THE

ARYAVARTA
CHRONICLES
BOOK 2

KAURAVA
Krishna Udayasankar
 This ebook published in 2013 by
Hachette India
(Registered name: Hachette Book
Publishing India Pvt. Ltd)
An Hachette UK company
www.hachetteindia.com

(Text) Copyright © 2013 Krishna

Udayasankar

Krishna Udayasankar asserts the

moral right to be identified as the
author of this work
 Map on p. ix illustrated by Priya
Kuriyan
Author photo by Alvin Pang

All rights reserved. No part of the

publication may be copied,
reproduced, downloaded, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted in
any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the
publisher, nor be otherwise
circulated in any form of binding
or cover or digital format other
than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition
being imposed on the subsequent
 purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Any

resemblance to real persons, living
or dead,
is purely coincidental.

Print edition ISBN 978-93-5009-

634-5
Ebook edition ISBN 978-93-5009-
646-8

Hachette Book Publishing India

Pvt. Ltd
4th/5th Floors, Corporate Centre
Plot No. 94, Sector 44, Gurgaon
 122009, India

Cover illustration by Kunal Kundu

Cover design by Ahlawat Gunjan

Originally typeset in Arno Pro

11/13.2
by Eleven Arts, New Delhi
 Contents

Author’s Note
Cast of Characters

Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26

Part II
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Standing on the Shoulders of
Giants
Acknowledgements
 Author’s Note

Aryavarta, circa second

millenium BCE

In a large glen somewhere in

the verdant forests of
Naimisha, a sattra, or
conclave of scholars, has
been convened by the sage
Saunuka Kulapati. Here, in
what is described as a
sacrifice lasting twelve years,
the finest scholar–seers of the
land, the keepers of
knowledge, have gathered to
discuss the knowledge of
their times and give final
form to its codification as the
Vedas, Books of Knowledge.
At the centre of this conclave
stands Ugrashravas Sauti, the
bard, traditional keeper of the
ancient narratives known as
the Puranas. The story he tells
them, however, is their own,
the tale of who they are and
how they have come to be
there.
He calls it Jaya. Victory.

To the gathered scholars at

Naimisha, that story was
neither ancient nor
mythological. It was itihasa,
or history. Jaya was
undeniably a tale of its time,
and just as posterity elevated
the great men of that time and
saw them as gods, so too was
the story’s context adapted
and its reality turned into
metaphor. In order to go
behind the metaphor, and to
tell the tale as mytho-history
rather than mythology, the
essential question that came
to my mind was: If Govinda
and all the other characters of
this grand narrative had
walked the world as we know
it today, bound by our
language and constructions,
our common perceptions of
physics, psychology and
politics, what might their
story really have been?
Surprisingly, at its core it
may not have been very
different from the one that
took form millennia ago
during the conclave of
Naimisha.

Reproduced from The Aryavarta

Chronicles Book 1: Govinda.

Like societies, stories are

made up of two elements that
I call (admittedly, with
neither theological nor
philosophical expertise)
moral imperative and moral
principle. Moral principles
are the relatively immutable
values that guide human life,
perhaps even underlie
philosophical evolution,
whereas moral imperatives
are the derivative rules that
are part of social structure,
the behavioural norms
embedded in everyday
interaction. These norms are
often context-specific, and
change as the structure of
society changes. At the same
time, for any social institution
to survive, it must either
adapt to these changing
imperatives, or else justify
defying them.
Through a process of re-
interpretation and
interpolation, even some
aggrandization, the many
unnamed narrators who have
passed down such epic tales
through the centuries have
recast some events and
explained others differently to
make them not just palatable
but also plausible and
relevant to their audience.
What remains constant,
however, are the broad sweep
of the story and the moral
principles that underlie it.
There began the quest for
the story that lay hidden
beneath the larger epic tales
of ancient India. The story
that emerged as a result is the
product of research and
analysis based on both
mainstream and alternative
(e.g. Bhil and Indonesian
Kakawain) narratives, the
details of which are given at
the back of this book.
Based on these works,
ranging from Bankimchandra
Chattopadhyay’s and K.M.
Munshi’s interpretations in
their books Krishnacharitra
and Krishnavatara
respectively, to Van Buiten’s
critical translations of the
epic’s texts and Alf
Hiltebeitel’s scholarly
research papers and books on
their symbolism-rich
language, and to alternative
Bhil and Indonesian
Kakawain versions, to name a
few sources, it becomes
possible to construct a story
of why things may have
happened as they did, a
plausible narrative with
reasonable internal logical
consistency. Something that
could well have been history,
something that stands firm
not just on faith but also on
logic and science. In short,
the story of why something
might have happened.
And so, Aryavarta comes
to life not as a land of
demigods and demons in
strife, but as an empire of
nobles, commoners and
forest-dwellers in socio-
economic conflict. Kalas,
Yugas and the Wheel of Time
make sense as theories of
revolution and renewal, and
the terrible Rakshasas of
legend can be seen as
Rikshasas – Vriksha or tree-
people – their horned heads
and fanged teeth morphed
back into animal-horn
helmets and tiger-tooth
necklaces. The mythical epic
of old, a story of gods and all-
encompassing divine will in
action, then falls into place as
the tale of a feudal, agrarian
hierarchy based on natural
law and religion, caught in
the throes of technological
and economic change. In fact,
the moment we do away with
assumptions of both
preternatural and supernatural
forces, of omnipotence and
divinity, we find ourselves
necessarily seeking out
political, social and even
psychological explanations –
including theories of
conspiracy and political
intrigue.
We are the stories we tell.
The Aryavarta Chronicles are
neither reinterpretation nor
retelling. These stories are a
construction of reality based
on a completely different set
of assumptions – a distinction
that is important because
constructing shared reality is
what links individual to
society, however widely we
may define the latter. To that
extent, it no longer matters
whether these events
happened or not, or whether
they happened in a
completely different way,
because the idea that such
things have come to pass has
affected the lives of many for
a very long time now. There
is a sanctity which has
developed as a result of what
people have come to think
and do as they have interacted
with the spirit of these epic
tales and their characters,
with the world of Aryavarta.
At the end of the day, that
spirit is much, much larger
than any story, or a book.
I am simply one of those
innumerable bards who
passes the story on,
contexualized and
rationalized but not lacking in
sincerity or integrity. It is
you, the reader, who shall
infuse it with meaning and
bring it to life as you will.
 narayanaya vid
mahe
vaasudevaya dhi
mahi
thanno vishnu
prachodayaat

We shall know the

divine spirit within
We shall meditate on
the essence of all
beings
Thus, the all-pervading
shall blaze forth
 Cast of
Characters

The Firewrights
The Secret Keeper: Head of
the Firewright Order.
Ghora Angirasa: Former
Secret Keeper of the
Firewrights. Known for his
revolutionary ideas and
beliefs, many contrary to the
traditions of the Firewright
order.
Asita Devala: A Firewright
faithful to the old traditions
and beliefs of the Order.
Known for his skill with
hallucinogens and poisons, he
is considered one of the most
dangerous men in all
Aryavarta.

The Firstborn
Krishna Dwaipayana: The
greatest Vyasa – head – of the
Firstborn Order that
Aryavarta has ever seen, now
retired. Also biological father
to princes Pandu and
Dhritarashtra of the Kurus.
Sukadeva Vashishta Varuni:
Legitimate son of Krishna
Dwaipayana and heir to his
spiritual legacy.
Markand: Current Vyasa of
the Firstborn.

At Dwaraka
Govinda Shauri: Commander
of the Armed Forces of
Dwaraka. Formerly a prince
of Surasena, along with his
brother Balabadra he brought
together the warring Yadu
tribes to form a Federation of
Yadu Nations at Dwaraka.
Also rumoured to have been
responsible for the fall of
Firewrights, despite having
been Ghora Angirasa’s
student. For this reason, he is
considered a traitor by many.
Balabadra Rauhineya:
Govinda’s older half-brother.
Known for his fair and
straightforward nature as well
as his skill at wrestling and
mace-fighting.
Yuyudhana Satyaki: Cousin
to Govinda and Balabadra
and former prince of the
Vrishni clan.
Pradymna Karshni: The first
of Govinda Shauri’s adopted
sons. Married to Rukmavati,
princess of the Vidharbha
kingdom.
Samva Karshni: The second
of Govinda Shauri’s adopted
sons.
Daruka: One of the captains
of Dwaraka’s navy, and close
associate of Govinda Shauri.

At Indr-prastha
Dharma Yudhisthir: Emperor
of Aryavarta and king of
Western Kuru. Son of Prince
Pandu of the Kurus, has been
elevated to the role of
Emperor by Govinda Shauri.
Bhim Vikrodara: Second son
of Prince Pandu. Known for
his strength and skill with
arms.
Partha Savyasachin: Third
son of Prince Pandu. Known
as one of the best archers in
all of Aryavarta. Married to
Subadra Rauhineya of
Dwaraka.
Nakul Madriputra: First of
the twin sons of Prince Pandu
by his second wife, Madri.
Sadev Madriputra: Second of
the twin sons of Prince Pandu
by his second wife, Madri.
Panchali Draupadi: Empress
of Aryavarta and Princess of
Panchala. Married to Dharma
Yudhisthir as a result of a
wedding contest that was won
by his brother, Partha. Close
friend to Govinda Shauri, but
banishes him from Aryavarta
on her accession to the
imperial throne.
Ayodha Dhaumya: Royal
Priest and Counsellor to
Dharma Yudhisthir and his
family.
Subadra Rauhineya: Sister to
Govinda Shauri and
Balabadra Rauhineya.
Married to Partha
Savyasachin.
Abhimanyu Karshni: Son of
Partha and Subadra, and
adopted heir to Dharma
Yudhisthir.

At Hastina
Dhritarastra: King of Eastern
Kuru. Biological son of
Krishna Dwaipayana, he is
blind since birth and so was
forced to yield the throne to
his younger brother, Pandu.
Becomes king subsequent to
Pandu’s abdication.
Bhisma Devavrata: Patriarch
of the Kuru family and once
Regent of the kingdom.
Respectfully referred to as the
Grandsire and remains,
despite his age, an undefeated
warrior.
Syoddhan Kauravya: Eldest
son of Dhritarastra and
Crown Prince of Kuru.
Dussasan Kauravya: Third
son of Dhritarastra and
second-in-line to the Kuru
throne.
Shakuni: Former prince of the
Gandhara kingdom and
Dhritarastra’s brother-in-law.
Came to live at Hastina after
Bhisma Devavrata annexed
his nation and brought his
sister to Hastina as
Dhritarastra’s bride. Is
especially fond of his
nephew, Syoddhan.
Vidura: Half-brother to
Dhritarastra and biological
son of Krishna Dwaipayana
by a slave-woman.
Sanjaya Gavalgani: Prime
Minister of Kuru and
counsellor to Syoddhan
Kauravya. Was formerly a
student of Krishna
Dwaipayana and one of his
closest confidantes.
Acharya Dron: Teacher and
martial instructor to the
Kaurava princes, and one of
the senior advisors at King
Dhritarastra’s court.
Acharya Kripa: Dron’s
brother-in-law and fellow
advisor at King Dhritarastra’s
court.
At Kampilya
Dhrupad Parshata: King of
Southern Panchala.
Shikandin Draupada: Son of
King Dhrupad and once
Crown Prince of Panchala.
Known for his skills in the
wilderness and for his
distinctive braided hair.
Dhrstyadymn Draupada:
Adopted son of King
Dhrupad. He and his sister
Panchali were foundlings
who have no recollection of
their lives before their escape
from a burning structure in
the middle of Panchala’s
forests. Since his adoption,
King Dhrupad has declared
him the heir to the Panchala
throne, superseding
Shikandin.

At Upaplavya
Chief Virat: Chief of the
desert nation of Matsya.
Uttara Vairati: Virat’s
daughter.
General Keechak: Virat’s
brother-in-law, and General
of Matsya’s armies.

Others
Vasusena: King of Anga and
faithful friend to Syoddhan
Kauravya.
Jayadrath: King of Sindhu
and Syoddhan’s brother-in-
law.
Asvattama Bharadvaja: Son
of Acharya Dron and King of
Northern Panchala. Brought
up by his father as an
incomparable warrior.
Part 1
 1
‘DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?’
THE WOMAN PRESENTED A
SMALL BUT imperious figure
against the stately Elephant
Throne of Hastina.
Krishna Dwaipayana, in
his memory once again
twenty-eight and the youngest
to have ever been chosen
Vyasa of the Firstborn Order,
nodded in reply, and
mumbled, ‘Yes, Mother.’
The woman continued,
‘You know then how I, Satya,
came to be here, queen of this
lauded line of Kuru. Terrible
wrongs were done to my…to
our people, Dwaipayana. All
that I have lived for, all that I
have ever wanted, is a chance
to take back what was stolen
from us. My father was the
emperor of Aryavarta, the
great Uparichara Vasu of
Matsya, and my soul will not
know peace until my children
and their children sit on the
Imperial Throne once again.’
Dwaipayana willed the
image of his younger self not
to speak – and, if he did, to
say anything but the words
that had defined his life. But
there was nothing he could
do. The Wheel of Time had
long since turned, and
Dwaipayana, now old, frail
and almost forgotten, could
not undo what had already
been done. The words that
escaped his lips bound him
inextricably to the cause of
his step-brothers, of each and
every Kaurava: ‘Mother, I
promise you now, so it shall
be. Your line shall rule all of
Aryavarta. I shall see this
done.’
Her eyes remained on him
as he felt himself sliding into
an endless pit of darkness.
When finally he stopped
falling, he was in another
time, another place.
Dwaipayana entered a room
where his mother, old and
spent, lay dying. He knelt by
her bedside and took her frail
hand in his. She opened her
eyes at his touch. They were
as clear and keen as the day
he had first seen her on the
throne. Again, she wasted no
time on affection. ‘Do you
know who I am?’ she asked
him.
Dwaipayana lived again
the capricious emotions – the
surprise, the sympathy, as he
wondered whether her age-
addled mind was merely re-
enacting their first meeting.
‘Mother?’ he ventured.
Satya laughed, soundless,
her shrivelled body shaking
with the effort. ‘You don’t.
Neither did your father.’
Dwaipayana longed to shut
out the words he knew came
next, but they echoed loud
and unearthly in his mind.
‘No!’ he cried, and fell to his
knees. ‘No, it cannot be!’
As his mind swirled with
disbelief, he heard Satya
speaking again, her voice the
feeble and hoarse rasp of an
old, dying woman. ‘…and
that is the truth, the truth that
you have been blind to. But
now you have no choice.
Don’t forget your promise to
me, my son. Your blood – my
blood – must sit on the
imperial throne once again.
You must not go back on
your word, Vyasa of the
Firstborn.’
‘I won’t,’ Dwaipayana spat
out.
Satya laughed again, her
eyes fiery even as her spirit
dimmed. ‘This is my
revenge,’ she declared. ‘And
it won’t end quite as soon as
you think.’ The old queen
closed her eyes and sighed, a
smile curving the corners of
her mouth. Dwaipayana
watched as life seeped out of
her and she died, as though
settling into a content sleep at
the end of a long, tiring day.

