rubbed his feet.

He had loved no one and cherished nothing – not his wife, nor his children – as he had Govinda. Now, he understood why as suddenly, he was elsewhere, in a place that was neither memory nor imagination.

A place where Time stood still, forever paused at the most precious of moments.

He watched, as a golden-skinned boy came running up to a woman. At her instructions, the boy held his arms out to receive the treasure she gave him. To Balabadra’s surprise, it was not the boy he had once been, but the man he was now, who gazed, adoring, at the dark-eyed, day-old infant in his arms.

‘Narayana,’ he whispered. Content beyond measure at the life that had been his, Balabadra let himself fall.

7

THERE WAS NOTHING BUT THE BLINDING, BLAZING SUN. THE
brightness was beyond bearing; all Govinda could see was the endless golden shimmer of sandy shores. And then a glimpse of the blue sea beyond and the crystal turrets of Dwaraka rose on the horizon.

Govinda heaved a sigh of relief and urged on Sugreev, youngest and sole survivor of his four horse-brothers, with urgent words, coaxing every bit of speed he could out of the stallion. The air was unusually still; the breeze that usually blew in from the sea had ebbed. No birds sang, no trees rustled. All Govinda could hear was the hard ground beneath Sugreev’s feet and the sound of his own breath.

Finally, he was at the city. ‘Get everyone out. Now!’ he shouted to the guards at the main gate. ‘And find me Daruka. I’ll be at the waterside gates.’

Riding further into the city, Govinda smiled his reassurances at those he passed while firmly instructing them to leave at once. Despite his casual tone, his directive made panic inevitable. The people clung to him, his horse, believing that he would keep them safe. ‘You cannot stay. If you trust me, leave now,’ he told them.

But they did not, would not, go. The crowd around him grew, swelling quickly to a mob. Govinda swung off his horse and thundered up the circular stairs to reach the turret of a watchtower overlooking Sudharma – the huge hall that was the very heart of Dwaraka and all that it stood for.

‘My fellow citizens,’ he called out, as thousands of fear-stricken faces turned towards him. They waited, urging silence amongst themselves in anticipation of Govinda’s words but there was no charming rhetoric, no deep booming voice that had for years spurred them higher. This was a fleeting, wistful Govinda Shauri. His eyes filled with a soft, knowing warmth, he said, ‘If you love me… If you believe that I have loved you and done what is right by you all, please leave now. Do not linger on the shores; head further inland. Daruka and Raivati will meet you on the plains at the base of the Raivata mountains and tell you what is to be done next. Go now, and know that I’ll always be there…’

At first, the stillness of disbelief descended over the people. It soon settled into solemn resignation. They began to disperse, some taking Govinda’s words to heart to set off at once, rallying family and friends as they left. Others shuffled away with occasional backward glances at Govinda, still a little unsure. Many felt sadness; a few felt fear. None stopped to argue or defy his instructions.

Govinda watched them till he was sure that the people did indeed mean to leave the city and then, climbing down from the turret, made his way through the crowds to where he’d left Sugreev. ‘Here,’ he thrust the horse’s reins into the hands of a youth standing nearby. ‘Take him with you.’

Govinda’s eyes filled with tears as he nuzzled his beloved horse one last time and let Sugreev lick his face to his heart’s content. ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he said, and set boy and horse off with a pat each.

He went deeper into Dwaraka, following a scarcely used path, which wound downhill towards the lowest levels of the city. Govinda sprinted down the cobbled lane as fast as he could; noting with satisfaction that the clamour and noise of confused mobs and panicked crowds was dying down. Soon, the city would be empty. He only hoped that it would be soon enough. By the time Govinda reached the water-gates, Daruka was waiting. ‘What’s wrong, Commander?’ the captain asked.

Govinda quickly told him all that had happened.

‘Balabadra?’ Daruka asked, wide-eyed.

‘He’s probably dead by now… But we don’t have time for all that. Look, Daruka, I need you to get the people out, keep them safe. Send word to Hastina. Partha and Panchali will come for sure, maybe Dharma will too. They’ll know what to do. Send word, and meanwhile, keep the people safe.’

‘And when do I bring the people back into the city?’

Govinda said nothing, but pulled Daruka into a quick embrace. ‘Go now. The people need you.’

Govinda’s words held a finality that Daruka did not have the will to dispute. He bowed deep, as he had not in years; not since the day a young prince had shown him that there was no such thing as servitude. With a last look at his beloved commander, Daruka left.

Govinda watched till the captain had disappeared from view, and then made his way down some stairs till he was at the water’s edge. Barriers and seawalls diminished the force of the ocean’s mighty waves, and here the water lapped gently against the lowest walls that bounded Dwaraka. Set into such a wall was a heavy door, its hardly used wood and metal crusted over with the moss and seashells of years. Behind the doorway lay a narrow stairway that led down to the deepest levels of the island city – its underwater foundations.

Govinda took out a key from his waistband, an old, dark piece of metal, one of a set of two that would open the door. The door, however, was already open. No doubt, whoever had entered earlier had got the key from the captain of the city guard – not that the captain was a traitor, but dead men were in no position to oppose their assailants. Govinda pursed his lips, reluctantly admitting to himself that the plan had been well executed. But this was not the time for reflection or reprimand, and he thundered down the stairs, unheeding of the dark.

‘Arrgh!’ Govinda exclaimed as the flare of light burst on him. He was momentarily blinded, and a searing pain shot through his head. Breathing deep, he willed himself to wait till it passed, as he well knew it would. At length, he opened his eyes and squinted around through the blur of tears.

‘Well chosen,’ Govinda said, looking around by the glow of the flare in Devala Asita’s hand. The floor around them was covered with black nitre. Huge piles of nitre had also been stacked near the massive pillars that formed the foundation of the city above. The beams and cornices that supported the weight of Dwaraka too were connected by nitre-coated ropes.

It was as he had expected. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘it’s quite impressive. You’ve thought it through well…’

‘Shut up, Govinda! Have the humility to accept defeat when it stares you in the face.’

‘Defeat? I didn’t know I was in a fight, Devala. Why the talk of victory and defeat?’