Lightning cracked across the

sky, the searing white flash
lighting up the darkness
outside the warm, oil-lamp lit
hut. Dwaipayana sat up in his
bed as the rumble of thunder
shook the very core of the
earth.
A dream.
A dream that was a cruel
memory, a reminder of his
near-failure as Vyasa of the
Firstborn. The
acknowledgement of it left
his mouth as a quiet gasp.
He heard a gentle voice
from the corner of the room
ask, ‘Are you all right,
Father?’
Dwaipayana turned to look
at the speaker, the one being
he had allowed himself to
truly love and cherish, the
one familial bond that he had
neither resented nor ignored.
His son and the heir to his
spiritual title as Vyasa:
Sukadeva Vashishta Varuni.
Dwaipayana felt nothing but
pride when he heard the best
of scholars praise Suka as the
living embodiment of
Vashishta, the first of the
Firstborn. Though he did not
admit it, even to himself, his
son was also the very image
of his father, Parashara of the
line of Varuni – tall,
handsome and strong. Unlike
Dwaipayana himself.
 Dwaipayana had no
regrets. The power he had as
the Vyasa was more than
enough to compensate for his
unseemly appearance. Yet,
power alone meant little to
him. He had a purpose; the
reason why he had been
conceived. He was Varuni,
Firstborn, filled with the
essence of life-giving water.
His duty was to nourish and
nurture, to protect and care
for Aryavarta, and to keep its
people safe – from
themselves if need be. As he
had kept them safe from the
Firewrights…
Dwaipayana ran a hand
over his sweat-stained
forehead. He did not like to
dwell on the complex journey
that had brought him here,
preferring to enjoy his well-
earned rest in seclusion and
silence. He rarely spoke, even
with his own students and
fellow scholars, and received
no visitors from the outside,
not even those who had once
been his means to achieving
his desired end, an empire
ruled by Dharma Yudhisthir
Kauravya. He hoped to spend
the last of his days in such
peaceful silence, engaged in
nothing but meditation and
penance. But the occasional
dream, like the one tonight,
returned to remind him that
much could still go wrong.
These days, the dreams came
often, during the day as well
as at night.
‘Father, are you all right?’
Dwaipayana became aware
that his son’s gaze was still
on him. He nodded.
Suka’s reed stylus was
poised over the scroll on
which he had been working.
Despite his father’s response,
he did not continue with his
writing. With a soft grunt of
effort, the elder got up from
the thin reed mat that served
as his bed, and made his way
over to where Suka sat cross-
legged on the ground, a sheaf
of parchments set out before
him. The younger man moved
his shaded oil lamp to the
other side, making room for
his father to take a seat.
Dwaipayana sat down, again
with a little effort and,
picking up a scroll at random,
perused its contents with
pride. ‘You’re better at this
than I ever was, or your
grandfather, even.’
Suka dismissed the praise
with a chuckle, though his
face beamed to rival a bolt of
lightning. ‘A few more years,
and it will be done, Father,’
he said. ‘Soon, you will not
just be Krishna Dwaipayana,
but the Veda Vyasa, the great
leader of the Firstborn who
brought together the entire
knowledge of Aryavarta in
the Vedas, the books of
knowledge.’
‘Just an honorary title now,
my son. For we must give
serious thought to your
investiture in my stead.’
‘Father, I have been
meaning to tell you… You
should consider declaring
Markand as your successor.
He is, after you, the most
senior among us.’
‘He’s a quiet old fellow,
Suka. Seers are of three kinds
– the good ones, at least.
There is, first, the politician –
that’s what I am. Then there
is the scholar…’
‘That’s me, I suppose?’
‘Exactly. And then there is
the holy man, the man of
prayer and ritual, the one
people turn to for blessings
and consecrations and a word
of faith in troubled times.’
‘Ah. That might also be
me, now that I think about it.
But I suppose the description
suits Markand more.’
‘That is precisely what
Markand is.’
‘And that makes it the
seventh time you’ve said so
in the last two days.’
‘It does? When did I
last…?’ Dwaipayana
frowned, trying to recall the
instance.
‘Just before you also said
that he would make the
perfect successor in times
such as these. The politican’s
work is done, for you now
have an infallible empire. As
for the scholar’s work – that’s
another good reason to leave
me alone, though you didn’t
mention that. And you did
also say that Aryavarta now
needed spiritual and ritual
guidance. “This is the time
for piety to lead prosperity”,
were your exact words.’
Dwaipayana laughed.
‘Well did I name you “Suka”.
You do have the memory of a
parrot! But if I appoint
Markand as my successor
will you reconsider your
decision to… Well, you know
what I want you to
reconsider.’
Suka set down his quill
with just a touch of
exasperation. Dwaipayana
smiled indulgently at his son,
knowing him to be too mild a
man to be so easily vexed.
‘Really, Father,’ Suka said,
more amused than annoyed.
‘I’m far too old for you to go
on about my marriage. The
time for that is well past. My
life’s work is to see your
life’s work done.’ He
gestured to the scrolls in front
of them, and added, ‘Truly,
no wife could serve as a
better companion than these
tomes, nor could any child
sing our praises better in
times to come. I am content.’
A gust of wind whipped
past the heavy hemp and
cloth curtain that served as
the only covering over the
doorway to the modest hut. It
brought with it a spray of
rain, and the gentle flame of
the oil lamp guttered as the
wind howled through the
confined space. Suka rose to
his feet and secured the
curtain in place, tying the
threads that ran around its
sides to the wooden slits set
into the doorway for just this
purpose. That done, he
gathered the parchments that
lay scattered on the floor of
the hut and placed them in
front of Dwaipayana. ‘The
world will speak of us,
Father, of you and I, in
millennia to come. I ask for
nothing more. Announce
Markand as your successor.
And if you still wish, I am not
so old yet that I may not ever
have the honour of the title.
And for whatever political
threads that remain to be tied
up, there is always your old
student, Sanjaya.’
As yet another peal of
thunder echoed through the
sky, Dwaipayana felt a lump
form in his throat. Suka,
simple, innocent and pious,
he thought, the epitome of all
that he had worked to build
and protect. He placed his
hand on his son’s head in
blessing, feeling strangely
grateful for the decision he
had taken fifty years ago to
never speak of his mother’s
last words, to never share
with anybody the terrible
secret she had laid on his
conscience with her dying
breath. In all these years, it
seemed that no else had come
to know of it either. No one
could. Matsya, his mother’s
home, was nothing more than
a barren wasteland, ostracized
and looked down upon by all
of Aryavarta. There was no
way anyone could resurrect
the past. But what if he was
wrong? What if Suka ever
found out?
Dwaipayana forced back
the bile that rose in his throat,
as he contemplated the
terrible possibilities. Suka
will not survive such
knowledge, the ultimate
dishonour for the best of the
Firstborn. Suka will not be
able to weather the self-
loathing and anger against
his own kin that I have
struggled with. There were
few things worse than
looking upon your own
parents with fear and distrust,
as Dwaipayana knew well,
and he could not bear even
the suggestion that Suka
might ever see him that way.
With effort, the old scholar
dismissed the grey thoughts,
reminding himself that they
were of no consequence
anymore. He had won. The
danger was gone. Aryavarta’s
greatest days lay ahead. He
wished for just one more
thing – that someday his
beloved Suka would be
Vyasa in a land completely
free of the worst kind of
scourge its history had ever
seen. The Firewrights.
 2
THE SECRET KEEPER OF THE
FIREWRIGHTS WAS A MAN
OF FEW words and fewer
emotions still. Nevertheless,
it was with genuine warmth
that he considered the figure
sitting in a corner of the rustic
inn on a rough wooden bench
set against a table of the same
unpolished wood.
The room was well lit, with
torches burning on all the
stone pillars around the room,
but the man he had come to
meet sat so that his face
remained in the shadows. His
eyes were closed, his long
legs were stretched out
insolently before him and he
nursed a rough iron goblet in
his dirt-stained hand. The rest
of the fellow was equally
unkempt. His grey-black
wavy hair was in need of a
wash; his antariya – the
length of cloth covering the
lower part of his body – had
acquired the same veneer of
dirt that streaked his nearly
bare chest and had crept
under his chipped fingernails.
A rough stubble covered what
could be seen of his jaw.
Drink and travel both lay
heavy on him, the Secret
Keeper noted. A bundle that
was little more than a heap of
cloth lay nearby, on top of
what looked like the outline
of a thick staff or walking
stick. These, apparently, were
the vagabond’s only
possessions.
The Secret Keeper smiled
to himself, amused at the
thought that he, a scholar in
ochre robes, was far more out
of place in this surrounding
than the man he had come to
meet. Indeed, it was the best
setting to discuss things
discreetly – out in the open
and private by obviousness.
He stepped aside as two men,
one more drunk than the
other, stumbled their way out
of the room. As a matter of
habit, the intoxicated duo
paused to pick a fight with
him for partly blocking their
way. Yet, at the last instant,
their inebriation caused them
to forget why they had
stopped, and the two
continued to sway on out of
the drinking-house.
Despite his occupation,
strict discipline had left the
Secret Keeper with a body
that many a warrior would
envy. It served to deflect
altercation in its own way.
Yet, it took only a moment’s
study to see that even beyond
his robes – partly hidden
under a thick shawl – he was
not a man up for a fight. He
had never wielded a weapon
except while training in his
youth and he preferred that it
remained so. The man he now
approached, on the other
hand, reeked of violence. He
did not open his eyes as the
Secret Keeper advanced
towards him, but his hand slid
slightly towards the ragged
bundle that seemed, from
closer quarters, even more
tattered and dirty than its
custodian. It was only when
the Secret Keeper came
sufficiently close for the man
to hear the unique sound of
his hard wooden footwear
that he moved his hand away
and looked up in greeting.
Taking the gesture as an
invitation, the Secret Keeper
slid into the seat facing the
nearly recumbent traveller. A
serving woman dressed in
clothes that suggested she
would not be averse to
providing other forms of
entertainment appeared at his
side. She eyed him with open
appreciation despite his robes
of renunciation; whatever his
occupation, a man who had
made his way in here could
well be tempted to do more,
or perhaps the scholar’s guise
was just that – a guise. When
he waved away the flagon of
wine she held out to him, she
set a cup of water flavoured
lightly with basil leaves in
front of him and turned her
attention to his companion.
Leaning in closer than was
required, she refilled his
empty goblet and was
rewarded for it with a
dazzling smile, which left her
visibly breathless. Trying
hard not to show it, she
moved away.
 ‘How do you do that?’ the
Secret Keeper asked, amazed
at the effect his friend had on
the girl.
‘What do you care?’ the
man said from behind his
cup. ‘It’s not like you’re
going to be warming her
bed.’
‘I’m curious. Humour me.
As you said, it’s not like I
plan to give you competition.’
The man swallowed his
wine in a single gulp and
regarded the empty
receptacle, pensive. He
looked up at the scholar and
said, ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’re capable of
more love than the rest of us
put together, Govinda. You
don’t just love humanity;
you’re in love with it, with
every living being. I think
that is what shows.’
Govinda waved off the
analysis, unimpressed. ‘Fine,
now you know my secret. But
then, you are the Secret
Keeper…’ A soft, satisfied
smile spread on his face. It
could have been a drunken
gesture, but the Secret Keeper
knew better. It was the smile
of a man contented, replete
with well-deserved peace. He
wished he could bring
himself to feel the same way.
‘It is not a title that sits
well on me,’ he declared, a
touch roughly. ‘And it is you
I have to blame for my
position today.’
‘Me? What did I ever do to
you…Acharya?’
‘You, you itinerant gwala,
are the reason behind the
empire we now live in. You
had Princess Panchali married
to Dharma of Kuru, you saw
Dharma and his four brothers
to their rightful inheritance of
half a kingdom, you built the
kingdom into one of the
mightiest powers in
Aryavarta. That was just
another step in your scheme,
was it not? You were
determined to see Dharma
rule as Emperor of Aryavarta
– a great, united realm that
would embrace the
knowledge of the Firewrights
while leaving behind the
bitter legacy of their politics.
Lest I forget, this plan of
yours also served to rid you
of your most deadly enemy,
Jarasandha of Magadha. I’m
sure I’ve left out many salient
details of your manipulations,
but surely this suffices to
prove my point?’
Placing his wine goblet to
one side with a hard thud,
Govinda leaned forward, his
arms on the table between
them. ‘I did what had to be
done. We did what had to be
done. If we are going to argue
about the past, I suggest you
consider the circumstances in
which we acted. Ever since
the Firewrights failed to turn
the waters of the Saraswati,
their days were numbered.
They promised a new era in
cultivation and farming, but
brought only hunger and
death upon the realm. Who
could trust them, us, after
that? Aryavarta was
splintered and powerless. We,
the rebel Wrights, were
fighting the other Wrights,
and all of us were battling the
Firstborn. It would have only
been a question of time
before invaders took
advantage of the chaos here
and overran us. You know
how close it once came to
that! We had no choice; we
had to destroy the Firewright
order. And that is precisely
why Dwaipayana has let me
build this grand, united realm,
as you so dramatically
describe it.’
‘But this empire is not an
end in itself, is it? Rather, it is
a means to an end.’
‘Yes. But that end cannot
be achieved without the
empire. So it is as much an
end in itself as it is a means…
Not unlike the primordial act
of creation,’ Govinda said,
smiling at his own irreverent
jest.
The Secret Keeper did not
share in the mirth. He sat
forward, his stance mirroring
Govinda’s, and fixed him
with a steady gaze. ‘And
you? You left Indr-prastha
nearly three months ago,
barely days after Dharma was
crowned Emperor. By now
you should have left
Aryavarta, set sail for a
foreign land. But you’re still
here, roaming the empire
though you shouldn’t be! It
speaks either of idiocy or of
excessive inebriation, and
neither is a compliment to the
Commander of the armies of
Dwaraka. Leave. Aryavarta
no longer needs you.’
‘Aryavarta never needed
me, and I don’t want to make
the mistake of thinking it ever
did. We are all products of
time, of social inevitability,
that’s all. We are bound to
fade into oblivion. Surely,
that is a happy thought?’
‘It is,’ the scholar said.
‘Soon, Aryavarta will
remember neither Firstborn
nor Firewright. The new
empire that you have built
stands on the trade of
knowledge and resources,
which shall fuel our rise and
light the way – not just within
Aryavarta, but across the
world. But there are elements
of our plan beyond Dharma’s
ascent to the throne. Those
aspects will take years,
decades even, to mature.
What of the interim,
Govinda? If anything should
go wrong, the empire is too
young to stand on its own.’
Govinda bristled. ‘You had
agreed with me that this, too,
was necessary. We destroyed
the Firewrights to make sure
their knowledge – and not
their conflict-ridden order –
would survive. Your words,
not mine, mind you. By the
same token, unless the
Firstborn let go of their hold
over Aryavarta, it would not
be possible for the knowledge
of the Wrights to spread, to
be accepted and used. We had
to weaken Firstborn and
Firewright both, if the
fundamental structure of our
society was to change. Now,
the iron-work of the Nagas,
the medical science of
Kashi’s healers and the
miners of the east – all these
skills have been set loose
across Aryavarta through the
forces of commerce. They
will drive the empire to new
heights.’ Waving his empty
cup for emphasis, Govinda
declared, ‘You’ve spent too
much time amidst politicians,
Acharya. Your paranoia is
compelling, but unfounded.’
‘As is your optimism.’
‘My optimism, as you call
it, is nothing but faith in
people and in the power of
reason. The unified empire is
the key to prosperity. Which
ruler in his right mind will
want to destroy that?’
‘Don’t be so complacent,
Govinda. This is real!
Dwaipayana’s influence
wanes. He has announced
Markand as the next Vyasa,
and that man is as ineffective
as he is pious and gentle. I, on
the other hand, cannot reveal
my identity till the ultimate
task that has been left to me is
done. If I fail, or if I am
prematurely discovered, it
will destroy all that we have
worked so hard to build. We
must be careful!’
‘Which is why you’re the
right man for this position,
my friend. It takes great
courage to make oneself
useful at first and then
redundant. Ghora chose you
well.’
‘Your faith in me is
worrying. Even back when it
happened, not many Wrights
were happy that Ghora chose
to teach me. And now, to be
chosen the Secret Keeper – it
feels like a borrowed mantle.’
‘Ghora trusted you. That is
why he taught you, and that is
why he left the most
important element of our plan
to you. He declared you his
successor. There is no room
for argument.’
‘Really? I doubt the man
who sent the three
mercenaries at the door
would feel that way,’ the
Secret Keeper said, without
looking back in the
mentioned direction.
Govinda laughed softly as
he glanced up at the well-
built ruffians who stood in the
doorway to the inn. ‘I see
Devala Asita has fallen on
hard times. He did much to
stop Dharma’s imperial
campaign at every point he
could, and he was one of the
most formidable enemies I’ve
ever faced, but now… He
could have done better than
these three, for sure. Pity!’
The Secret Keeper clucked
his tongue, disapproving of
Govinda’s blatant confidence.
‘Those men didn’t come
cheap… Nor are they to be
easily dismissed, I think.’
‘Scared?’ Govinda teased
in return.
‘Why should I be? It’s you
they’re after.’
 ‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I am of no consequence to
Devala. Besides, how do you
think these men found you
here? I brought them to you –
in return for a ride here on
their horse-cart, a few copper
pieces, and some casual
conversation, the details of
which have since found their
way to those who will use the
information well. If you must
know, Devala Asita is hiding
on the outskirts of the Eastern
Forests.’
‘And you found my life
worth bartering for this
information?’ Govinda
continued in mock protest.
The scholar calmly took a
sip of his water. ‘You know
what they say, Govinda. An
individual for a family, a
family for a village. And so, a
Firewright for an empire. It is
not a new exchange for us.
Besides, didn’t you just
present persuasive arguments
as to why you were now
redundant?’
Govinda groaned under his
breath, but his eyes held a
discernible gleam. ‘Don’t tell
me that for their kindness
you’ve blessed them with
good health, Acharya… You
know I don’t like getting into
theosophical disputes with
you about divine wish and
human will. I’d hate to see
your blessings fail.’
‘I’ve wished them the best
in their afterlife. It’s up to
you how soon they’ll get
there.’
Govinda rose from his seat
but stumbled and knocked
himself against the wooden
table, toppling the glass of
basil water and spilling its
contents all over the surface.
With a resigned sigh, the
Secret Keeper swung his legs
out of the way and sat back
against the wall.
‘My apologies,’ Govinda
offered, as he made a clumsy
grab at his innocuous bundle,
pushing the cloth off to reveal
an engraved hilt that shone
even in the dim lamplight of
the room. He yelped as his
inebriated grip slipped and
the blade spun around on the
bench to rap him on the
knuckles. Looking very much
like a truant who deserved
that and more, he straightened
up, weaponless, just as the
three men rushed towards
him with ready blades of their
own.

3
THE INN CAME ALIVE WITH
EXCITEMENT AND FEAR.
FIGHTS HAD become rare in
the past months but were not
completely unheard of, and
while the meek-hearted
scrambled as far as they could
from the fray, those who were
bolder, or simply more bored,
stayed where they were and
looked on in anticipation as
the three assassins sprang
forward.
The men were trained
killers and knew that their
quarry was not to be taken
lightly. They hemmed
Govinda in from three sides,
trying to put the crowded
confines to good use by
backing him further into his
corner. The Secret Keeper sat
as he was, with his back to
the wall, making no attempt
to hide from his recent
acquaintances, but the
assassins simply ignored him.
The man in the middle
advanced, swinging his axe
hard in what he hoped would
be a killing strike. His blade
missed Govinda’s ear by a
hair’s breadth, meeting the
rock surface of the wall with
a dull thud. The impact
travelled up his arm, making
him drop his weapon. Dully,
the mercenary looked around
for his quarry, only to realize
that Govinda had shifted his
position by a foot. Using the
instant of surprise, Govinda
rammed his elbow into the
man’s face, the impact
breaking his adversary’s nose
even as he caught the man’s
left eye socket. Blood
splattered on the walls and on
a few of the inn’s patrons as
the assassin fell to the
ground, writhing in pain.
Govinda did not wait to
admire his bloody handiwork,
but met the second of his
attackers head on, grabbing
the man’s stabbing arm with
his left hand even as he side-
stepped the attack. His grip
on the man’s wrist still firm,
Govinda pulled him close,
caught his neck in the crook
of his arm, and twisted. The
man’s neck snapped with a
chilling crack that was lost in
the fracas as the crowd
cheered and shouted.
 That left one assassin.
The Secret Keeper saw a
veteran across the room, a
fighting man by his scars, sit
back and raise his drink to his
lips with an appreciative
gesture. For his own part, he
had kept his seat but shifted
in it to get a better view of the
encounters in progress. The
first man’s blood had stained
his ochre robes, but beyond
making a mental note to burn
the garment before he made
his way home the scholar had
not reacted to it.
‘Your friend fights well.’
The Secret Keeper turned to
notice the serving woman
standing next to him, one
hand on her shapely hip.
‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘Didn’t he tell you…last
night…? Or pehaps there was
no breath to spare for
conversation?’
 ‘You’re no holy one, you!’
the woman lightly rebuked
him before turning her
attention back to the fight.
The last assassin had now
joined the skirmish, having
bodily thrown aside the table
that had been barring his way
and its occupant along with it.
He charged at Govinda with a
long, serrated sword. At a
disadvantage in the cramped
space, Govinda found himself
being pushed back slowly
against a table. His satisfied
attacker paused, savouring
the moment, and then
whipped his blade down in a
determined blow. Govinda
reached up and grabbed the
wooden rafters that ran the
width of the room at even
intervals. He hoisted himself
up just as the serrated blade
swished past his thigh. In the
same motion, he swung
himself forward, using the
thrust to kick his attacker in
the chest. Landing smoothly
as his opponent staggered
back, Govinda threw a hard
punch at the man’s face. As
the man reeled back on his
heels, he used both his hands
to break his opponent’s
sword-arm. The serrated
blade fell to the ground with a
clatter. As the burly fellow
doubled over in pain,
Govinda brought his knee up
hard into the man’s chest,
crushing his ribs.
The room fell silent, save
for the whimpering of the
first man, who lay on the
blood-stained floor, his ample
guts threatening to spill out
through his bile-stained
mouth. Govinda cursed at the
sight before striding over to
finally draw his silver-white
blade from its scabbard, his
every move betraying the
least trace of what had earlier
appeared to be inebriation.
Raising his sword high he
brought it down in one clean
stroke, beheading the fallen
man and putting him out of
his torment, as the room
erupted in a unanimous roar
of approval.
Next to the Secret Keeper,
the serving-woman
reluctantly stirred. ‘You two
had best get out of here
before the imperial soldiers
arrive. Brawling is hardly
tolerated these days, even in a
place such as this. Go! We’ll
tell the soldiers you escaped.’
She pushed at him gently,
uncaring of his ostensible
vows to avoid feminine
touch. The scholar nodded his
thanks and began making his
way out, avoiding the dead
bodies on the floor.
 ‘Later then, dear,’ Govinda
winked at the serving woman
before picking up his cloak
and following his friend out.

‘This way,’ the Secret Keeper

led Govinda away from the
road outside and headed into
the woods nearby. The
wayside inn was one of the
many that dotted the Great
Road that ran the length and
breadth of Aryavarta, girding
its wide expanse into one
united region. The road was
the empire’s pride, its life
veins, and imperial soldiers
patrolled its every stretch
with diligence. It was
imperative that the two men
quickly put as much distance
as possible between them and
the road.
Govinda followed the
Secret Keeper without
protest, sheathing his sword
as they walked into the
darkness. With the
knowledge that came of a
common training, he knew
the scholar was leading him
to where his horse Balahak
was tethered. As the two men
emerged into a glade, the
silver-white Qamboja stallion
greeted his rider with a
hushed whinny. Govinda
lovingly stroked the horse’s
neck before turning back to
the man beside him.
‘Wash your sword and
yourself as soon as you can.
Unless, of course, you want
to be brought before your
Emperor on accusations of
murder?’ the scholar
needlessly instructed.
Govinda nodded. ‘What
about you?’ he asked.
‘I’ll be fine. Once I get rid
of these blood-stained robes,
they won’t even think of
looking for me. What is one
harmless scholar, after all, in
a land like Aryavarta?’
The statement carried an
air of finality that Govinda
did not like. He stepped
forward to place his hands on
the other man’s shoulders.
‘Why did you come here, my
friend? Why did you really
come looking for me? If
anyone had seen us together,
everything we’ve worked so
hard for would be ruined!’
The scholar nodded his
agreement, but added by way
of counter, ‘I had to see you,
Govinda.’
‘In Rudra’s name,
Acharya, why? You’re not a
man of sentiment.’
The scholar frowned. ‘I can
be on occasion, though this is
not one such. I’m here
because you’re still here.’
‘You think I’m keeping a
secret from the Secret
Keeper?’
‘I think you have too sly a
tongue to admit it and too
much of a brain to ignore
what I’m telling you.’
‘And what are you telling
me?’
‘Leave! Your task here was
done three months ago, yet
you’ve tarried far too long
and that unwise act worries
me.’
 ‘What doesn’t worry you,
Acharya?’
‘Don’t quibble, Govinda. I
never worried in the least
when you were busy being a
decadent flirt, but you are an
outcast now… Accept it, my
friend.’
‘You’re right, Acharya. I
am an outcast. My
Empress…’ Govinda
chuckled as he corrected
himself and let his voice
betray a trace of affection,
‘Panchali…my brave,
petulant Panchali, has sworn
me into leaving, to never
return. I shall make one last
journey to say farewell, and
then…’
‘Rudra help you, Govinda.
You leave those you love
behind forever.’
‘We left them behind many
years ago, Acharya. We left
them all behind the day we
became who we are.’
The Secret Keeper felt his
heart grow heavy with the ties
that had been broken and
forged by that one truth
alone. Reverentially, he
whispered the word that
bound them both:
‘Firewrights.’

4
DEVALA ASITA MOVED
THROUGH THE MISTY
FOREST DAWN WITH the
stealth of familiarity and the
certainty of confidence. He
felt no fear. He could hardly
say the same of the men who
were pursuing him, or at least
those who remained alive and
able after setting foot into
these woods. In these times of
plenty and prosperity, the
dark depths of the Eastern
Forests had become a haven
for the last of the lawless, the
ultimate refuge for those who
were evil enough and
desperate enough to continue
with their outlaw ways. The
unified dung pile of Emperor
Dharma Yudhisthir’s unified
Aryavarta, as Devala liked to
think of it.
It had been a hundred days
since Dharma Yudhisthir had
been crowned Emperor, and
every one of those wretched
days had lacked nothing in
peace and bounty. It was, the
people warmly said, as
though Indra of the celestials
himself sat on the imperial
throne, for every dawn, if not
every muhurtta, brought news
of trade treaties with foreign
nations, alliances with would-
be invaders, and plans that
promised development. The
latter was a task to which the
huge and well-trained
imperial army had been
assigned, effectively keeping
the soldiers well-occupied
and content in these times of
no conflict. It was a brilliant
plan, one that Devala knew
the Emperor was completely
incapable of devising on his
own. The thought spurred a
surge of hatred from the core
of his heart for the man
whose invisible hand had
brought it all about. A man
named Govinda Shauri.
A loud snarl slipped from
Devala as the name came to
mind, startling a colourfully
plumed bird that had been
watching his progress without
demur. Before the bird could
cry out, his hand went to the
sash at his waist, drew out a
slim dagger and sent it flying.
The blade beheaded the bird
just as it unfurled its wings.
Its dismembered body
dropped to the ground
without a flutter, even as
Devala moved under the
branch to retrieve his dagger
from mid-air before the sound
of it falling into the thicket
below could give his position
away. He considered the
carcass before him with a
touch of satisfaction, but the
mild violence he had
indulged in could nowhere
near enough assuage his
anger. Far too much
Firewright blood had been
spilt and for far too long.
Once, his scholarly order
had been the mightiest of
powers in all Aryavarta, the
mind, heart and sacred soul of
this great empire. Till that
miserable traitor of a
cowherd, that rebel, Govinda
Shauri, had destroyed them
all for his own ambition.
Govinda had ingratiated
himself with the Firstborn,
shed Firewright blood, and
raised himself to power,
building a new, mighty nation
in Dwaraka. And then, when
it had seemed that the death
of the rebel leader Ghora
Angirasa, the last Secret
Keeper of the Firewrights,
would change the face of
Aryavarta and bring the true
Wrights back to power,
Govinda Shauri had again
systematically destroyed
them, this time under the
pretext of building an empire
in the name of Dharma
Yudhisthir, the king of
Western Kuru.
Devala was on the verge of
tears as he thought of all that
he had faced, all that he had
been through to stop that
treacherous bastard Govinda
from annihilating what
remained of the few secret
clusters of Wrights that had
survived. He wished yet again
that he had gone after
Govinda himself, instead of
sending those hired assassins.
But revealing himself was not
a risk he could take, without
being completely sure that his
quarry truly was Govinda. He
was, after all, the most
wanted man in the entire
empire. Devala would gladly
offer his own life as sacrifice
to the gods if they blessed
him with one chance to kill
the man who had brought
them to this. In return, he
would anoint their altars with
Govinda’s blood. Yes!
Rage coursed through the
Firewright, bringing him to a
halt. Shaking as he tried to
bring his emotions under
control, he looked around
him. This was, he decided, as
good a spot as any to lay his
trap. He glanced around the
small patch of less dense
foliage that was not quite a
clearing and made his way to
one of the large banyan trees
that marked its edge.
Assuring himself of the cover
it provided, he stepped out
into the clearing. He drew a
thick, copper cylinder from a
hide bag and poured out its
viscous contents to form a
circular border around the
periphery of the clearing,
taking care to not, at any
point, touch the colourless,
odourless ooze with his bare
hands. He watched as the
liquid hardened, drying
immediately to form a brittle
border. Satisfied, he stepped
back into the shadow of the
banyan tree.
Soon, the forest around
him came alive with an
unnatural bustle as men
attempted to close in on him
from different sides. He had
chosen his spot well, for no
sound came from the
direction of the banyan tree.
He could easily escape that
way once he had seen to his
adversaries. Pulling out an
arrow from the quiver on his
back, he set it to his bow and
waited. Moments later, a tall,
light-skinned man emerged
through the shrubbery.
‘Stay where you are!’ the
man barked. The frantic
rustling ceased, and confused
exclamations and further
orders filled the air.
‘What happened,
Asvattama?’ a regal voice
asked, irritated.
‘We’ve found the bastard,’
the tall man replied, taking a
careful step forward.
Asvattama’s voice held a
politeness as he addressed
their quarry, though his eyes
did not mirror it, ‘Don’t be
scared, Devala. We won’t
hurt you…too much.’
‘Scared, Asvattama? Of a
traitor like you? Or of your
pack of rats?’ Devala
meaningfully aimed his arrow
at the dried dregs of the liquid
he had poured out earlier.
‘You know what that is. It
will take the smallest impact
to set it off. Quite a powerful
explosion. You wouldn’t
survive, nor would your
friends.’
‘What in Rudra’s
name…?’ the irritated
speaker now cut his way
through the undergrowth. He
cut a handsome figure and
held his good looks with all
the arrogance that came of his
nobility.
‘Careful now,
Dhrstyadymn,’ Asvattama
said as he took in Devala and
his arrow. He turned to the
troops clustered behind him
in the undergrowth and
repeated the warning, adding
instructions to stay close to
the line of shrubbery.
Devala turned to the new
arrivals with a mock bow.
‘My, my! Two sworn
enemies side by side. This is
a fortunate sight indeed!
Crown prince Dhrstyadymn
of Southern Panchala fights
alongside Asvattama, king of
Northern Panchala. And
that’s not all…you’ve
brought friends along, I see.
Sanjaya! The Vyasa does
think highly of me if he sends
so many men.’
Sanjaya Gavalagani,
minister and advisor in the
service of King Dhritarastra
of the Kurus and faithful
disciple of Krishna
Dwaipayana Vyasa, squeezed
the hilt of his sword, a gesture
that suggested lack of
experience rather than
familiarity with the weapon.
He gingerly kept his distance
from the potentially explosive
periphery as he made his way
towards Asvattama. ‘Well?
What are you waiting for?
Get him!’
‘Muhira! Don’t be an idiot,
Sanjaya!’ Asvattama
snapped. ‘Do you even know
what that is? It’s called a
Ring of Fire – one of the most
painful ways to die the
Firewrights ever devised. It
will take the slightest
disturbance to set it off. Keep
your thick feet well away
from it.’
‘That’s right, Asvattama.
See what happens when a
pack of hyenas try to hunt
down a lion? You never did
stand a chance against me.
You were dead the instant
you set foot into these
woods,’ Devala gloated,
malicious. With a leer, he
added, ‘And now that you
realize what a terrible mistake
you and your men have made,
I have no further need to keep
you alive.’ He pulled back the
string of his bow, drawing a
yelp of panic from Sanjaya.
An impetuous Dhrstyadymn
made to throw himself at
Devala but held back, grimly
aware of the Ring of Fire in
front of him. Around them,
sharp sounds of weaponry
being readied filled the air as
the soldiers drew their swords
and raised their bows.
It came without warning,
even for those who expected
it to happen sooner or later.
One moment, Devala stood
with the power of life and
death in his hands; the next,
he was bent over, screaming,
his arrow-arm excruciatingly
bent back, for it had been
snapped at the elbow. But the
Firewright turned out to be a
hardier warrior than he had
let on, for under the cover of
his pain he turned around to
confront his assailant. Using
his other arm, he pulled out a
menacing sword from its
scabbard and swung it hard.
‘Watch out!’ Dhrstyadymn
cautioned as he noticed the
dark stain on the edge of the
blade that hinted at a deadly
poison. He need not have
worried, for Devala’s
opponent reacted with the
swiftness and precision of a
hunting animal, bringing up
his own sword to counter
Devala’s stroke even as he
used the edge of his hand to
land a hard blow on the
Firewright’s face. Then he
struck Devala in the
abdomen, using the force of
the Firewright’s fall to snap
the sword-hand at the wrist
and let the blade clatter to the
ground. He used his grip on
Devala’s arm to lift the man
and fling him over his
shoulder and on to the hard
ground. It was over as
quickly as it had begun.
Devala lay squirming on the
mossy ground of the forest,
the tip of a sharp sword
aimed unerringly at his throat.
His opponent stood towering
over him, green-brown eyes
blazing with undisguised
wrath.
‘Shikandin!’ Devala
managed to exclaim through
gritted teeth. His eyes came
to rest on the silver-white
beads around Shikandin’s
neck. ‘You…’
Ignoring the stream of
expletives that followed,
Shikandin gestured to the
soldiers to come forward. The
prone Firewright made a last
attempt to grab at the
explosive-coated rope with
his good arm, his rage
overcoming his need for self-
preservation. The action only
served to invite Shikandin’s
hide-soled foot to come down
hard on the knuckles of his
outstretched hand.
Devala cried out again, as
Shikandin rasped, ‘The only
reason you’re still breathing
is because the Vyasa insists it
be so. For my part, I would
have liked to gut you alive
and then slit your throat.’
‘Calm down, Shikandin.
This scum deserves to die
many times over for what he
has done. But that pleasure
shall be denied us… for the
time being,’ Asvattama said.
He added, ‘We better get out
of here before one of us steps
on this infernal thing by
accident. I’ll set it off once
we’re a safe distance away.
Sanjaya, he’s all yours now.
Take him, and don’t lose
him!’
Sanjaya made to retort but
seemed to reconsider. He
pulled his sword out of its
scrabbard and pointed it,
quite unnecessarily, in
Devala’s general direction.
He signalled to four gigantic
men who had been waiting
quietly behind the soldiers.
The men – guards of
Hastina’s prison as was
evident from their metal and
hide uniforms – gleefully
stepped forward to take the
Firewright into their custody.
Once, their vocation had
demanded gruesome
excellence in various methods
of torture, skills that had been
perfected during the Great
Scourge when Firewrights, or
those accused of being of the
order, had filled Aryavarta’s
prisons in plenty. There was
little demand for their art
now, and the four guards
regarded Devala with
childlike joy.
Shikandin helped the men
secure Devala’s hands and
legs so that he could walk
with assistance, but do little
else. Asvattama confiscated
the Firewright’s possessions
and checked his person for
concealed weapons.
Together, the two pulled the
prisoner to his feet. Devala
looked from one to the other,
making no effort to hide his
contempt. Finally, Asvattama
pulled out a scroll from a
band on his upper arm. He
did not bother to unfurl it,
merely flashing the seal
emblazoned onto the scroll
for emphasis. In a strong
voice, he declared, ‘In the
name of Dharma Yudhisthir,
Emperor of Aryavarta, you
are under arrest. You will be
taken to Hastina for further
interrogation, following
which you will be tried and
sentenced for your crimes.’
 ‘And what crime might
that be?’ Devala spat out, his
rage now heightened by his
predicament.
Shikandin replied, ‘The
crime of being a Firewright.’
Devala laughed, cold and
cruel. The sound filled the air
with an unnatural sense of
foreboding, and around them
birds and small animals
added disturbed cries of their
own. He waited till all was
silent again before saying, so
that only the two men next to
him could hear, ‘Firewright,
huh? In that case, tell your
executioners to sharpen
another blade. You both
know that I’m not the only
one.’ With a last, defiant
glance at the two, who
refused to be provoked to
show any reaction, he let the
prison guards lead him away
to the edge of the woods,
where they had tethered their
horses. Sanjaya followed
right behind.

The sun had risen and the

mist dispersed by the time the
prison guards brought Devala
out of the forest. He did not
protest as the guards chained
his wrists to his ankles and
unceremoniously heaped him
into a dark carriage that was
little more than an airless
wooden box mounted onto
four wheels. Shikandin
emerged from the woods,
throwing a delighted glance
in Devala’s direction as he
rode past the still-stationary
carriage. By the time the
prison guards were ready to
leave on what Devala knew
would be a slow, silent
journey, Shikandin and his
companions had long faded
away.
 Closing his eyes, Devala
let out a deep sigh, a sign of
weakness that he knew he
ought not to show but
nevertheless failed to hold
back. He expected to be left
alone with the pain of his
defeat and capture but, to his
disgust, Sanjaya clambered
on to the carriage and perched
himself on the rough wooden
plank set into one of the
sides.
 ‘Go on,’ Sanjaya ordered
the prison keepers.
The guards exchanged
glances, making it obvious
that they neither approved of
nor appreciated Sanjaya’s
presence in the carriage with
their prisoner. Sliding open
the small shutter that would
admit a solitary beam of light
into the otherwise sealed
carriage, the guards lifted into
place the heavy door and
barred it shut with an iron
rod. In the near-darkness,
Devala and Sanjaya listened
as the guards ran thick chains
through rings set on the
outside of the carriage.
Shouts of instruction and
coordination filled the air
and, with a jerk, the carriage
began to move. Soon, all
conversation on the outside
ceased, and the trundle of
wheels and the rise and fall of
the horses’ hooves filled the
air in a deceptively soothing
rhythm.
In a soft voice, Devala
ventured, ‘I’m surprised,
Sanjaya. You show more
courage than I had expected,
sitting here in the dark with
me.’
‘As am I,’ Sanjaya replied.
‘It is your sheer foolishness
that I find surprising, in the
dark or otherwise.’
 ‘Foolishness? For all you
know I have a dagger but a
hair’s breadth away from
your throat.’
‘If you do, that merely
reaffirms my point. Only a
fool lets his fear overcome his
curiosity.’
‘Oh? What should I be
curious about?’
‘For one, why the Vyasa
insists that you remain alive
when our dear friends
Shikandin and Asvattama
would both have loved to rip
you in two and hack away at
their half of your carcass? For
another, why should I be
here, suffering your presence,
unless I thought it worth my
while?’
A shadow flickered across
Devala’s face, the beginnings
of uncertainty. ‘What do you
mean?’ he asked, terse.
Sanjaya sat back in his
seat. A beam of light fell
directly into his eyes through
a small crack in the wooden
sides. Still, he did not blink.
The carriage passed over a rut
in the rough road and the
beam shifted. He closed his
eyes, welcoming the cool
purple that swirled before
them. ‘You’re not alone,’ he
suddenly announced. Softly,
he added, ‘You were never
alone.’
 Devala’s breath was a hiss.
‘You? A Firewright?’ he
asked with undisguised
disbelief.
‘Not just any Firewright,
Devala. A true Firewright.
One born of the blood of
those destined to rule these
lands and, by Hara and Agni,
I will claim that destiny!’
Many questions needed to
be asked, but Devala knew
there would be time, later, to
swap stories. What mattered
now was the hope that had
risen in him against all odds.
It was therefore with
reluctance that he asked, as
though he would be remiss if
he did not, ‘How do I know
you’re telling me the truth?
I’ve neither seen you, nor
heard of you, though I’ve
spent much of my life among
the Wrights. How do I know
you are who you say you
are?’
Sanjaya gave an approving
nod. ‘My life is my proof. I
have always shown loyalty to
the Kuru kings and to the
Firstborn, but I have done so
to achieve certain things, and
they will speak for
themselves. Unless you
would rather set your faith in
whatever sychophant Secret
Keeper that rebel Govinda
Shauri will install to lord over
us all… Perhaps you can
worship a puppet that makes
the right noises, but I would
rather die than have a traitor
command me in the name of
my order, my kin! We will
rise again, Devala, and not
under some self-serving
cowherd.’
The sheer improbability of
Sanjaya’s assertions gave his
claim more credence than any
reasoned argument could.
Devala set aside his
reservations and directed his
attention to the future. ‘Are
there more of us? Enough of
us to rise again? Where are
they hidden? Jatavedas be
praised! What I would give to
set my eyes on true
Firewrights, to live in their
midst. But there will be time
for that later. Has the uprising
been planned already?’
‘Well, there’s the two of
us…for now.’
Devala’s joy ebbed as
swiftly as it had risen. ‘Two
of us?’ he repeated,
incredulous. ‘Say that a little
louder, Sanjaya, and all it will
get you is a cell next to mine,
or the gallows. Two of us!
Yabha!’
Sanjaya clucked his tongue
in mild reprimand. He began
to say something but stopped,
reflecting quietly on his
words. At length, he
confessed, ‘Despite the fact
that I hate Govinda Shauri
with all my heart, there is one
thing – just one thing – that I
have learnt from him. Rather,
I had occasion to learn
because of him. Men are like
cows, Devala. It doesn’t take
a hundred men to herd as
many cows. It takes just one.
And so it shall be with us.
The empire binds these fool
kings together. Break this
empire, and a man will no
longer trust his own brother, a
father will no longer trust his
son. When that happens, they
will turn to us. They will hate
us and fear us and turn to us
because they will hate and
fear each other more. All they
will believe in is us; they will
feel safe only in the power
that we can give them. And
just one name, one whisper of
the word “Firewright”, will
be enough to bring every one
of them to his knees! Our
name, Devala, our name! We
will rule these men, these
kings of Aryavarta by the
power of our knowledge. We
are enough.’
Devala squinted,
unconvinced. ‘And
Dwaipayana, the Vyasa?’ he
asked. ‘What makes you
think he won’t stop you – or
the two of us, mighty force
that we’ve now become?’
Sanjaya looked out of the
slit in the door, taking in the
scenery they passed by as if it
were an everyday affair for
him to ride in a prisoner’s
carriage with a condemned
man. He turned back to
Devala with the same casual
air and said, ‘Because I know
the Vyasa’s deepest secret,
the one fact that can destroy
him and the entire Firstborn
order with him. For the
moment, it serves our
purposes better to keep this in
confidence, but there will
come a time when I will set
this wild beast off its leash
and leave it to wreak its
bloody havoc. The Firstborn
shall pay a thousand times
over for what they have done
to our kind.’
Devala considered the
words briefly, before
breaking into a delighted grin.
He opened his mouth and
curled his tongue back, letting
the other man see the thin,
reed-like blade hidden
underneath. The device had
been trained on Sanjaya all
the while. Devala made a
show of spitting it out, letting
it wedge, harmless, in the
wooden floor of their
carriage. ‘I wonder, Sanjaya,’
he coldly rasped, ‘which one
of us is the more dangerous
man.’
Sanjaya could not have
been less perturbed or more
cheerful as he said, ‘I look
forward to finding out.’

5
DHARMA, EMPEROR OF
ARYAVARTA, RECEIVED
WHAT OUGHT TO have been
the delightful news of Devala
Asita’s capture with muted
joy and the hint of a grimace.
If the messenger who had
brought him the missive was
the least surprised by it, he
did not show it as he
withdrew. Dharma was left
alone with an overwhelming
sense of the one thing that
bothered him beyond measure
– irony. Indeed, his life was
filled with it.
Many years ago, his
unexpected, but not
unwelcome, marriage to
Panchali, daughter of King
Dhrupad of Southern
Panchala had brought him
and his brothers out of their
anonymity and into the line of
inheritance to the Kuru
kingdom. Dharma had
thanked the gods and of
course their preceptor and
guide, Dwaipayana Vyasa.
Never had he expected that
the events that followed
would lead him to the throne
and, ultimately, to rule over
an empire. The irony of it all
surpassed by far the glory it
brought, a glory that he lived
with and ruled over, here at
Indr-prastha, the capital of
Aryavarta. He found no joy in
the breath-taking visions of
art and nature that greeted
him at every step as he
walked back to his personal
quarters. His thoughts were
far too despondent for that.
As a youth, Dharma had
been only too aware of the
politics that surrounded him.
His father, Pandu, was the
younger of King
Vichitravirya’s two sons and
had come to power only
because the elder,
Dhritarasthra, was blind.
When Pandu had died,
Dhritarastra had taken the
throne and the question of
succession had surfaced again
– leading to inevitable tension
between Dharma and
Dhritarastra’s eldest son,
Syoddhan.
Many a time, Dharma had
thought, no, he had longed to
set aside his claim to the
Kuru throne. But he had
never dared mention the
notion aloud. His brothers
and his mother would have
been heartbroken and for
their sakes Dharma had
continued in the role that was
expected of him, right to this
day. Just as he had longed for
a life of celibacy and frugality
but had been thrown into
matrimony for the sake of his
brothers.
As Emperor, he had no
interest in the affairs of
government, in the endless
disputes over water and land,
or old, ridiculous feuds of
honour between tiny fiefdoms
that he had never heard of.
The many nations were
constantly scheming to edge
up just another notch in
Aryavarta’s complex
hierarchy. Much to his
disgust, their kings
commonly bartered loyalties,
and formed and broke
alliances at will. Dharma
genuinely believed that his
duty was to uphold the
supremacy of divine law, the
sacred precepts laid down in
the scriptures. But the
political was now imperative
and the spiritual merely
optional.
His brothers could not
understand his agony, leave
alone share his burdens. The
four of them had been
brought up to believe that
Dharma would guide them,
and were incapable of even
temporarily adopting the role
of a leader. They were
exceptional, no doubt, in their
own ways, but none of them
had the acumen for
government. Nakul was
charming, but lacked
humility. Sadev was both
humble and as wise, some
said, as Vidur – Dhritarastra’s
renowned royal counsellor
and half-brother, and thus
also their uncle. That may
have proved to be his folly,
for Sadev tended to avoid
conflict at all costs. And
Partha, of course, was
dashing, brave and god-like.
When it came to matters not
connected with romance he
was, however, notoriously
indecisive. There was little
argument against Bhim. He
was brave, well-spoken and,
above all, reliable. But
Dharma had always thought
of him as the strong, simple
one among them, their
protector and shield, never
their leader.
The Emperor gnashed his
teeth unwittingly as he
confronted the thought that
had irked him every moment
in these past months. He,
Dharma, was no better than
his brothers. They were, at
least, as strong as they were
flawed. Each of them had
their claim to distinction. But
not he. The so-called
flawlessness, the devotion to
virtue that he was known for,
meant nothing. And that
meant he was nothing. For,
all that he had he owed to the
efforts of another. Govinda
Shauri, Commander of the
armies of Dwaraka.
Dharma tried hard to
ignore the questions that
sprang to his mind and the
memories that surfaced in
answer. Govinda’s actions at
the Kandava forest, Govinda
during the imperial campaign,
Govinda in Vidharbha,
Govinda at the Coronation…
With great effort, he drew his
mind back from the inevitable
question: Why? What was in
it for Govinda?
For the longest time
Dharma had believed that it
was he who had convinced
Govinda to take their side,
tempting him with the
thought of his bloodline
sitting on the throne of the
Kurus and eventually on the
imperial throne – Govinda’s
sister, Subadra, was Partha’s
wife, and their son
Abhimanyu had been
declared as the heir to
Dharma’s throne well before
Govinda had set out to
consolidate Dharma’s
kingdom for him. It had been
so easy to assume that
Govinda had acted in his
nephew’s interests and,
indeed, he often claimed that
he loved Abhimanyu as his
own son, a bond that Dharma
had been happy to encourage.
Now, the Emperor could not
help but wonder if there was
another explanation for all
that had happened.
He dismissed the thought.
It was best, he reasoned, that
as Emperor he remain
ignorant of certain things. He
could not be held responsible
for what he did not know. He
was Dharma, the just and
virtuous. It would remain that
way. And he would continue
to believe in Govinda’s best
intentions and, in turn, owe
everything to Govinda. His
empire, his throne and even
his wife, Panchali. The last
thought brought to his mind
another memory that he
longed to forget.
Two days after the
coronation, as they had lain in
bed still covered in the sheen
of their lovemaking, Dharma
had asked Panchali what she
felt like now that she was the
ruler of an empire. Panchali’s
answer had held neither awe
nor romance. ‘The Emperor is
powerless, yet susceptible to
blame,’ she had said, ‘and the
empire is stable but weak.’
He knew she was
absolutely right. Theirs was
an empire of consensus, held
together partly by the threat
of force and mostly through
diplomacy. He, as Emperor,
was nothing more than an
uncontroversial individual,
the kind who neither enjoyed
great support nor suffered
acute enmity. The many
nations of Aryavarta, the
Emperor’s vassals as they
nominally were, found this to
be an expedient arrangement.
For the most part, their affairs
were their own, but their
problems were the
Emperor’s. Every niggling
impediment could be referred
to the Emperor and easily
resolved at some cost to the
imperial treasury, while every
failure could now be blamed
on him. Most of the
kingdoms found their tribute
a reasonable price to pay for
such immeasurable
conveniences. They found it
to be an acceptable
arrangement, so acceptable,
in fact, that it had taken just
about a hundred days for the
new empire to become their
way of life.
Uncontroversial,
unremarkable, acceptable –
the epithets in honour of
mediocrity were endless. And
Dharma was just that – a
harmless, powerless,
mediocre ruler whom no one
took seriously. He had tried
not to give in to the
maddening thought, but
within weeks of his
coronation it had consumed
him completely. The memory
of Panchali’s dispassionate
assessment had made him
want to take his own life
simply to enjoy the anxiety
and concern she would have
displayed at losing him. Or
perhaps, he noted, she would
have been apathetic, the way
she responded to most things
these days. Panchali was no
longer the fiery, outspoken
woman she had once been.
She had turned into a
calculating diplomat. Silently,
efficiently, she ran the
empire. She took no credit for
the things that went right, and
ensured that her name was
never mentioned anywhere by
always acting through
Dharma and his brothers, and
the host of trusted diplomats
who were her link to the
outside world. Even in the
presence of their closest
companions, Panchali kept up
the pretence of being nothing
more than Dharma’s
intermediary, merely
conveying the Emperor’s
orders and never giving her
own. No matter what it
looked like, though, he knew
the truth as did many others
associated with the royal
court. Everything, from
financing the armies, granting
titles and collecting taxes to
redistributing vassaldoms,
setting up various industries
and judging disputes, was in
Panchali’s care. Courtiers,
courtesans, spies – they all
served her with a loyalty he
had not anticipated.
‘You were raised to rule,
Dharma,’ she had once told
him. ‘You believe that
loyalty, respect and
obedience are yours by divine
right as soon as you’re
crowned. It’s quite natural;
don’t torment yourself so.’
‘And what do you believe,
Panchali?’ he had wanted to
know.
Hesitantly she had replied,
‘I believe that these things
must be earned.’
That day, Dharma had
finally understood what it
was he wanted the most – one
chance to earn fame and bring
glory upon his line. One
chance to make Partha look at
him with respect, to make
Panchali yearn for him as
women did for warriors. It
was not a matter of vanity; it
was one of duty. Destiny was
an instrument of divine
justice; the gods never
blessed men with what they
did not deserve. As far as
Dharma was concerned, to
doubt his merit to rule was to
doubt the notion of Divine
Order itself. He could not let
that happen. He wanted the
chance to irrevocably
establish that Divine Order
was everything, to prove that
destiny towered over them
all. He wanted to prove that
he deserved to be Emperor of
Aryavarta.
The need fuelling his
quick, firm strides, Dharma
entered the building that
served as his private
residence. Panchali smiled as
he came in to the study. He
returned the gesture with
affection and a hint of desire
in his eyes. Her years were
yet to take a toll on her, and
she had remained the shapely,
attractive woman whose
smouldering beauty had once
drawn every king and prince
in the realm to compete for
her hand, the utility of having
her father as an ally
notwithstanding. Her dark
skin reflected a golden glow
from the huge bronze
chandelier overhead, making
her look like a fiery mirage.
The silk of her red robes
seemed to glide lovingly over
her smooth skin, and her long
hair rested in a heavy knot at
the nape of her neck,
highlighting the strong but
graceful line of her shoulders.
 Unable to resist her
proximity, Dharma ran a
finger over her full lower lip
and then pulled her into a
passionate embrace.
She protested, ‘Patience!
There’s work to be done.
Besides,’ she teased, ‘it’s a
short wait till nightfall…’
Reluctantly, Dharma let go
of her and turned his attention
to the scroll she handed him
for his seal of assent. He
frowned as he read through it.
‘What is this?’ he snapped.
Panchali said, ‘As you can
see, this is a decree removing
all taxes and tolls throughout
the empire on goods made by
the Naga ironsmiths. The
current tolls and taxes that the
kings of the various nations
impose are far beyond the
capacity of individual
ironsmiths and craftsmen.
They have no choice but to
sell their wares to the
saamantas and vassal
chieftains at a ridiculously
low price, or else work as
bonded labour in their forges.
The vassal lords, on the other
hand, can well afford to make
the investment and reap the
benefits tenfold, if not more.
If we don’t do away with the
toll, our new empire will only
serve to to make rich lords
richer. It doesn’t hurt the
imperial treasury in any way
– in fact, as a sort of
inducement, we could even
offer to reduce the levies we
impose on these kings. The
increase in charges paid by
foreign merchants to the
empire for the right to trade
here will more than make up
for any loss of revenue to us.’
Dharma stared at the scroll
as he considered Panchali’s
words. He had no doubt that
her simplified statement of
the situation came more from
her belief that he knew what
she was talking about than a
lack of understanding or
analysis on her part. In fact,
he would not be surprised if
he found that she had already
consulted with his advisors,
even his brothers, before
putting this proposal before
him. Nevertheless, she had
failed to see the basic
problem, one that had nothing
to with the wealth of the
empire.
Drawing in an irritated
breath, he began, ‘You want
me to remove taxes… No,
wait, let me restate that. You
want me to interfere in the
internal affairs of one of
Aryavarta’s nations, at the
risk of enraging all the
monarchs in the realm, so that
the Nagas can defy their lords
and their rightful king
Takshaka, to whom they owe
allegiance by law and
scripture? If this is a joke,
Panchali, it’s in rather bad
taste…’
‘Maybe we should have
thought of that before moving
the Nagas out of Kandava or
walking on the roads they
helped build in order to
conquer the far reaches of our
empire. Don’t we now owe
something to those who toiled
for us? Aren’t the Naga
subjects your subjects too,
Emperor Dharma?
Forcing back his anger,
Dharma tried to explain, ‘No
subjects will be served by
destroying the moral and
spiritual fabric of Aryavarta!’
‘But…’
‘Have you seen this?’ He
reached into his waistband
and took out a small ring of
black iron, which he threw on
the table between them.
Panchali picked it up.
Trying her best to conceal her
excitement, she ran her
fingers over the dark metal
band and the rough
engravings on the ingot at its
bezel. ‘It’s a ring. Of no
consequence, I may add.’ She
was intentionally disdainful.
It served the purpose.
Dharma snatched it from
her and, with an expression of
disgust, slid it on to his
finger. He fumbled with it a
little, but finally managed to
set it with the round ingot
turned inwards, resting partly
on his palm. Using his thumb,
he pressed down on an
indiscernible catch set into
the band. At the same time,
he curled his fingers tight,
pressing on the ingot. A
sudden flick of his wrist, and
his palm was open.
Fire.
It spluttered up as a small
tongue of flame, an iridescent
haze of blue coming from the
ring itself. It lacked ethereal
beauty, the floating
appearance of what was
known in legend as the
dancing flames of Agneya,
the so-called magical fire the
Firewrights could invoke and
hold in the palm of their
hands. The mechanism used
here was a poor imitation of
the fine craft of the Wrights,
but Panchali’s eyes lit up.
The ring was no less a marvel
for her – a marvel of science
without the illusion of
sorcery. It was possible to
see, explain and understand
its function without relying
on lores of celestials and
demons.
‘Hara be praised,’ she
finally gushed. Breathless and
excited, Panchali held out her
hand, asking to take a closer
look at the ring, but Dharma
moved his hand away, closing
his fist tight as he did so.
Panchali looked up at his face
to realize that something was
wrong. ‘You don’t look
pleased, Dharma. Every era
of prosperity has come on the
wings of new inventions and
discoveries, be they farming
implements or wind-driven
barges. Surely, this is what
you as the Emperor dream of,
to raise Aryavarta’s fortunes
back to the great heights of
the Golden Age, and make it
a land of progress and peace
once again?’ To consign
these lands to the depths of
Kali, the age of blackness, is
not a dream, Panchali. It is a
nightmare. This…this
abomination is Wright-work!’
 ‘What is it with you and
this obstinate hate for what
the Wrights created? Oh,
Rudra forbid that we use
Wright-work to light hearths
in dark homes rather than
burn down forests and fields
for some noble conqueror!
Hai!’ She knew her sarcasm
would hit a sore point by
reminding Dharma of the
times he had relied on
Wright-weaponry to build the
empire, but she didn’t care.
Dharma stood his ground.
‘What I did wasn’t for selfish
reasons and it certainly was
not to challenge the Divine
Order. I have always acted
with the blessings of the
Vyasa himself and if Wright-
work was involved, it was
merely a means to further the
purpose, the righteous
purpose of the Firstborn. It
wasn’t a profane attempt to
harness the elements, the
powers of nature, to suit
human conveniences or to
change destiny.’
‘Destiny? Is it our destiny
to never aspire to anything
more than what our
forefathers had? What about
using the alloys that make up
weapons like the Gandiva
bow to create splints, or even
surgical instruments that
make incisions and blood-
letting easier, more precise
and painless? Or use those
very same metals to make
faster chariots and ships, not
for war and conquest but for
trade and travel?’
‘I once found your
innocence rather becoming,
Panchali. You were young,
and your idealism had…a…
what’s the word…passion.
Yes, you had passion, a
fervour that was compelling.
But you are the Empress now
and I can’t go on indulging
your childish ideas. You’re
not a fool. You must learn to
see what is best for you, for
us, for Aryavarta…’
‘Which is?’
‘Your ideas of so-called
equality and prosperity will
do nothing but erode our way
of life. It will destroy the
Divine Order that we
replicate in the earthly
spheres.’
‘Do you hear yourself,
Dharma? Your thoughts
move like a blinkered
horse…’ Panchali was
incredulous. ‘You sound like
Dwaipayana, the Vyasa!
What are you, his lackey?’
‘I am true to what my
teacher has taught me. We
both serve the Divine, and we
equally oppose the same
evils. As for being a lackey,
perhaps Govinda Shauri
would like to hear these ideas
of yours. Oh! I forget…you
told him never to set foot in
these lands while you are
empress, or so I hear.’ His
earlier anger against Govinda
took hold of him, and words
he did not quite mean spilled
out of him. ‘Why did you do
that, Panchali? Don’t you
need him anymore now that
you are Empress? Or did you
simply tire of him?’
‘I told him to leave because
I had to,’ Panchali said
quietly. She added, for lack of
other words to explain, ‘This
is your empire, Dharma. He
does not belong here.’
Her reply touched a chord,
for Dharma shook his head
mournfully. ‘You think
you’ve banished Govinda
from these lands? When will
you realize that he is far from
gone? Govinda Shauri is very
much here, Empress. He is
inside you. I hear him in your
speech, and I see the fire of
his soul in your eyes. Did you
know that once upon a time,
in the days when the Universe
was very young, the gods
themselves inhabited the
Earth, just as the other
domains? It was over time
that they took to the skies
along with the celestials,
leaving the Earth to men and
the netherworld to demons.
Maybe it is true, and maybe
not, but it is reason enough,
all these centuries later, to
find prosperity by following a
path of duty and virtue, to
maintain the order that has
been set. What the Wrights
did was contrary to the
Divine Order. No matter how
great their utility, it does not
justify a return to their
methods or devices. And that
is why things must be the
way they are, do you
understand? Panchali, trust
me. I say this for your own
good.’
‘And what does your duty
demand of you, Dharma?’
‘My duty demands that I
keep the empire intact and
stable. If this means
overlooking upheavals and
conflict, so be it. My duty is
not to a single individual or a
group, but to all of Aryavarta.
I can’t remove taxes on these
products as you ask.’
To his disappointment,
Panchali was neither
convinced nor intimidated by
his rhetoric. ‘As you wish,
Dharma,’ she said. With an
elaborate and unneccessary
bow she left the room.
Dharma stared after her till
she disappeared from his
sight. His jaw was set in
uncharacteristic resolution
and a vein throbbed in his
temple as he willed himself
not to call her back.
Aryavarta. This was an
empire of the Firstborn, of the
faithful and devoted. There
was no room here for heathen
heretics, no room for
Firewrights or their legacies.
This, he noted with sullen
determination, was his
empire.

6
A SLEEPLESS PANCHALI
GAZED DOWN FROM HER
TERRACE – ONE of the tallest
in the city – at the wonder
that was Indr-prastha or the
White City, as it was now
known outside Aryavarta.
Visitors marvelled at the way
the city’s man-made
structures blended tastefully
with both the natural
undulations of the land and
the varying hues of cultivated
gardens and wild forests.
From where she stood,
Indr-prastha appeared like a
wave-filled sea with crescents
of smooth, shimmering white,
and troughs of deep, soothing
green. Each wave was a
cluster of white towers of
varying heights separated
from others by well-planned
verdure. Further away were
the walls that bound the city
in a perfect square. Creepers
and ivy climbed up the sides
of the walls in dark patterns
to blend into the green
walkways on top. Filled with
their reflections, during the
day, the waters of the still,
clear moat surrounding the
outer side of the wall sparkled
like a green jewel. Yet, the
city’s pleasant form was not
without function. The
clustered arrangement of
buildings allowed for parts of
it to be held even when others
might be breached, the
verdure served as gathering
space for armies, the creepers
and walkways along the city
walls hid sharp metallic
spikes, and the placid moat
had been lined with tiny but
deadly barbs that could well
be mistaken for fallen leaves
or moss. Indr-prastha was as
deadly as it was lovely, and
not even its many residents
knew of its dark secrets as
they went about their
incessant activities.
It was still some time to
dawn, but the bustle of life
and light had merely slowed
down, not stopped. Lanterns
lined the sides of the major
roads like golden pearls, and
even the smaller pathways
were dimly lit at the least.
Even in the deepest night, the
city remained safe for an
endless tide of visitors and
the citizenry that welcomed
them with open arms. Indr-
prastha never slept.
The empire never sleeps.
Those bound by servitude
must always remain awake,
Panchali reminded herself,
running a hand over her eyes.
Of late, she felt constantly on
the verge of tears, which was
uncharacteristic of her. She
told herself that it was
because she was tired and
overworked, stifling the tiny
voice inside, which she knew
spoke the truth. She had
betrayed and been betrayed.
But what haunted her was
that she did not know to
whom she owed the greater
loyalty and, thus, who it was
she had so miserably failed.
Soft footsteps made her
turn. She smiled at the
bearded scholar who
approached her. He looked
exactly like his older brother,
but not entirely so. Dhaumya,
royal priest in the court of
Emperor Dharma Yudhisthir,
had a kindness in his eyes
that Devala the Firewright
completely lacked.
‘Is it not too late for a man
of renunciation to be out and
about, Acharya?’ Panchali
said.
‘Too late, yes,
Mahamatra,’ Dhaumya
replied, ‘but not to early. My
day begins early, for I must
tend to the gods before I can
tend to the affairs of men…
and women. I saw one of
your attendants was up, and
she told me that you were too.
I don’t suppose you want a
sleeping draught?’ he joked
as he came to stand next to
her.
Panchali raised an
eyebrow. ‘Haven’t you filled
us all up with that stuff
already?’
‘There’s always room for
more.’
The two laughed and a
comfortable silence fell
between them.
‘Tell me, Acharya,’
Panchali said after a while.
‘What do I still not know
about the conspiracies around
me?’
‘Conspiracy is a strong
word, Empress. Besides,
haven’t you already guessed
all there is to know?’
‘I’ve had my suspicions,
many of which have been
confirmed. The question is,
dare I take the last step and
ask you a question?’
‘In my opinion, you
should.’
‘Are you a spy, Dhaumya?’
Panchali’s manner was
commanding and matter-of-
fact, as only a ruler’s could
be. Neither condescending
nor overbearing, neither soft
nor imposing, she was
deceptively simple in her
speech.
 Dhaumya chuckled. ‘A
spy? Surely, you don’t
suspect me of treachery and
intrigue?’ he asked.
‘Not at all. I leave those
things to our common
acquaintances. Of you, I
expect intelligence and
delicate but incisive action. I
expect great loyalty to the one
you’ve decided to serve,
though perhaps even he
knows it not.’
 ‘And who might such an
ignorant master be?’
‘A stubborn gwala? For
argument’s sake, let’s call
him Govinda. Now, what
would you deem your
actions?’
‘My duty, Empress,’
Dhaumya said. ‘A greater
duty than the one I may have
to any master. The duty I owe
to the truth, just as you do. To
truth and justice.’
 Panchali nodded at his
graceful win. She asked,
‘Does that make me your
enemy now?’
‘Because you defied
Govinda? Because you think
you thwarted his plans?’
‘Aren’t these sufficient
reasons?’
‘They are good reasons,
yes. But not sufficient.’
Panchali laughed at the
wordplay. It felt good to
share what lay on her mind
frankly and with a touch of
humour. She found herself
opening up. ‘The Emperor
refuses to remove the taxes
on goods produced by the
Nagas… I’d thought that I
could get Dharma to agree…
Not only did he oppose it, but
he also did so most
vehemently. He still
associates science with
Wright-work.’
 ‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm?’
‘Give him time, Panchali.
Now that Devala has been
found and arrested, the
Firstborn will slowly begin to
see that there is no one to
fear. Soon Dharma will
realize this too, and not too
long after many will begin
thinking the same way. They
will reach out and aspire to
greatness and glory, and that
will require science to fuel it.
When that happens,
Aryavarta will rise beyond its
former splendour to heights
we’ve never dreamt of. There
is,’ he added philosophically,
‘immense virtue in
fearlessness.’
Panchali considered the
scholar’s quiet confidence
even as old words echoed in
her mind: You think power
and might lies only in armies
and brute force? Prosperity
can be power too. Out loud
she said, ‘You expected this,
didn’t you?’
‘I did. Or rather, I should
say…’
‘Govinda did,’ Panchali
finished. ‘I feel like a fool,
Dhaumya. I still don’t know
whether I did right or wrong.
Govinda said he dreamt of an
empire built on the might of
the Firstborn and the
Firewrights, both. But is that
not treachery or, at the least,
foolishness? Tell me, please,
what have I been so blind to?
What have I failed to
understand?’
‘I normally wouldn’t dare
respond to that question,
especially when it’s posed by
a monarch,’ Dhaumya
jovially began, ‘but in your
case, I’ll trust in our long
acquaintance and share my
thoughts with you.’ He
paused, thinking, and then
continued, ‘Panchali, all of
our scriptures can be
condensed into one simple
principle… One above all.’
‘The notion of a supreme
maker, the power that was
there even before existence
came into being…’
‘Precisely. Now, I have no
complaints about the
statement; in fact, I shall
accept it for what it is. But
when you think of the body
of philosophy that stems from
this one principle, there are
issues we can’t ignore. The
scriptures it has spawned are
all creations of mankind –
earthly creations, if you will.
They weren’t set down by
this supreme power, but by
the seers of old. I suppose one
could call them hymns of
information and adoration.
We sing in praise of the
Supreme, and we also speak
of the greatest act of this
Supreme Being – the act of
creation, a creation that
encompasses Swarga, the
celestial realm, Earth, and
Patala, the netherworld. From
this principle, we derive the
notion of Divine Order, of
life on Earth mirroring the
dance of all Creation. And
there lies the problem. The
moment we are ready to
accept the notion that
existence is divided into
inferior and superior beings, a
hierarchical system that is
divinely orchestrated as the
pinnacle of perfection, we
start believing in domination
and hierarchy as being moral
and righteous. We submit to
the gods and to those chosen
by the gods. Rather than
question this system, we use
the notion of divine
predestination to explain
things – which is precisely
what the Firstborn do. They
believe in a world based on
this Divine Order, and their
role in it as ensuring it
remains such. Even if it
means believing in things that
not everyone agrees is just
and fair…’
‘The world as we know it
wouldn’t make sense unless
Ahalya were turned to
stone…’ Panchali said,
speaking to herself.
Dhaumya regarded her
with kindness, guessing
rightly where she had heard
those words. ‘Yes. You
understand, don’t you? These
ideas, these irrevocable
conceptualizations of good
and bad are so deeply
embedded within us that no
one stops to ask why we are
bound to our fate, what
makes it unchangeable. Our
rulers and our gods are all
impervious to scrutiny. We
put up with niggling
inequities and blatant
violations presuming that
there must be a divine
purpose or higher power that
is beyond our comprehension.
And then we reinterpret and
redefine our past and present
to fit in with the balanced
view we have of the world.
History, science, scripture –
nothing remains untouched.’
‘Then nothing is constant?’
‘Nothing, except change.
Evolution is not spurred by
perfection and luxury, but by
struggle. Today’s rulers were
once rebels and
revolutionaries.’
Panchali shook her head.
‘It sounds far too much like
the notion of destiny. The
inevitable, inexorable fate
that rules us all.’
‘Would you say that a
pebble thrown upwards will
fall to the ground, because it
is destined to fall? To say that
it will fall is nothing more
than an awareness of cause
and effect… Rules we
construct, and keep
refining…’
‘We? You mean the
Wrights?’ She fixed
Dhaumya with a steady gaze.
‘That’s what you are, aren’t
you, Dhaumya? A Firewright,
just like Govinda Shauri.’
The scholar met her eyes
with quiet confidence. ‘That
word no longer holds the
meaning it used to, Panchali.
Not since my brother began
calling himself that… But to
answer your question, yes, I
did train briefly with them.
Not in warcraft, mind you,
but in medicine. Atri Angiras
was a master of healing, as
was Agniveshya, his student.’
‘And here I thought you
were a Varuni. Firstborn by
training and birth, both,’
Panchali said, an indisputable
hint of accusation in her tone.
Dhaumya took no offence.
‘I was. And I still am. But I
am one of those that the
Firewrights of old – true
Wrights as they called
themselves – considered a
rebel,’ he said. ‘Don’t you
see, Empress? I am as much
the product of Govinda’s
dreams as your empire – an
empire built, as you
mentioned, on the might of
Firstborn and Firewright
both. It was Govinda who
took me to the Firewrights, as
he did others of the Firstborn.
It was he who convinced
them that it was the way
forward, that the only way to
take politics out of science
was to share their knowledge
with those they sought to
keep it safe from. As much as
the Firstborn and Aryavarta’s
own Emperor might begrudge
it, the fact remains that the
Firewrights are the very
foundation of the empire.
Their knowledge, now passed
on to the people of Aryavarta
as craft and skill, will fuel the
future.’
‘By Rudra, I’m so tired of
this pandering, this
unshakeable faith in
Govinda’s benevolence! Do
you think I’m such a fool,
that I can’t see who or what
he really is?’ Suddenly aware
of the rising pitch of her
voice, Panchali forced herself
to calm down. She took a
deep breath before saying,
‘Maybe he meant well, once.
But I cannot trust him
anymore, not after all the
intrigue and manipulation. He
believes that the ends justify
the means, but I can’t agree
with those methods. Nothing
has sanctity in his eyes
anymore. He will stop at
nothing.’
She looked at Dhaumya to
find that his face bore the
cross expression of a brother
disappointed with a younger
sibling. ‘What more must he
do to prove himself to you,
Panchali?’ he hoarsely
demanded.
‘I…’
Why do you doubt him?
Do you know that few have
understood me…or him…the
way you have? Yet, it would
seem that few have
misunderstood us both so
badly. But that means little
now. He is gone.’
 Panchali felt a sourceless
pain fill her at that statement.
‘Do you think he will return?’
she asked, dully.
‘No. He won’t. He cannot.’
‘He never planned to, did
he? It tore me to banish
Govinda from Aryavarta right
after Dharma’s coronation,
yet I did… But it had nothing
to do with what I said or did,
isn’t it? He was going to
leave us all anyway.’
 ‘Yes. He had to. Your
husband may find it
convenient to live in denial,
but it won’t be too long
before those who don’t start
putting one and one together
and realize that Govinda is a
Firewright. And because of
his own actions they won’t
stop to ask whether he is any
different from the power-
mongers of old.’
‘He doesn’t have to do
anything, Dhaumya. Govinda
Shauri never did anything he
didn’t want to. He believes in
choices, not compulsions, so
let’s say it as it really is.
Govinda chose to leave.’
‘Because he thinks it’s best
this way.’
‘He presumes too much.’
Dhaumya sighed and
turned his palms upwards in a
gesture of submission. ‘For
what it’s worth, he has asked
me to watch over you on his
behalf. I shall try to fulfil that
duty as best as I can.’ He
placed a hand on her head in
blessing and continued,
‘Jatavedas, the refulgent
Agni, shall light your way,
Empress. Be strong.’
With that, he walked away.
Panchali turned back to the
view before her. A city that
was silent, even lonely; a
small, fragile whiteness
against the mighty earthiness
that was Aryavarta. She felt
the confusion that had long
cloaked her grow into a
strange melancholy, turning
finally into sheer
despondence. There was,
however, something familiar
about the feeling. Govinda
had made her his puppet,
using her to weave his web of
politics over Aryavarta. From
the day he had turned down
her affections, citing political
imperative, to the day he
crowned her Empress and left
her behind he had always
been one step ahead of her. It
was important, he had told
her, for the Vyasa and
everyone who knew or
suspected him to be a
Firewright to believe that he
was no longer a part of the
empire’s affairs. And for that
he would leave everything –
and everyone – behind.
Panchali tried to turn her
mind to the promised glorious
future of the empire – her
empire. But reason failed her
and the attempt proved futile.
All she was aware of was an
excruciating pain at the
thought that Govinda would
not return.
 7
‘NO! STOP! PLEASE…!’
Syoddhan, the crown
prince of Western Kuru, lay
on the cool marble floor, his
hair and clothes dishevelled,
begging for mercy and
reprieve. It would have been
a cause for worry if he did not
occasionally break out into
laughter as he wilfully lost
the wrestling match. The bout
finally ended with Syoddhan
reaching out and pulling his
five-year-old nephew, his
sister Dussala’s son, to his
chest. His own son
Lakshmana was nearly
sixteen and far too old for
such juvenile pleasures, and
when the blissfully exhausted
child rested his head on his
uncle’s broad chest and fell
asleep, Syoddhan lay back on
the floor, enjoying the
pleasant weight of his
nephew’s little body on his
own, one hand gently patting
the boy as he slept.
The bustle and murmur on
the other side of the doorway
told him that everyone had
taken their places and the
visitor they had gathered to
meet had arrived. He decided
to let them all wait. He
wanted a few more precious,
blissful fragments of peace
and affection before reality
intruded. Without quite
realizing it, he was already
frowning, as he ran his mind
over what lay ahead.
Syoddhan had never shown
much ambition, even though
his father had tried
desperately to inculcate the
quality in him. His brothers,
however, oozed the quality. It
was just as well that he was
the eldest, Syoddhan noted.
He was forty-six years old but
still a prince, while his father
remained king of Kuru. Few
others, his brothers included,
would have been as patient as
he had been. Dhritarastra,
Syoddhan remembered, had
once used the argument that
his remaining king was the
only way to keep the Kuru
throne from passing to
Dharma. The excuse was no
longer valid, but Dhritarastra
still held on. For his part,
Syoddhan did not mind. His
father’s childishness inspired
only pity in him, not anger.
He knew how much it had
hurt the blind king to be
denied his right to the throne
as the elder son and then be
given the crown once his
brother no longer wanted it.
The sleeping child stirred,
bringing Syoddhan out of his
reverie. He looked down at
the boy with affection,
pondering the hackneyed line
about outgrowing childhood
innocence. We are all
creatures who have once
been divine and will, one day,
become one with the divine.
Our tainted humanity is but
the present, and it shall pass.
And that’s why some things
have to be protected, have to
be fought for. He closed his
eyes again, trying hard to use
the tranquillity of the moment
to think things through. A
medley of images flitted
across his mind, drowning out
the many tensions that lay
coiled within. He was alone
now, with nothing but his
own thoughts.
Ever since Dharma’s
coronation as Emperor…
Syoddhan stopped himself
short. It was not, he grimly
reminded himself, a day to be
remembered as a joyful
occasion. On the contrary, it
was the day his dearest friend
Shisupala had died, no, the
day he had been murdered by
none other than Govinda
Shauri. Shisupala had very
nearly made public Govinda’s
terrible secret. From the
destruction of the forests of
Kandava and Ghora
Angirasa’s death to the long-
ago obliteration of the
Firewrights near Mathura,
which had set a young
Govinda on his path to power
– all of it was nothing but a
carefully orchestrated farce to
deflect attention from the
truth: Govinda Shauri was a
Firewright, and one who had
no qualms about using their
knowledge to his gain. After
all, which man possessed the
will to destroy a source of
power when it could be
harnessed instead?
And for that ambition,
Shisupala paid with his life.
Memories of that day would
never leave him, Syoddhan
knew. He had managed to
keep his temper in check for
the duration of Dharma’s
coronation to the imperial
throne, but hardly had the
proceedings concluded than
he had set out to find
Govinda and exact his
vengeance. He had not,
however, expected to find
Asvattama barring his way.
‘You’ll regret it,’
Asvattama had cautioned.
‘You do this now, you pave
the way for Dharma’s
downfall and the empire’s
with it. Whatever complaint
you have against Govinda,
don’t make your cousin, your
blood, pay for it.’
 ‘My cousin?’ Syoddhan
had spat out. ‘What about my
friend? What about
Shisupala?’
‘What about duty and
honour and glory? Much as
you may hate Govinda and
what he has done, killing him
now will only serve to
destroy confidence in
Dharma’s empire. Let it go,
Syoddhan, for now, at least.’
By then his close friends
and advisors had clustered
around him, adding their
voices to Asvattama’s.
‘He’s right, Prince,’
Sanjaya had said. ‘Think
about what will happen if
news of Govinda’s death
comes back to this hall.
Things will descend into
chaos, at least half the
monarchs in here will get
slaughtered, and where will
that leave Aryavarta? Bereft
of our kings what will happen
to the people?’
‘Do you counsel me to
abandon my duty to avenge
my friend? A scholar and a
Suta telling a warrior of the
Kurus to turn from a fight?’
‘No,’ Asvattama had said.
‘I am telling you to follow a
higher duty. It surprises me
that the Suta here understands
such a noble thing. Looks like
there is still hope for him…’
 Asvattama’s characteristic
snideness had restored sanity
to the occasion. Syoddhan
had agreed, but reluctantly
and not without a sense of
guilt that continued to haunt
him still. He sighed,
grappling with his emotions
as he tried to assuage his
conscience. But no matter
how he looked at it, what
Govinda had done to his dear
friend was wrong. He could
never completely let it go.
With that thought, he stood
up carefully so as not to
disturb the sleeping child in
his arms and signalled for an
attendant to take the boy from
him.

Syoddhan strode down the

marble-floored corridor with
its gold-trimmed pillars and
the omnipresent elephant
motif – the mark of his great
ancestor, King Hastin, the
founder of the city. Always
prosperous and proud, the
Kauravas had spared no
expense in making their
palace ostentatious and awe-
inspiring, to the extent of
being excessive. Now that a
prince of Kuru sat on the
imperial throne it was all the
more reason for Hastina to
shine, to take her place as
sister-city to the imperial
capital, Indr-prastha. But
neither Syoddhan nor his
father could think of their
beloved home that way.
Hastina was the heart of
Kuru.
He stepped out from the
corridor and into King
Dhritarastra’s private
audience room. The room
was meant for conversation
and diplomacy, rather than a
formal gathering of an
audience. The seats, including
the King’s throne were
arranged in a cosy circle. The
throne was empty now, in
Dhritarastra’s absence,
though Sanjaya stood, as he
always did, right next to it.
Also noticeably absent was
Asvattama. Syoddhan found
himself wishing that he had
not taken Sanjaya’s
suggestion to send Asvattama
to interrogate the captured
Firewright, Devala. But it
was an important task, and
Asvattama was the best man
for it.
With that resolution
Syoddhan turned his attention
to the visitor, who stood up to
greet him, an act of kinship
rather than one of ceremony.
Jayadrath, the king of Sindhu,
was not only a friend but also
Dussala’s husband. Syoddhan
would have preferred a more
suitable match for his darling
little sister than the middle-
aged Jayadrath, but the king
came from a line of
distinguished royals and had
an uncontested claim to the
Sindhu throne. Though nearly
twenty years older than
Dussala, he was an
accomplished warrior and
statesman. That had been
Dussala’s only condition. She
had demanded a man who
was in no way lesser than her
eldest brother, in stature or
deed.
Looking around, Syoddhan
smiled, this time with genuine
pleasure, at his dear friend,
Vasusena of the kingdom of
Anga. His eyes moved on to
rest on another man, one he
welcomed with equal
fondness if not familiarity –
his maternal uncle, Shakuni.
Thin and angular in build,
Shakuni was the youngest of
Gandhari’s brothers, and not
much older than Syoddhan.
He sported a long beard, and
had the habit of smoothing it
out whenever he was in
contemplation, which was
often. This made him seem
much older than he was. That,
and the way he enjoyed being
hailed as ‘Uncle’. At that
instant, though, Shakuni did
not respond to Syoddhan’s
silent greeting, instead gazing
into the distance, lost in his
thoughts. Syoddhan knew
better than to be taken in by
his uncle’s pretended
abstraction. He was as wily as
the red foxes of
Dakshinavarta – a quality that
the giant of a man seated next
to Shakuni completely
lacked.
Dussasan, the third of
Dhritarastra’s sons and
second in line to the Kuru
throne, sat up straight as
Syoddhan glared at him. It
was but a few muhurttas since
morning and, already, the
second prince reeked of
inebriation and indulgence.
Dussasan had inherited all of
their father’s ambition but
none of his dignity. For this,
Syoddhan blamed himself as
much as he did his father. He
knew well that Dussasan’s
first drink of the day had been
consumed in none other than
their father’s chambers when
the two men had got together,
as they regularly did, to rant
about how Dharma, the son
of an impotent napunsaka,
ruled over the empire that
was theirs by right. Syoddhan
had joined them once, in the
very first days since their
return from Dharma’s
coronation, seeking reprieve
from the pain of Shisupala’s
death. He had left, shaken to
the core, and never graced
that particular gathering
again. It terrified him still to
think that perhaps such hatred
as his father and brother
harboured ran in his veins
too, and that someday,
despite his best efforts, it
would rise to consume him.
With bitter fury Syoddhan
wished, as he secretly had in
his youth, that Yuyutsu – his
father’s second child but by a
palace concubine – had been
born of a queen instead. Not
one to wastefully cling on to
what could not be, he
dismissed the wistful,
childish notion as quickly as
it rose and strode to his
customary seat.
‘So,’ Syoddhan began,
‘what’s this about? Looks
like a matter of considerable
importance! Tell me, what
did you want to discuss,
Jayadrath?’
The answer came as no
surprise to Syoddhan.
‘Govinda Shauri.’
Govinda Shauri. The very
name made Syoddhan cringe.
He said nothing and tried
hard to keep his temper in
check.
Jayadrath sat back,
obviously enjoying the
situation, though that was not
because he had caused
Syoddhan discomfort. He was
fond of his brother-in-law:
both of them were of the old,
true blood. His undisguised
joy, however, came from
knowing that Syoddhan’s
reaction signalled the
beginning of many things. He
continued, ‘I was one of those
who held you back from
vengeance for Shisupala’s
death, and it was not without
cause. I hold no goodwill
towards Govinda Shauri, or
even Dharma Yudhisthir, but
it had looked to me that
Dharma’s empire was to our
benefit. Prosperity, peace and
a placid Emperor. Of course,
the fact that Govinda was
neither seen nor heard of in
the realm after the coronation
completely justified my
advice.’
 ‘Really? I would thank you
for your counsel, but I
suspect you have had cause to
change your mind…’
‘Yes. Govinda is still in
Aryavarta. There was a report
of a fight, in an inn…’
‘Since when does the king
of Sindhu take an interest in
common brawls?’ Shakuni
interrupted.
‘Since it coincides with
what I see as the first act of
tyranny by our new Emperor.
Or should I say puppet
Emperor? Your spies must
have reported the happenings
at Indr-prastha to you? Even
as we speak, a scroll awaits
Emperor Dharma’s seal of
assent. It is an edict that will
remove all taxes and tolls on
Naga-made iron goods, that
will supersede Takshaka’s
sovereignity as ruler of his
own people and interfere in
their economic affairs.
Takshaka will be the first to
lose his authority, or even his
crown. What’s to say you or I
won’t be next?’
Syoddhan studied his
brother-in-law carefully,
though he kept his face
expressionless. ‘Is that what
truly bothers you, Jayadrath?
Or is your concern because
you and your dear friend and
ally, King Saubha of Salwa,
can no longer prosper from
trading in confiscated Naga
weaponry, which, I suppose,
King Takshaka is no longer
pleased to allow…?’
‘On the contrary,
Takshaka’s son, the late
Prince Aswasena – who, you
no doubt remember, also died
at Govinda Shauri’s hands –
previously had the foresight
to enter into arrangements
with myself and Saubha,
which we are willing to
continue. King Takshaka
understands that letting the
common people accumulate
their own wealth is not…
well, it’s not in the larger
interest. If our saamantas and
vassals can no longer control
their commoners and slaves
because that lot begins to
grow more prosperous, they
in turn will rise against us. Of
what use is that? We can use
these riches with wisdom and
benevolence, for the
betterment of our people, but
it’s sheer folly to talk of
prosperity while our coffers
remain empty. We are the
people, the king is the
kingdom! We were chosen by
the gods, it’s our destiny as
kings to do what is good for
the people. Unfortunately, it
appears that those charged
with protecting the Divine
Order of things are the ones
who now seek to destroy it.’
‘So what do you want to
do, Jayadrath? Go to war?
Rebel against the Emperor?
For what it’s worth, Dharma
is the ruler by consensus –
our consensus,’ Vasusena
interjected, speaking as he
often did, just to remind the
others of his hard-won right
to do so.
As a Suta – one who was not
a true-blooded Arya as
Syoddhan and Jayadrath were
– Vasusena had little right to
address Jayadrath by name,
but for the fact that he too
was a king and a proven
warrior.
‘I have no problem with
Dharma or his empire,’
Jayadrath replied. ‘In fact, I
began by reminding you all of
the hopes I had – and still
have – of it. But I will not
wait and watch as Govinda
acts through Dharma to
destabilize each of our
kingdoms and have our own
people rise against us. And
then he will place his lackeys
on the thrones in our stead.
An assembly of vassal dolls,
ruled by a puppet Emperor. It
takes a different mind
altogether to conceive of such
a long-term strategy, an
immaculately planned one at
that, and see it through into
action. Govinda Shauri must
be stopped! I am of the view
that we should attack
Dwaraka.’
‘You think too much of
him,’ Syoddhan muttered. He
threw himself back in his seat
and sat glaring into the
distance. Disturbing thoughts
flooded his mind, jostling for
the attention he did not want
to spare – Shisupala, his
handsome face lighting up
with joy, his severed head, his
bloody carcass being dragged
away by Govinda Shauri.
Images of the helpless,
spineless Dharma of their
childhood and youth, and of
Dharma now, proud and
radiant on the imperial throne
as the throngs chanted his
name. Gradually, the chants
that transformed into
Asvattama’s old warning
against vengeance and rang
dully in his ears. Syoddhan
drew himself back to the
present and, looking at his
brother-in-law, said, ‘What
you suggest is impossible on
two counts. First, we have no
due cause to attack
Dwaraka…’
‘That’s ridiculous,’
Jayadrath interrupted.
‘Govinda Shauri is a
Firewright. Rudra knows how
many more of his kind he has
trained, and what other
secrets Dwaraka holds. We
have all due cause!’
‘If you’re so sure that you
can show due cause, why not
accuse him directly? Why not
have him charged with
treason and heresy and
brought before the Emperor?
Jayadrath shook his head,
impatient. ‘The moment you
call a demon a demon, it has
nothing left to lose. Wait, let
me not be so dramatic. I’ll put
it this way: what happens
when you corner a spy?’
‘He denies it, of course.’
‘And if you persist? If you
present evidence?’
‘They usually try to kill
themselves. The good ones
try and take you down with
them.’
‘Precisely. If Govinda is
accused openly, he may
unleash Rudra-knows-what
Firewright horrors on us. Do
you really think that man
doesn’t have an arsenal of
Wright-weapons hidden
somewhere? Or that Dwaraka
is not protected by every
device know to the Wrights?
But as long as he thinks he is
merely under suspicion, even
that he is tolerated, he will
hesitate. And that gives us the
time we need to strike him
down before he comes at us.’
‘Which argument brings
me to my second point. He is
a Firewright. How do you
expect to win against him?’
‘You have in your
dungeons the one man who
can help us destroy Govinda.’
‘Are you out of your mind,
Jayadrath? You want to pit
one unscrupulous Firewright
against another? Devala’s
malice knows no bounds.’
 ‘Neither does Govinda
Shauri’s ambition. What
makes you think he will stop
now, after all that he has
done? Besides, I am told that
Devala is one of those who
calls himself a true Wright. In
his eyes, Govinda is a rebel
and a traitor. This natural
enmity makes Devala useful
to us. And as for Govinda
Shauri…don’t you see, unless
we act now…’
 A silence fell over the
room. It grew thicker for the
soft rustle of robes as
Dussasan sat up straight
again. Syoddhan did not miss
the slack jaw and the wide
eyes that told him that his
usually arrogant brother was,
for once, unsure of himself.
Perhaps even afraid.
Syoddhan felt his resolve
harden at the sight of what a
mention of Govinda’s name
had done to his brutish,
ruthless brother. He let the
feeling grow till it
overshadowed the niggling
reminder from an incorporeal,
righteous part of him that the
ends did not justify the
means; that if he used Devala
now, he would be no better
than Dharma, or even
Govinda.
Syoddhan sent up a silent
prayer and said out loud,
‘How?’
Jayadrath said, ‘The sea.
Saubha is ready to sail against
Dwaraka with a huge
mercenary navy, the likes of
which none of us can even
begin to imagine. They will
set sail from my ports and
head for the open seas. Then
they will turn and round the
cape near Dwaraka at the last
moment. We should be able
to catch the Yadus
unprepared, if not completely
unawares. Meanwhile, our
combined troops will also
march against Dwaraka by
land. King Damagosha –
Shisupala’s father – will
allow our men to move
through the Chedi kingdom in
the guise of simple travellers
and let them congregate at his
borders. That way, Dwaraka’s
spies won’t have more than a
day’s notice of the attack.
Ekalavya of the Nishadas has
agreed to form the rearguard
of the attack by land. His
forces will take up positions
in the Madhu and Nishada
forests, cutting off the west
completely. Not even Vayu,
the wind-god himself, can
pass through their forests
without their assent. In
similar fashion, Rukmi of
Vidharbha will seal off
Dwaraka from the south. You
see, Syoddhan, there are
many who will rally to our
cause.’
‘As are those who will
rally to Govinda’s,’ Shakuni
added. ‘Your military
stratagem is sound, Jayadrath,
but I am forced to bring us
back to Vasusena’s original
question: Are we rebelling
against the Emperor? For,
surely, Dharma will send his
own armies to help Govinda,
as will the Panchalas. Indeed,
if the Emperor commands us
to join him, we must obey.’
‘Must we?’ Vasusena
joined in. Despite his own
initial objections, he
apparently was in favour of
the proposal at hand. ‘What if
we… well, defy the Emperor,
if not rebel against him?’
Shakuni dismissed the idea
at once. ‘It’s the worst thing
we can do. Aryavarta is now
ambivalent, uncertain even.
Open defiance would force
the various nations to pick
sides, and many will in these
new times choose to side with
Dharma. The Panchalas for
one… their armies are strong,
and who knows what that
Firewright has taught
them…’
‘We need to divide
Dharma and Govinda,’
Syoddhan concluded. ‘We
need to stop the Emperor
from acting when we attack.’
Jayadrath said, ‘What if we
use the Danava mercenaries
who serve Saubha to mount a
distracting attack on Indr-
prastha? It might just give us
the time we need to…’
‘That is again tantamount
to rebellion, Jayadrath. If we
do that, we might as well
send out rose-water smeared
parchments to every corner of
Aryavarta, inviting them to
rally their armies.’
‘Do you have a better idea,
Syoddhan? Or are you just
going to sit there and rubbish
everything we propose?’
Syoddhan stiffened at his
brother-in-law’s tone. Then
he sighed and said, ‘No, I
don’t have a better idea. But I
do know that what Uncle
Shakuni says is right. Unless
we find a way to stop
Dharma, there’s no point
attacking Dwaraka.’
Vasusena said, ‘What if we
make sure no messenger gets
through from Dwaraka to
Dharma?’
‘We could try. But I don’t
see how. Indr-prastha is not
in our control, and even if we
try and get a few spies in
there, they won’t be enough
to intercept everything.’
‘You’re right, Syoddhan.
Indr-prastha is not in our
control. But Hastina is. Bring
Dharma here; bring the whole
lot of them here, including his
dear brothers and the
Empress and that
troublemaker Dhaumya. Let
them leave only once
Dwaraka is razed to the
ground.’ He smiled and
added, ‘You see, I have an
idea.’
 8
ASVATTAMA BHARADVAJA
FLICKED ABSENT-MINDEDLY
AT THE spot of weapon-
grease that had found its way
onto his white silk antariya.
Despite the luxuriant texture
of his lower robe, he still
tended to wear it pleated
tighter than was common for
everyday use, for he never
really stopped being the
warrior he was inside even
during the most relaxed or
ceremonial of occasions. It
served to emphasize his long,
powerful legs as he strode
through the corridors of
Hastina’s palace.
If he cared to listen to the
awed whispers that filled the
hallways he walked through
at Hastina, or even those in
his own capital, of
Ahichhattra, he would have
known that he was considered
an exceptionally handsome
man. As it stood, all
Asvattama was aware of, and
that too in a vague way, was
that he had inherited his
maternal grandmother’s
flawless pale skin and her
sharp features, both of which
were highlighted by the jewel
he always wore on his
forehead. His towering height
and straight, black hair were,
however, undoubtedly his
father’s. That, and his skill
with weapons. Few could
defeat his father, Acharya
Dron, in battle. Fewer still
could match Asvattama,
brought up by his father and
his uncle, Kripa, to be
nothing but an instrument of
death.
Asvattama had learnt long
ago not to dwell on the path
that had brought him to
Hastina, but as he made his
way past the closed doors of
King Dhritarastra’s jewel-
and-velvet audience room
towards the blood-stained
dungeons with their fetid
smell of death, it was difficult
not to reflect on the choices
he had made and on the
things he had done. He was,
by any reckoning, a man who
saw much, revealed nothing
and remained the master of
his own will. For his part, he
found the obvious face of
politics too distasteful and the
more subtle forms too
dishonourable. And so he
tried to remain aloof, as only
a powerful man could, his
power made all the more
potent by his air of
detachment. Only he knew
that it was merely an attitude.
He was as political a creature
as Brahma had ever created.
 Fuelled by irony, or
inevitability, the political
imperative had come to
dominate his life. He had
been wrested away from the
place he had known and
loved as home, nestled in the
snow-teased lower ranges of
the Great White Mountains –
the hermitage of the
Bhargava-Angirasas in the
furthest reaches of what was
now Northern Panchala.
 A hermitage of
Firewrights. Not just any
Firewrights, but those
reckoned to be the best
fighters in all of Aryavarta,
famed even in the far reaches
of the world. Asvattama had
grown up not just listening to
the stories of their great
battles and mighty conquests,
but also seeing them, living
with them and being trained
by them. In his blood ran the
same love of battle they had
possessed and the same
indomitable pride. That pride
had disappeared, torn out of
their hearts the day Ghora
Angirasa, the greatest of
Wrights and the head of their
order, had led the rebellion
against their own order. The
Firstborn had taken full
advantage of these internal
conflicts to destroy the
Firewrights. Tired and
defeated, Ghora had fled.
Worse followed – Ghora’s
son Agnivarna, and his
grandson Agniveshya had
surrendered to Emperor
Jarasandha. With the end of
their line the Bhargavas had
been all that was left of the
Angirasas.
Asvattama had been a
young man then, with no
more of an identity than being
his father’s student. He had
silently, humbly, listened to
the hushed discussions that
had taken up many evenings
at the hermitage. Not once
had he voiced his opinion or
even betrayed the slightest
emotion, though he had
thought and felt much. At
length it had been decided
that to protect their future the
Bhargava-Angirasas would
throw themselves at the
mercy of Bhisma of the
Kurus. Stunned, and not
ready to accept such an
outcome, Asvattama had
approached Dron in private.
The acharya had
indulgently listened to his son
and said, ‘It’s true that
Bhisma killed Ugrayudha, the
man who was once our
benefactor and protector. But
that was a different Bhisma –
he was hardly your age then!
You know that he later
became a student under your
uncle, Rama Jamadagni.
Bhisma was trained right
here, at this very hermitage!’
With a sad chuckle, Dron
added, ‘One can say that
Bhisma is our protector now.
Such is his destiny, and ours.
Who’s to question divine
will, my son?’
‘But…’
‘Vathu!’ Dron had flared
up in his characteristic
manner. ‘I was patient
enough to explain this to you,
Asvattama. But don’t think
you’re man enough to argue
with me!’
Asvattama had humbly
apologized and withdrawn,
but the damage had been
done. The first crack had
formed in his already-tenuous
relationship with his
temperamental father.
The next day Dron and
Kripa had left for Hastina,
where Bhisma had offered
them both positions at the
court. The two Angirasas had
accepted and a new phase of
life, at Hastina, had begun.
Asvattama continued his
training with Dron, at the
same time assisting his father
to teach the students. It was at
Hastina that he had met
Syoddhan, and the
foundations of their
friendship had been laid.
Meanwhile, Dron’s newfound
friendship with Bhisma soon
elevated the acharya to the
position of a royal advisor,
and his fame and power had
grown immeasurably. Life
had been honourable, if not
happy. At the least it had
been free of politics, for by
then Asvattama had learnt to
keep his mask of aloofness on
at all times.
 But his isolation had lasted
only so long. The Great
Scourge, the bloody hunt for
Firewrights had reached a
peak, and in its aftermath
Asvattama’s beloved
motherland had descended
into famine, for no Wrights
were left to help its people.
Asvattama and Dron had
done what they had to. They
sold their own craft, their
knowledge of astra-weapons,
to those who would buy it,
including the Kuru kings. In
return, these kings and nobles
turned a blind eye to the use
of Firewright irrigation
methods to revive the dying
soil. Those who could not be
bought, or otherwise
persuaded, had had to face
Dron’s ire – including
Dhrupad, the rightful king of
what had been a united
Panchala before Dron and
Asvattama had conquered the
northern half.
It was then that Asvattama
had briefly let fall his guise of
detachment. ‘Maybe,’ he had
told his father, ‘there is still
hope. The Kurus see how
useful our weapons are. The
Vyasa knows that the
knowledge of the old Wrights
– the true Wrights – has
saved our people from
starvation and death. Maybe
now they will all see that we
are not evil heathens, they
will see…’
‘Muhira!’ Dron had been
livid. ‘Listen to me carefully,
Asvattama. There is no we.
We are not Firewrights. You
and I are the best military
strategists Aryavarta has seen
in many generations. We are
useful, and our utility allows
us to do a little something for
our people. Don’t outlive
your usefulness to the
Firstborn by holding on to the
wrong sympathies. You are
either a Firewright or my son.
Choose!’
Swallowing his conscience
and with the understanding
that his words would serve to
hide more than one injustice,
Asvattama had said, ‘I am
always your son and your
student, Acharya. I am not a
Firewright.’
 But these days it was
difficult to fully forget what
he could have been. In a bid
to ignore the unwarranted
notion, he found himself
striding faster. It brought him
face to face with a jubilant-
looking Jayadrath, who was
stepping out of the king’s
audience room.
Jayadrath grimaced at the
unexpected encounter. It
quickly turned into a smile,
which Asvattama returned
with extreme politeness and
no warmth whatsoever.
‘Acharya. You were
missed at our little gathering.
We could have certainly
benefitted from your insight.’
Asvattama did not
overlook the sarcasm. He
said, ‘You are too kind, Your
Highness. Unfortunately, it is
Syoddhan’s orders that keep
me from enjoying your
splendid company.’
‘You’re interrogating
Devala Asita, are you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he said anything…of
use…yet?’
‘I’m on my way to meet
him.’
‘Surely that ought to have
been your first priority
today?’
‘I’ve been busy. As you
may or may not know,
Syoddhan has entrusted the
upkeep of the palace guards
to me. I train them, and I
make sure they keep the royal
family safe. Surely you agree
that their safety is more of a
priority?’
Jayadrath was about to
retort, but hesitated. His tone
changed completely as he
said, ‘As I said, you’d have
enjoyed the conversation,
particularly in your position
as a teacher of the military
arts…and we could have
benefitted from your advice.’
‘My father is the teacher,
Your Highness. I merely
assist him.’ Asvattama’s
expression remained neutral
even as he silently cursed
Rudra, Hari, Yama, and any
other gods who cared to
listen, for the unwelcome
conversation. With practised
disdain he said, even as he
moved away, ‘You must
excuse me. I have a prisoner
waiting.’

Asvattama reached the

narrow doorway that led into
the dark, subterranean prisons
of Hastina and set off down
the stairs. He raised his hand
in unthinking
acknowledgement as the
guards in the prison below
fell to attention and saluted
him, but his thoughts
remained fixed on trying to
read more into the instinctive
unease he felt after his
conversation with Jayadrath.
Something was up. And that
something could not be
anything good.
Power, his mind raced.
Jayadrath wants the power of
the Firewrights. As does
everybody else. Dharma is
too weak an emperor to keep
everyone in their place. If any
of the kings of Aryavarta
should decide Devala is more
useful alive than dead… The
realization made Asvattama
clutch at the hilt of his sword.
Unless… One sweep of his
sword, and Devala would be
dead and this whole matter
settled. Or perhaps not. He
dismissed the last thought. It
was too much to risk.
Asvattama did not count
himself a man of passion but
he certainly was a man of
honour, and it would take
nothing less than cold
reasoning to outweigh his
sense of justice. It was not for
him to decide Devala’s fate.
With the grace that came of
such conviction, Asvattama
walked into the dimly lit cell
and waited for the guard to
shut the iron door from the
outside. He sat down on a
worn wooden chair that was
set against a small table and
bent his right leg square, his
hide-sandalled foot resting
insolently on the left knee.
Ignoring the man who was
chained and manacled to the
wall in front of him, he curled
his open palms into fists, as
though testing their strength,
and studied his hands through
half-lidded eyes. His long,
dark lower lashes brushed
lightly against his cheeks in a
way that had driven even the
most discerning of courtesans
in the realm to fawn over him
tirelessly on some occasion or
the other. The fire in his eyes
as he finally looked up would
have had them screaming,
terrified, with the same
vigour.
Devala, however, was
unafraid. ‘You look lost in
thought,’ he drawled.
 The statement, Asvattama
knew, was a means to begin
the conversation. With
reluctance, he put his
contemplations away and
snapped in his characteristic
fashion, ‘Thinking is a luxury
that only those of us with
minds can indulge in, Devala.
I’d hardly expect you to
understand that…’
Devala studied his
interlocutor with patience,
like a hunter watching a deer,
waiting for the perfect
moment to release the fatal
arrow. Timing his words to
intrude on Asvattama’s exact
chain of thought, he asked in
a soft voice, ‘Was it painful?’
If Asvattama was taken
aback, he did not show it.
‘No,’ he plainly answered. He
allowed a touch of sharpness
to take over. ‘And you? Did
you make it painful?’
 ‘No,’ Devala shook his
head. ‘He died quietly. By his
own dagger, as a matter of
fact – though of course the
hand that drove it into him
was mine. Agnivarna
Angirasa… Your uncle,
wasn’t he?’
‘My cousin. A few times
removed. I called his father,
Agniveshya Angirasa,
“Uncle” though.’
‘Aah yes, it was your uncle
you killed. Well, fratricide,
parricide, what difference
does it make… He was a
rebel. You only did what was
right.’
‘There’s no need to
compliment me, Devala. I
assure you, I’m beyond
seeking your approval,’
Asvattama retorted. He
remained unfazed by the
accusations, partly because
they were true, but mostly
because he knew his actions
were justified. There were
many heinous things he had
done, but he was yet to lose
sleep over any of his actions.
If Devala’s only weapon was
guilt, then Asvattama
undoubtedly had the upper
hand.
Devala gathered as much,
for he affected a subtle shift
in tone. ‘Did he tell you?’ His
voice held genuine
anticipation.
Asvattama looked visibly
amused. He shifted, switching
legs so that his left ankle
rested on his right knee, even
as Devala struggled to hide
the true depths of expectation
that lay behind his affected
eagerness. ‘He didn’t,’
Asvattama answered, ‘though
he admitted its existence. A
weapon, he said, far more
powerful than the
Bramhaastra. A weapon of
his own making…’
Devala struggled yet again
to maintain a neutral
expression, as he waited for
Asvattama to ask the
inevitable question. When it
did not appear to be
forthcoming, it struck Devala
that he had no choice but to
reveal something if he wanted
anything useful out of the
other man. ‘I tried,’ he
confessed, ‘I tried for many,
many years. I followed every
lead, milked every spy and
used every ingredient
available to replicate the
poison Agniveshya had
created when he had been
living in the Kandava forest.
My efforts yielded results,
though not the results I’d
hoped for. I discovered a
powerful toxin, one that
would vaporize and spread as
soon as it was exposed to air.
Your dear friend Shikandin
can vouch for it. He nearly
died as a result of my
handiwork and suffered a
great deal of pain too.’
The statement failed to
incite Asvattama on either of
its implied counts. Instead, he
asked, as he might, if he were
enquiring about the weather.
‘What did you use? For the
key ingredient?’
 ‘The venom of the mottled
black cobra.’
Asvattama snorted,
disparaging. ‘I could’ve
spared you the trouble, then.
My uncle found snake venom
highly unreliable as a toxin.’
‘Don’t lecture me,
Asvattama. Agniveshya
called his weapon the Naga-
astra.’
‘And so you assumed it
was made of snake venom?
Muhira! You fool, he created
it in honour of those who had
protected him for years –
Takshaka’s people. And so he
called it the Naga-astra. As
for recreating it – that seems
highly unlikely now that the
Kandava forest no longer
exists.’
‘Thanks to Govinda
Shauri,’ Devala hissed. ‘It
makes sense. He destroys that
which he cannot control. As
did the Firstborn, whom you
have so faithfully served. Not
much difference between
traitors, is there? You and I
aren’t very different either,
you know. We are both true
Wrights; we both wait, and
we both hope and fear that
there may indeed be plans
that are made to succeed
when all others fail…’
‘I am nothing like you!’
Asvattama said, rising to his
feet, the sudden movement
sending the chair he had sat
on clattering across the stone
floor. He left the prison
without another word.

9
THERE WERE FEW THINGS,
SANJAYA NOTED, AS
WORRYING OR AS satisfying,
depending on one’s point of
view, as watching a war-
hardy man be truly horrified.
And to see clear concern, the
faint but undeniable tinge of
fear in the eyes of a man such
as Acharya Dron – now that
was a heady feeling indeed.
He had been a little anxious
that Syoddhan’s meeting with
Jayadrath would go on for a
while and he would not be
able to be here on time. And
then Vasusena had put forth
his idea. It was brilliant, and
elegant in its parsimony. It
had taken Sanjaya self-
restraint to not be openly
effusive, and he had to
remind himself that not
everyone knew what he did
about the supposedly lowborn
warrior.
Everyone has a secret,
Sanjaya thought. It’s what
makes them weak. To know
those secrets is to hold
unfettered power in one’s
hand. The Firewrights knew
that well, as did my mentor,
the former Vyasa
Dwaipayana. It is time to put
this invaluable lesson to use
once more.
As soon as the discussion
had concluded, Sanjaya had
excused himself and made his
way towards Hastina’s
dungeons, stopping only to
check that his attendant had,
inadvertently and in the most
casual manner, ensured that
Dron would be waiting for
him. He had indulged in an
unusual smile when the
attendant reported that he had
seen Jayadrath in
conversation with Asvattama
not too long ago, but thought
no further of it and, focussed
on the matter at hand. Tasks
such as the one he was about
to perform were precious, not
only for the vital part they
played in his plans but also
for the sheer delight they
provided.
Careful not to let thoughts
of impending pleasure
distract him for too long,
Sanjaya shifted closer to the
respected teacher and
counsellor standing by his
side, the subtle move creating
an air of confidentiality and
trust. Dron was a much older
man but still a fighter to be
contended with. No one,
Sanjaya included, would want
to put the acharya to the test.
As a result, he chose his next
words with great care, ‘It
might just be coincidence,
Acharya. Just because your
son had the wrong
sympathies in his youth
doesn’t mean he still does.
He’s older now, and far
wiser.’
Dron shook his head, his
eyes fixed on his son as the
tall warrior exited the well-
guarded stairway to Hastina’s
dungeons. ‘What business did
he have there, if not his
own?’ he snapped.
Sanjaya did not reply, and
in the silence they heard a
palace guard snapping to
attention and greeting
Asvattama, who in turn made
a casual enquiry as to the
security arrangements for the
new prisoner. Muffled by the
distance, their exact words
were indiscernible but the
general import of their
conversation was obvious.
‘Why should he care,
unless…?’ Dron allowed his
imagination to suggest many
conclusions, none of them
palatable.
‘Acharya, for what it’s
worth, the Vyasa – I mean,
the former Vyasa – never did
doubt your son or his loyalty.
Neither have your
benefactors, the Kurus, ever
had cause to do so. Grandsire
Bhisma knows that both of
you have remained true to the
Firstborn cause,’ Sanjaya
said, careful to lower his
voice further.
‘With all due respect to the
former Vyasa and to the
Grandsire, Sanjaya, I’ve
known my son a lot longer
than they have. I also know
the tempestuous heart
Asvattama hides behind that
calm exterior. There are times
when I think I should’ve slit
his throat myself…’
‘Acharya, please! There’s
no proof…’
‘My honour won’t take
proof for an answer, Sanjaya.
You’ve seen the sway
Bhisma holds over King
Dhrupad of Panchala simply
because of what that fool son
of his did. Am I to be reduced
to the same state because my
son is equally an imbecile?
No!’
Sanjaya made to speak, but
realized that Asvattama’s
conversation with the guard
had ended and he was now
walking away. He waited till
the warrior was out of sight.
Next to him, Dron let out a
deep breath. Sanjaya placed a
gentle hand on the older
man’s forearm, the way he
knew Dwaipayana was wont
to. ‘Acharya, please…there
are few men I admire more
than you and your son. And I
know that even now you see
what needs to be done to
protect him, to protect your
honour. But can you truly
believe that your enemies
would think the same way?
King Dhrupad is more
important, more powerful
now than he has ever been,
thanks to his alliance with the
house of Dharma Yudhisthir.
Do you trust that he won’t
manipulate the Emperor
against you? One word of
Asvattama’s mistakes, of
what he did before he became
king of Northern Panchala,
and Dhrupad will claim just
cause to hunt you and your
son down like rabid wolves!’
Dron turned, his dark eyes
boring into Sanjaya. Gone
was the anxiety of moments
ago. It was as if he had
suddenly remembered that he
was royal preceptor to the
Kuru kings, while Sanjaya
was a lowly Suta, a half-born.
‘Say whatever it is you want
to say, Sanjaya,’ he said
coldly. ‘Don’t presume to
advise me.’
‘My apologies, Acharya. I
only wish to point out that
Asvattama is indispensable to
Syoddhan, just as you were
and are indispensable to
Grandsire Bhisma. If
Syoddhan and his friends rise
to be the moral restraint on
Emperor Dharma’s reign,
then Asvattama will be safe.’
‘Are these your words,
Sanjaya, or the Vyasa’s?’
 ‘They are not Vyasa
Markand’s – for these affairs
are not his area of comfort or
expertise. Which is why my
former master – the Vyasa
Dwaipayana – has still left
political counsel to my care.
And I believe, as he does, that
power must have checks and
balances. Syoddhan can be
the balance. But for that to
happen, he must grow and
come into his own. There are
those, especially at Hastina,
who have held power for far
too long. They may need a
gentle hand to guide them
towards letting go. Your
influence in this would be
most invaluable, and, if I may
be so bold as to point out, to
your son’s benefit.’
‘And who at Hastina is it
you speak of as needing
guidance? There are two old
men here who would fit the
description well. One fancies
himself king and the other is
king. Neither knows what it
means to age with grace!’
Sanjaya did not reply in
words, but let his expression
show acknowledgement. He
knew he had played the move
well. Dron prided himself on
letting his young students rise
to excellence. Often, he drew
attention to the fact that when
he had won Northern
Panchala from King Dhrupad,
he had installed Asvattama on
the throne of Ahichhattra
instead of taking the crown
for himself – unlike Bhisma
and Dhritarastra, who hung
on to the Kuru throne as
Regent and king,
respectively.
‘Well,’ Dron continued,
‘I’ll do what I can to prod the
old ones to let go. At the
least, I shall support
Syoddhan’s ventures. He will
prove himself in no time!’
‘Thank you, Acharya. I’m
most grateful. This isn’t a
duty I could have ever hoped
to discharge on my own!’
Laughing, Dron gave
Sanjaya a benevolent pat on
his shoulder before walking
away.
Sanjaya waited till he was
sure Dron was gone, before
moving towards the stairway
from which Asvattama had
earlier emerged. He entered
the dungeons, ignoring the
sounds and smells, the
omnipresence of pain, flesh
and blood that came at him
from its bowels. He was not a
man of violence and he did
not regret it in the least. He
considered killing a menial
function, one of many tasks
that could be delegated and
seen through successfully if
one held true power. True
power, he knew, came from
the mind. It was this
knowledge that had fed his
grudge and his dream for all
these years. The sense of
undeniable superiority where
it mattered had led him to
aspire to use the Firewrights,
to one day lead them despite
never having been trained as
one. He was determined to
take what was rightfully his
by sheer force, his kind of
force.
He made his way to one of
the smaller cells set in what
could be considered the best
corner, noting that the air was
cleaner here, and it was just
that much brighter. He found
Devala inside, pacing,
rubbing at his manacled
wrists. ‘Oh Rudra! Don’t tell
me they still haven’t taken
that off you! Guard! Guard!
Come here at once!’ Devala
watched, a little curious, as
Sanjaya had him unchained.
‘It’s bad enough we have
to keep you here for a while
longer,’ Sanjaya continued, as
soon as the guard was out of
earshot. ‘Chains aren’t
needed. It’s not like you’re
going to do anything I don’t
want you to.’
Devala chuckled at the
implied threat, but took no
offence. ‘It’s all right,’ he
said. ‘It made for a good
show in front of that fool who
was just here. Treacherous
bastard! May he wander the
earth an accursed being for a
thousand centuries! Men like
him deserve to rot alive, the
pompous fool! He knows
nothing, but pretends he
commands us all. You should
have seen the hunger in his
eyes when I mentioned the
Naga-weapon.’
‘Hunger? The look in
Jayadrath’s eyes when he
mentioned you was sheer
gluttony! But getting back to
Asvattama, don’t
underestimate him. You think
that you’ve interrogated him?
I assure you, he’s the one
who’s interrogated you and
you didn’t even realize it.’
‘His ambition is plain
enough, Sanjaya. He wants
power. He wants
Agniveshya’s weapon even
more than any one of those
sons-of-whores kings do. The
bait has been placed. But I
think he knows nothing about
this new Secret Keeper. In
fact, he was so blinded with
anger by the end of our
conversation that the
conceited muhira did not
even realize what I was
talking about.’
 Sanjaya frowned. ‘I’m not
so sure it’s as simple as that.
But yes, the bait has been
well placed. Asvattama is
ambitious, but he is far from
stupid and his loyalties have
always been divided. He
served the Vyasa well
enough, far too well, in fact.
In any case, the seeds of his
downfall have been laid. He
won’t last long.’
‘How?’
 ‘His father. The only thing
more dangerous than not
being trusted by the man who
sired you, is being hated by
the one you’ve sired. I should
know. Be ready, you’ll need
to go to work soon. How long
do you think it will take?’
‘To completely refit an
army? That will take months.
But I can make modifications
to any conventional weaponry
within two or three days.
Why, I remember, I had
Sudakshin fire up a hundred
small forges just to heat and
remove the tip off all his
men’s arrows to create the
crescent shape that keeps the
skin open so that the enemy
bleeds to death from just a
flesh wound.’
‘I can tell you now that you
will be dealing with Danava
mercenaries.’
‘That lot is a pleasure to
work with. Show them any
gruesome way to kill and they
pick it up like trained
monkeys at a village fair. I’ll
equip them all right.’
‘Good. Now remember, at
no point should anyone
suspect my involvement in
this affair. As far as they are
concerned, you are the last
Firewright, yes? Don’t
worry…you will be treated
well by Saubha. Still, be
careful. Don’t outstay your
utility, or reveal all your
tricks just yet. And don’t be
seen at Dwaraka. Your
involvement must remain
known only to those who
think themselves either
benefitted or condemned by
it, for only they will have
cause to keep it a secret.’
Devala nodded. He was
still a little stunned by the
turn of events. ‘Are you sure
this will work? How did you
get them to agree to this?’ he
asked.
‘Getting them to agree was
simple enough. Jayadrath and
his allies have much to gain if
they can take Dwaraka down,
especially in these newly
prosperous times. The port of
Dwaraka is the key to the
future, to trade and wealth.
He was very easily motivated,
as was King Saubha, weeks
earlier.’
‘They have much to gain
once Dwaraka is gone.’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘I meant economically and
politically, not in terms of
moral satisfaction.’
‘That too,’ Sanjaya
affirmed. ‘But to be on the
safe side, I’ve personally
ensured that Dharma’s
legislators have been putting
forward proposals which are
just ambiguous enough to
seem incursive on the
sovereignty of the more
sensitive kings. But the gods
smile on us, Devala –
something in those edicts has
inspired Empress Panchali to
present a controversial
proposal of her own… To
remove taxes on Naga iron-
work so that their craft will
spread.’
Devala’s usually bitter
expression softened. ‘She’s a
good woman. Honestly
believes in what the Wrights
stood for. Unfortunately,
she’s also rather malleable, as
Govinda Shauri knew well…’
‘It’s a quality we can put to
use, just as he did.’
‘But this proposal, this idea
of removing taxes on Naga-
made goods – you must
admit, it has a certain appeal.
It’s not too different from
what Agniveshya had hoped
for, or what I myself would
have wanted had I been the
one to teach the Nagas the
metal craft of the Wrights.’
‘I agree. But that is
precisely the point. We were
not the ones to teach them
their skills, nor are we the
ones now to hasten their rise.
If the power of the
Firewrights is to remain in
our hands, Devala, so must
their knowledge. Now, more
than ever, the need for
secrecy and caution is upon
us. Only if we centralize all
knowledge in the hands of a
few can we control
Aryavarta’s destiny. We must
make ourselves indispensable
to Aryavarta’s monarchs –
the new generation of rulers,
mind you, not these old
dotards that were happy to let
the Firstborn spit on them!
Let the old die quietly. We
will be the might, no, the
masters of the new breed of
kings that rule Aryavarta.
And for this greater good that
we will bring to this realm,
sacrifices must be made. In
this case, the Nagas will just
have to continue to play the
role they have for decades.
I’m sure they must have got
accustomed to being used by
now.’
 With a nod that served to
acknowledge but not quite
yield, Devala said, ‘So,
Dwaraka?’
‘Yes, Dwaraka. I doubt we
could stop that particular
storm even if we wanted to.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that? Hunger and
fear, my friend. Hunger and
fear.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Dwaraka will fall, after
which it’s only a matter of
time before these great kings
start bickering amongst
themselves, hungry to call the
might of the Firewrights their
own while fearful of the
powers their neighbours may
wield. And then, our time
begins. One by one, they will
seek us out. And, soon, the
sound of hammer against iron
and the scrape of molten
metal against anvil will fill
the air of every kingdom in
this so-called empire.
Aryavarta will never be the
same again.’
Devala sneered, ‘Now
who’s making the mistake of
underestimation? You
misjudge Govinda Shauri.’
‘On the contrary, it is you
who underestimate Govinda
Shauri. I, on the other hand,
know what he is capable of.
He’s not an idiot. He was one
of Ghora’s best students, or
so it was said.’
‘Much was said, not all of
it deserving.’
Sanjaya gazed indulgently
at the Firewright before him.
Devala’s anger reminded him
of his own, of how, in the
past, he would openly
question Govinda’s intentions
and competence only to have
Dwaipayana indulge him with
explanations. He thought
back to those days, those long
years of playing the obedient
acolyte as he gently guided
the Vyasa’s hand, allowing
him to let Govinda build this
empire. An empire that
Sanjaya would now use for
his own purposes. The notion
made him feel important,
benevolent and wary all at
once.
It was the first of the two
feelings that led him to
explain, ‘Govinda’s plan to
create an empire and take
control of Aryavarta was not
a bad one, and it would be
folly to think otherwise. He
had the foresight to set into
motion a mighty chain of
events, one that ended with
Dharma Yudhisthir
occupying the imperial
throne. But that was his
singular mistake. He chose
Dharma Yudhisthir.’
 ‘He chose Panchali. If only
she’d been born a man…’
‘Then he wouldn’t have
chosen her at all. In the name
of Agni, stop thinking of
Govinda as an idea. He is a
man. All men have
weaknesses. As for Dharma,
once Dwaraka falls…’
‘But will it fall?’ Devala
still sounded unconvinced.
‘My dear Devala, you
astound me. Is it your own
skill as a Wright you doubt
or…? You are going to help
arm Saubha’s forces yourself.
How can Dwaraka not fall?’
‘I doubt my mother’s
virtue when it comes to
anything related to Govinda
Shauri. Call him a man, an
idea, or whatever you like. I’d
prefer to call him dead.’
Sanjaya considered the
statement. ‘You have a point.
Dwaraka may be more
vulnerable and easier to take
down if Govinda is out of the
way.’ He was silent for a
while and then said, ‘Once
you are done equipping
Saubha’s forces, find
Govinda and finish him off.
He has been wandering
Aryavarta ever since the
Coronation. Kill him before
he reaches Dwaraka.’
‘That’s nothing. I know
where the dramatic fool will
end up, sooner or later. But,
there is one last thing…?’
In answer to the unspoken
question, Sanjaya said,
‘Asvattama? He won’t come
after you. You’ll be released
on Syoddhan’s secret orders,
as it were, so he won’t be a
problem. Nor will the old pair
of king and Regent. But still,
remember to be discreet.’
‘What about Syoddhan? I
did not see that particular bull
being so easily tamed with
fire but, clearly, I’ve
underestimated you.’
Sanjaya ignored the
compliment, though he was
hardly displeased. ‘He still
has his doubts, but once
Dwaraka is his it will be too
late for him to change his
mind about us. Saubha and
Jayadrath will present
arguments that Syoddhan
cannot refute – not if he
wishes to rule. And in the
same vein, if Saubha and
Jayadrath wish to remain
persuasive forces, they will
need us and our weapons.
Either way, Aryavarta will be
ours.’
Devala grinned maliciously
at the thought. ‘Well done!
Rational and methodical. I
like that in a man.’
‘Of course I’m rational and
methodical. I’m a
Firewright.’

10
THE TEMPERAMENTAL
SUMMER BREEZE WHISTLED
THROUGH THE trees on the
verdant hillside and sang over
the water of the nearby
stream. Occasionally, it came
forth as a forceful gust,
picking up just a touch of
spray from the foam-flecked
surface and landing as drops
of sunlight on the grassy
banks. Satisfied, it ebbed for
a few moments, allowing
birdsong to occasionally fill
the air, till it decided it was
time to resume its
performance and rushed back
to the trees and the water.
Govinda Shauri smiled,
enjoying its cool, playful
touch. He ran his fingers
lightly through his dark, wavy
hair, pushing it off his face
with a contented sigh. The
grass he lay on felt soft and
scratchy on his bare back,
tickling a particular spot
along his spine. He could
smell the freshness of the
forest around him. In the
silence, welcoming and
comfortable, he could hear
the forest breathe. Drawing in
his fill of the crisp air, he
revelled in a sea of simple,
acute sensations. These
forests, these lush glades and
the sparkling river – this was
where he had played as a
child, fought and loved as a
man, lived as a cowherd and a
prince. This was the heart of
Aryavarta, the land that he
loved and revered.
This was where he had
become who he was.
 A Firewright.
Govinda was not one to
indulge in reminiscence, for it
got in the way of his
dispassion. He simply
remembered, his mind
bringing to life images and
scenes in a clear, ordered
fashion.
He had been about
eighteen when, disillusioned
with his new life as the Prince
of Mathura, he had sought out
the Sramanas, a sect of dark
mystics. Following their
ways, he had tested his body
and mind to the limits of
endurance, fasting for days on
end, standing in the rain and
the sun without so much as
twitching a muscle, daring to
lie on the ashes of cooling
pyres embracing the bones of
the dead. He had imagined
his own death time and again,
till it held no fear, no
fascination, just an unruffled
acceptance of mortality,
oblivious to individual
existence. He had been alive,
but hardly sentient. He
breathed, he ate if fed, and he
never slept.
Finally, his teacher had led
him to a village. This village.
Here, there had been
laughter. He could hear it
now, the fearless laughter of a
child, and in his mind he
followed the sound through
the village to find himself at
its furthest boundary, on the
river’s edge.
A girl sat thoughtfully on
the bank, watching leaves and
flowers float by on the
current, whirling through
eddies and dancing over
rocks in a show fit for an
empress. A bustle of
excitement went through the
calm little hamlet of thatched
huts, as two figures slowly
entered the village. The adults
left their huts and thronged
around the duo, and the girl
ran to join the chattering
group of children that stood
on the fringes of the crowd of
adults. Their vision
completely blocked by the
crowd, the children stood
ineffectively on tiptoe,
hoping for a glimpse.
‘Is Great-grandfather
back?’ her brother, a lanky
boy, asked. ‘May we see him,
Father?’
A young man stepped back
from the crowd. ‘Not yet,
little ones. He is very tired.
He’s been living a life of
harsh asceticism in
Dakshinavarta.’
The boy gasped. ‘With the
Sramanas?’ he asked, a little
fearfully.
‘Yes, with the Sramanas.
He has not eaten for a long
time and his body has gone
through much hardship. He
needs to rest. You won’t
disturb him, will you?’
The two children had
assured their father that they
would not. The man was
about to leave when the boy
asked, ‘Who’s that with
Great-grandfather? That
man?’
‘His student.’
 The memory moved from
morning to afternoon. The
initial excitement in the
village had died down, helped
by the hazy stupor of the
summer day. Few dared
venture out in the blazing
heat. Only the most
enthusiastic of children, who
intended to take full
advantage of the fact that
most adults were indoors, and
in all probability, asleep,
were about. He saw her then,
smiling softly in a lazy
reverie, curled up in the shade
of a tree by the river.
Moments later, he realized,
the girl was up and frowning
at a small group of her
playmates who were
stealthily approaching the hut
where the Sramana rested.
Her brother was not with
them. She ran over to the
group.
 ‘What are you doing?’ she
asked.
The boy leading the group
grinned conspiratorially as he
realized her reluctance. ‘We
just want to take a look at the
other man, that’s all.’
‘He is a disciple and a
Sramana. Treat him with
respect. Leave him be,’ she
said.
‘He isn’t a Sramana. Your
great-grandfather has brought
back a wild man from the
southern jungles.’
‘I’m going to find father,’
she said, unsure of what was
to come.
‘Are you scared?’ one of
the other children teased.
‘Of course she’s scared,’
the first boy went on, ‘she’s
scared of the wild man.’
Her little hands rolled into
fists. She knew she could not
win a fight against all these
children, but she did not care.
The only dissuading factor
was the inevitable
punishment from her father.
She decided not to throw the
first blow and let her hands
fall to her side. ‘I’m not
scared!’
‘Then come with us…’ the
boy said.
She considered the offer
and nodded in agreement.
Grinning, the boy took her
hand lest she run away. She
glared at him in response and
took a step forward.
As one, the children
huddled into the hut. A
shuffling sound came from its
dark depths. One of the
smaller children whined,
terrified. The sound provoked
a response. Something was
approaching, but its awkward,
angular movements were
hardly human. With yells and
squeals, the children made to
run away, the boy in the lead
included. He bolted for the
small crack of light that
indicated the doorway. The
heavy curtain swung in his
face and he flailed wildly,
bringing it down and letting a
wide beam of light tear into
the darkness of the hut before
he fled from the scene. The
others followed him out, still
screaming loudly.
 Only the girl remained in
the hut. As the strange
creature approached, she
slowly moved back a couple
of steps, uncertain and
confused. Her every move,
every expression conveyed
meaning, just as if she were
speaking aloud. Govinda
knew she was terrified by
what she saw: The occupant
of the hut looked like a
normal man, but he could
well have been a wild
creature. His body was bare,
except for the scrap of cloth
over his hips. Long, matted
hair fell unkempt over his
face, and his cheeks were
covered with an uneven,
scraggly beard. He was tall
and grotesquely emaciated.
His bones jutted out, giving
him the look of a human
insect, especially when he
moved, as he did now. He
crawled on his hands and
knees, to where she stood.
Children’s voices shouted
from outside, telling her that
others had run to get help.
But the girl did not care. He
knew that she herself was lost
in the Sramana’s eyes, an
ocean of endless life, of
infinity. In that moment, the
child understood the oft-
repeated truth that learned
adults around her longed to
make sense of. In a hushed
whisper, she said the words
he would never forget. ‘I am
the Primordial Being,
Existence itself.’
Govinda heard a guttural
sound, a croak that was
speech from vocal cords that
had not been used in many
months. Was it him? Or was
it the Sramana? He did not
know. For all he could see
was the fire of compassion in
the girl’s eyes. He was lost in
its light.
‘Are you hungry?’ she
gently asked, and without
waiting for an answer she
took the Sramana’s hand.
‘Come, we’ll find something
to eat. But first, you must
have a bath and offer your
prayers to the Sacred Fire.
We have rules here in this
hermitage, you know,’ she
said the last words in a
conscious imitation of her
grandfather when he
addressed new disciples.
The Sramana said nothing,
but unsteadily got to his feet
and let her guide him towards
the doorway. She stepped out,
but he hesitated, as did
Govinda, fearful of the bright
afternoon sun. The crowd that
had gathered stared at them,
aghast. The girl giggled at the
sight.
 ‘Come,’ she urged. ‘Don’t
be afraid. This is my family. I
won’t let them hurt you.’
The Sramana disappeared,
becoming one with Govinda
as he raised his head and let
the sunlight fall on his face.
With an exclamation of joy,
her great-grandfather – thin,
tired, but otherwise very
much normal and clean –
came forward to embrace
him.
 ‘I feared we’d lost you, my
son,’ the old sage tearfully
confessed. ‘I feared you’d
never return from the dark
paths on which you
travelled.’
Govinda felt the girl’s
chubby little hand, soft and
warm in his large, calloused
grip. He stood straighter,
taller, like he had awakened
from a dream. He was no
longer watching now, but
could feel every sensation.
That night, Govinda had
slept in the dormitory, with
all the other students. As he
lay struggling to sleep, he
heard her voice through the
darkness, as she and the other
students cajoled her father to
tell them a story. A strong
voice finally began the
narrative, and Govinda had
listened, as spellbound as the
children had been.
 ‘Once upon a time,’ the
man began, ‘there was a
goddess whose beauty and
grace, form and spirit, were
such that all the gods and
celestials desired her. Her
name was Sri. Wherever she
went, there was always joy
and happiness, and so, Indra,
the king of the celestials,
convinced everyone that she
ought to be his. That way,
Indra argued, Swarga would
always be the happiest place
in the Universe. And so it
was. But poor, unfortunate
Sri, who brought everyone
such great prosperity, was
herself unhappy.’
‘Why?’ a boy asked.
‘Because, little ones,
whoever had Sri could be
happy. But Sri didn’t have
anyone. She didn’t have
herself.’
Govinda remembered that
he had been amazed at the
simplicity with which the
man had explained such a
complex notion.
‘And then,’ the narration
continued, ‘Indra was cursed
by a sage, and lost his throne.
Suddenly, there was a mad
scramble among the
celestials, demons and even
humans to become King of in
Indra’s place. More
importantly, to claim Sri, and
become victorious and
prosperous. The terrified
goddess went into hiding
deep inside the Ocean of
Existence on which the
weaver of illusions, Vasudeva
Narayana, rests. She
remained there for a long,
long time. The war for
Indra’s throne was
catastrophic. Many died,
demons and celestials alike.
Finally, a truce was declared
between them and they
decided to churn the Ocean of
Existence to search for the
secret Elixir of Immortality.
Can you guess what they
found?’
The young girl responded
in a mesmerized whisper,
‘Sri?’
‘Yes, they found Sri. When
they churned the ocean, she
had to come out of hiding.
Once again, a great clamour
started, as each of the
celestials and demons tried to
woo her, abduct her, or claim
her. But, you see, Sri was no
longer the helpless goddess
who had gone into hiding.
She had found someone who
cared for her and wanted her
to be happy. He had borne her
through her troubles and seen
her true form. Do you
understand, children? Not
once in all those eons did
Vasudeva Narayana ever seek
to own her the way others
had. Instead, he made her a
part of himself. And now, Sri
decided, she’d never leave
Narayana, no matter what, for
Narayana would never
forsake the eternal truth, the
universal balance. Vasudeva
Narayana made her the
source of his strength. Where
he is Eternity, she is Nature;
where he is Purpose, she is
Action; and where he is the
Soul of all things, she is the
Manifestation. The scriptures
describe her as a dark-hued
jewel that lies forever in his
heart. Whenever the great
weaver of illusions descends
to Earth, Sri, with the power
of fire and the fragrance of
lotuses, is born too. Always.’
‘Always,’ the girl had
repeated.
Her simple conviction
stunned Govinda.
The next morning, shaved,
bathed and looking a little
less wild, he searched her out
and found her alone, revising
her lessons with a diligence
that appeared excessive for
her age. She smiled as he
approached, but did not
interrupt her revision with
speech.
Govinda sat next to her, the
silence between them
comfortable. They remained
that way for a while.
Suddenly, she asked him,
‘They say you’re a prince. It
must be nice to be one…
Prince Govinda Shauri…’ she
let the name roll off her
tongue and continued,
without pause, ‘when I was a
little girl, I used to wish I
were a princess so I’d never
have to do chores, or study so
hard, and I could eat what I
wanted and not be told to
finish without wasting any of
it.’
She shook her head in a
precociously adult fashion,
clucking her tongue at her
own juvenile fantasies. ‘But
not anymore,’ she concluded.
‘And what do you wish for
now?’ Govinda asked,
amazed at her propensity to
speak on without a care in the
world.
 The girl had replied, with
solemn sincerity, ‘I want to
know…’ She eagerly began
explaining, the act second
nature to her, ‘You see, all
the knowledge in the world is
still incomplete, because
there are questions we
haven’t answered yet. What
does existence really mean?
The scriptures say we each
are as wide as Brahman,
Existence itself, and Brahman
is as small as the tiniest
celestial atom inside us. It is
within us, and we’re within it
at the same time – but what
does that mean in our lives,
yours and mine? And even if
I know everything there is to
know, these questions still
cannot be answered. Who
knew these things, when I did
not? How did it exist if no
one knew it? All we ever
learn is only that which can
be known. What is the
unknown? What is…?’ She
trailed off, unable to explain
what it was that she sought.
‘I am the Primordial Being,
Existence itself,’ Govinda
reminded her.
‘That is just the beginning
of the road, Prince Govinda,’
she had said, eyebrows raised
in an effort to look haughty
and condescending. ‘It’s not
the knowledge that matters,
it’s the knowing.’
And then she was gone,
lost again in the formless
weight of a life lived once,
and then over and over again
in memory.
Govinda hissed as the
breeze whipped a lock of his
wavy hair into his eye, the
light sting bringing him back
to the present. He stood up
and walked over to the tree
that had featured so vividly in
his recollections, even
haunting his dreams. The
swing he had built for her had
long been severed and
discarded, but to his eyes the
faint abrasions left by the
thick hemp rope still
remained on the branch it had
hung from. Govinda closed
his eyes, letting his mind fill
completely with her image,
her voice, her laughter. If
there was a word in the
languages of Aryavarta,
Dakshinavarta, or even
foreign tongues to describe
what had been between the
two of them, he did not know
it. She was a child, he was her
playmate; she was a student,
he was the teacher.
Sometimes, he recalled, he
had been the student and she
the teacher. It did not matter.
He had loved her. And he
knew, in a way he could not
explain, that if only they had
had enough time when she
had grown to be a young
woman he would have fallen
in love with her.
Now, all of it was only
memory. What had once been
a village was merely strewn
wreckage and debris, the sad
remains of the Firewrights
that he had destroyed. He
looked down at his empty
arms, remembering what it
had felt like to hold her close
and then to let her go. It had
felt the same way when he let
Panchali go on the eve of her
wedding, when her fingers
had slipped out of his grasp,
leaving a void that could
never be filled.
‘Was it worth it?’ a rough
voice intruded on his
thoughts.
Govinda could not help but
feel a flicker of surprise as he
recognized the voice. He
turned to face the speaker and
his malice. ‘You know it
was.’
‘Liar! Nothing was worth
losing her.’
‘You should know…’
Govinda carelessly dismissed,
even as he took in the men
silently forming a ring around
him. Each of them was
dressed in the non-descript
black robes of those who did
not wish to be identified and
had a mask covering the
lower half of his face. From
the style of their robes and
the designs on the hilts of the
swords Govinda guessed
them to be Danava
mercenaries. Cut-throat
soldiers available on hire,
they were among the most
feared warriors in the world.
Despite their lack of
allegiance, Govinda had no
doubt they were effective –
far more so than the three
men who had met their
demise at his hands in that
drinking-house. Whoever had
managed to get Devala out of
prison had neither intended
nor needed to settle for less.

11
‘YOU SHOULD HAVE RUN
WHEN YOU HAD THE
CHANCE.’
Govinda’s voice held no
trace of the many questions
on his mind when he replied,
‘You think too much of
yourself.’
Devala snarled in response,
but let it pass as he took yet
another look at the
devastation around them. A
different kind of anger, a
simmering rage, steeped in
visible sadness, filled him.
‘There was life here,’ he said.
‘Life which you brutally tore
from its roots. Nothing can
bring them back, Govinda.
Nothing will bring her
back…not the way she was
then.’
‘Are you here to reminisce,
Devala? In which case, we
should light a fire, have a
drink… Or we could just get
down to the matter at hand.’
Devala spat on the ground
in response. He turned to one
of the ten men with him and
said, ‘Kill him.’
The mercenary, a man with
grey eyes and sun-browned
skin that had, from the look
of his scalp, been pale once,
was not a native of Aryavarta,
and his behaviour served to
affirm it. ‘Kill him?’ he
questioned Devala’s
command with all the
impudence of a man used to
serving just one master:
money. ‘But Lord Sau…’
‘He said you were to take
your orders from me, or you
will not see a coin from him,’
Devala affirmed. ‘Now kill
him. And once you’re done,
take his head. It must hang
over the gates of Dwaraka.
On second thoughts, take the
rest of him too… We shall let
a limb hang from each
entrance to his precious city.
Dwaraka they many-gated,
they call it… We shall have
Govinda quartered to adorn
each of them.’
Govinda’s eyes darkened.
Devala’s arrogant words were
enough to suggest that
something was wrong,
terribly wrong. But there was
no time to be wasted in
seeking explanations or
engaging in arguments. He
would have to settle things
swiftly. Ten, no, eleven
against one was in no way
favourable odds, but Govinda
knew better than to be
intimidated. And being a
veteran of such situations, he
also knew better than to be
complacent.
Before any of the hired
men could move, Govinda
pulled the slender dagger out
from its sheath around his
calf and hurled it at the
mercenary in the middle of
the cluster. Taking advantage
of the instant of shock that
followed, he drew out
Nandaka, his sword, and
threw himself at the
remaining men. The way they
came forward to alerted him
to the fact that they were
toying with him, baiting him,
though he could not explain
how or why. As their swords
met, he noticed the savage
glee, the feral anticipation he
had seen elsewhere in the
eyes of victors, on the faces
of men riding to bloody
plunder. It filled him with a
desperate strength. Dropping
down on one knee, whipping
his head out of the way as a
spear whistled past his right
ear, Govinda swung a double-
handed stroke that rent the
soft bellies of three men at
one go. It was not a killing
move, but the keen edge of
Nandaka ripped through flesh
and muscle, pulling out the
mercenaries’ entrails. With
howls of pain, the men
staggered back, their weapons
falling from their hands as
they clutched at their
stomachs before keeling to
the ground. It would take
them a long time to die, but
they no longer posed a threat.
Their companions,
however, had learnt their
lesson. They formed a ring
around Govinda before he
could get back on his feet.
This time, though, they kept a
wary distance and watched
his every move instead of
rushing in. Govinda guessed
that they would now take it
slow, moving in smaller
groups, tiring him out and
pushing him to make a fatal
mistake. One opening was all
they needed.
Govinda stepped on a
sword one of the fallen men
had dropped. Without taking
his eyes off his adversaries,
he slipped a foot under the
length of the blade and
flipped it up, catching it by
the hilt. He now had a sword
in each hand. Twirling both
blades around with strong
turns of his wrists, he quickly
got used to his new
acquisition, the weight and
length perceptibly different
from his own silver-white
sword. Evening out his
breath, he concentrated on
every sound and the slightest
trace of movement around
him, keenly aware that
Devala had not joined the
ring of attackers. His focus
paid off, for he became aware
of the soft creak of a bow not
very far away, the smooth
draw ending with a reluctant
jerk, a sign of added weight
on the bowstring. Govinda
felt a hint of satisfaction,
though he was careful not to
let it show. It seemed
Devala’s impatience would
prove helpful.
The moment he heard the
twang of the bowstring,
Govinda moved, throwing
himself sideways and down
to the ground. He heard the
distinct sound of shattering as
the arrow hit the ground,
barely finger-widths away
from where he had been
standing. Instinctively, he
held his breath. He saw at
once that this was a poison of
a different kind. Barely had
the first whiff of a purple-
green smoke risen from the
broken remains of Devala’s
poison-arrow than Govinda
let out the breath he had been
holding. He noted the
positions of his adversaries
and closed his eyes, pulling
his torn upper robe in a band
around his face to give his
eyes added protection. After
that he let the screams guide
him.
Govinda thought it unlikely
that Devala had many more
poison darts at his disposal –
the toxins being rare and
time-consuming to make –
but even a simple arrow could
prove fatal at such short
range. He heard Devala’s
bow swing again, but could
do little other than try to let
the mercenaries’ bodies
shield him from the arrows.
Crouching down to form as
small a target as he could, he
thrust and cleaved with
precise parsimony, each
stroke bringing down an
assailant who was already
incapacitated by Devala’s
premature attack. Ironically,
in doing this, he exposed
himself further to Devala’s
aim. Govinda cursed out loud
as he felt an arrow graze his
calf and wondered if he ought
to risk opening his eyes.
Reasoning that it would serve
him no purpose to go blind,
he fought on using sound and
instinct.
He stopped when he
realized that his strokes were
cutting through nothing but
air and stood still and alert,
panting hard. He had counted
six men falling, which ought
to have left one more
mercenary. For all he knew,
the man was already dead.
But Devala remained in the
fray, and Govinda now had
no clue where he was. A little
reluctantly, he tried to
provoke the Firewright to
speech. ‘Neither patience, nor
allegiance. You lack the skill
to be a tyrant and the honour
to be a hero. Now do you see
why she rejected you?’
Devala’s voice was a close
whisper that made Govinda
realize that he was now in
more danger than ever. ‘She
rejected me because she
loved you. And you betrayed
her love, her trust. You used
her and threw her away as
you do with everyone,
Govinda. Of all your crimes,
this has been the worst. And,
by Hara, you will pay for it.
Everything that you’ve built
will fall. Your precious city,
your people, shall lie ravaged
and broken, the way her spirit
was ravaged and broken
when you betrayed her! And
you shall die right here. Right
here, where it all began and
ended.’
Govinda felt the rush of air
before he heard the stroke.
More by reflex than
calculated precision, he
brought up his blade in a
counter. A choked cry of pain
escaped him as the blade
missed his neck but rent his
unprotected forearm, cutting
deeper as Devala pressed
down with his entire weight.
Despite the agony, Govinda
twisted his wrist around,
trying to cut Devala’s sword-
arm even as he pushed
himself up off the ground, at
the same time slashing with
his other sword. He heard
Devala cry out in pain, and
felt the pressure give as the
other man stumbled back.
Govinda straightened up,
dropped his borrowed sword
and pulled at the cloth over
his eyes. Blinking as the glare
of the light hit him, he
steadied himself on his feet,
ready for Devala to strike
again. The full-body form of
combat that often served
Govinda so well was of no
advantage here, for his
adversary equally bore the
marks of Firewright training.
Yet Devala stepped back.
Govinda understood as he
saw the spreading stain on the
man’s robe. Devala was hurt.
In a sudden move, Devala
hurled his sword at Govinda
and turned around to run as
fast as he could. At his
whistled signal, a powerful
brown stallion emerged from
the edge of the woods,
slowing down to a trot only to
let his injured master clamber
on before taking off at a
gallop.
‘Balahak!’ Govinda called
out to his own horse, but even
as the silver-white steed came
thundering up the slight slope
of the riverbank with a
neighed response, he knew
that giving chase was not a
good idea. Devala could
easily lead him into a trap.
Worse, with their equally
matched horses, the chase
could well take a day or two,
time Govinda could not
afford to lose. This was not
over. Not yet. From what he
had gathered, an attack
against Dwaraka was
certainly in the offing. Indr-
prastha, too, could be in
danger. Govinda dismissed
the last thought. For all his
rage and anger, Devala would
not willingly harm Panchali.
It was Dwaraka, then, that
was in immediate danger. As
he had expected – rather, as
he had planned – Dwaraka
would pay the price for all
that he had done.
With a sigh, Govinda
remained where he was,
letting Devala disappear out
of view, while Balahak paced
around, restless. I’ve made
my choices, he reminded
himself. There is no such
things as coincidence, and no
such thing as irony. There is
only cause and consequence,
and there is no room for
regret. He ran his hand over
the rough bark of the tree, her
tree, careful not to let his
blood taint its innocent
verdure.
Sheathing his dagger and
his sword, Govinda strode
towards Balahak. He had
wandered enough. It was time
to go home.
 12
DAWN.
The crystal spires of
Dwaraka turned from a
luminous gold to pure fire
and then cooled to shine
soothingly silver, the colours
bleeding into the great ocean
below.
Every morning, Balabadra,
Govinda’s brother and head
of the Council that governed
the affairs of Dwaraka, would
stand on the terrace of his
mansion and take in the glory
of the city that he and his
brother had painstakingly
built. He would look over the
shining prosperity, the proud
beauty that was not just
Dwaraka but also her people.
Often, he would reach out to
wrap an arm around his wife,
Raivati, grateful for her
companionship on the
journey that had brought
them here. Always, he would
send up a prayer, thanking the
gods for this, their bounty.
But not today.
A muhurtta and a half ago,
the guards at the seaward
watchtower had sounded the
alarm. A great host of
battleships, all of them flying
the colours of the Salwa
kingdom, was headed for the
island-city, their sails full
with the morning wind, the
mighty wood and metal of
their hulls shining like jewels
in the sea. As they drew
closer and settled into
formation, the ships seemed
to line the entire western
horizon. Balabadra had
hardly taken stock of the
situation when the watch on
the landward tower began a
great clanging of gongs. A
huge army was advancing
towards Dwaraka through the
marshlands in the north.
Balabadra quickly assessed
the situation. A part of the
invading forces must have
docked their ships much
further north, outside the
territories of the Yadu nation,
and made their way down
across the treacherous – and
therefore less guarded –
swamps. A scount’s report
that the enemy had no
elephants, but more than
made up for it in the sheer
number of their infantry and
cavalry, confirmed his
suspicions.
Balabadra turned at the
sound of approaching
footsteps. Yuyudhana, his
cousin, strode on to the
terrace.
‘I bring bad news,’
Yuyudhana began. ‘The
scouts report that another
array of chariot-rigs and
cavalry is making its way in
from the east, crossing the
river at our border with the
Chedi Kingdom. I guess this
is Damagosha’s revenge
for…’ He trailed off, not
wanting to say in words what
Balabadra also knew well.
King Damagosha of Chedi
was out to avenge his son
Sishupala’s death at
Govinda’s hands.
‘So it’s not just Saubha…’
‘No,’ Yuyudhana said.
‘The armies are mainly
Saubha’s but Danava
mercenaries add to their
numbers. And of course this
attack requires the complicity
of others…’
Balabadra nodded. ‘Do it.
Activate the defences.’
‘Completely?’ the question
held strain. ‘That is a risk.
Dwaraka can outlast any
siege. It was designed that
way. But if we keep a path
open, if we try to hold the
plains and the bridges…I am
not saying that it is wrong,
but… Have you considered
this carefully?’
With a sigh Balabadra said,
‘I have. We shall trust in the
Emperor and the
righteousness of his empire.
Leave the main bridge open.
Mobilize the forces to defend.
Call the cavalry in, the
women included. Have them
ready.’
‘But…the Council?’
‘I will address the Council
right away, but you know
how they won’t decide a
thing before they are done
cursing Govinda and blaming
him for all that is happening.
Kritavarman has been
shouting abuses since the first
ship was seen…’
Yuyudhana turned to go,
but looked back. ‘And you?
Do you not blame Govinda?’
‘Do you?’
‘We are under attack. Is it
too much to ask that our
Commander be here?’
‘He is. In Govinda’s
absence, you are the
Commander. That is clear.
Go now. We don’t have much
time.’
 Dwaraka’s unparalleled
defence mechanisms were
called into action right away.
The sluice gates on the River
Gomati were closed, cutting
off the flow of water to the
city’s huge storage tanks in
case the enemy should
attempt to poison them. All
but one of the wooden
bridges connecting the island-
city to the mainland were
burned down as the
impregnable city prepared for
a siege. The harbour, too,
went up in flames in a bid to
keep the enemy’s ships out.
Still, the terrifying hordes
descended on them from land
and sea.
Trapped between the
enemy’s army and navy,
Balabadra knew it was only a
matter of time before the city
fell, unless the Emperor, or
their Panchala friends, came
to help. He had made a choice
to place his faith in the
empire for no reason other
than that it was of his
brother’s making. His faith
would now be put to the test.
Taking a deep breath,
Balabadra called out to
Raivati to fetch his armour.

13
SYODDHAN’S INVITATION TO
VISIT HASTINA HAD
ARRIVED AT Indr-prastha
with its own royal escort, as
would benefit a scroll of such
importance.
Though pleased at this
overt display of ceremony, in
his typical fashion Dharma
had not shown it. He had
dismissed Bhim’s suspicions
with a wave of his hand and
all the conviction that came
of being Emperor. ‘It’s only
fitting that our cousins
entertain us first, before the
rest of Aryavarta shows its
regard for the empire. It
would be most impolite to
refuse, would it not? What
say you, Sadev? You’re the
diplomat among us.’
‘You are right, Agraja. But
a state visit…a visit from
you, as Emperor, has its own
formalities. One does not
simply call on a brother on a
whim.’
Dharma had said, ‘Then all
the more reason to show that
I remain his brother, even
though I am now Emperor. I
am as brother and father to all
Aryavarta, am I not? Or do
you think me a tyrant, a self-
centred overlord? My
position is a burden, brother,
a great and honourable
burden of duty. I bear it
because I must, because it is
my destiny to do so. Surely,
you cannot expect me to stop
being the man I am because
of it?’
Dharma’s brothers had
received his righteous
declaration with practiced
acquiescence. They knew
their place in Dharma’s
world, as Panchali knew hers.
They were the pillars on
which the Emperor stood, a
man raised to great heights on
the shoulders of others. But
pillars and shoulders had no
voice, and so they remained
silent, even as Dharma
functioned as their head and
heart both. It had always been
this way, a bond forged
through love and respect, and
an acceptance that the elder
was always meant to lead. If
anything, becoming Emperor
had convinced Dharma all the
more that this was how it was
meant to be. It was, therefore,
with quiet certitude that the
four allowed themselves to be
treated as nothing more than
Dharma’s servitors, though
that in itself commanded
respect. Each one was
entertained at Hastina by one
of Syoddhan’s brothers, and
all of them bore it without
complaint, their personal
likes or dislikes for their
cousins notwithstanding.
Panchali remained Dharma’s
near-constant companion,
except when he chose to
indulge in pursuits that were
considered an essential mark
of royalty, particularly among
the Kurus. She asked no
questions when he did not
come to her bed at night, and
made no mention of it the
following morning. Not that
she had much of an
opportunity to, for the rest of
her time was spent in the
company of the royal ladies
of Hastina. While she
entertained most of them out
of courtesy, her visits to
Syoddhan’s mother, Queen
Gandhari, and his wife,
Bhanumati, were enjoyable
enough. In all, quite to her
surprise, she found the entire
visit turning out to be an
undeniably pleasant affair.
 On the fourth evening of
their stay, Panchali found
herself involved in an
interesting conversation.
Dharma was with her, as
were Syoddhan and
Asvattama, who remained a
frequent and welcome visitor
at Hastina. Panchali was glad
to see him, just as she was
glad that Vasusena was not
around. She knew that despite
the passage of time Vasusena
had yet to get over his
perceived shaming at her
wedding competition. He
could never look at Panchali
without grimacing, while the
hatred in his gaze made her
flinch.
The final member of the
group was Shakuni,
Syoddhan’s uncle, though he
looked no older than Dharma.
Shakuni was a man of varied
learning. In keeping with his
comparatively liberal
Gandhara roots, he did not
share the patriarchal Kaurava
view of women and social
hierarchies, and took pride in
flaunting it – with the result
that Panchali had no lack of
stimulating conversation.
Neither did Dharma.
The topic that had them
engaged in debate that
evening was, Panchali knew,
an old favourite with her
husband: Dice. Shakuni
passed around the pair he
owned for each of them to
examine. The dice were
exquisitely light, made of a
dazzling white metal, and fell
to the ground with a metallic
clatter that was pleasing to
the ear.
‘Dice has been considered
a game of chance. Is it true
that there’s not much skill
involved?’ Panchali asked.
 ‘On the contrary,’ Shakuni
said, ‘dice, is a rather
philosophical game… In fact,
I’d say that one’s beliefs
determine whether it is
played as a game of chance or
of skill.’
‘Oh! Please do go on.’
Panchali took a seat in
anticipation of more
conversation. Dharma
hesitated and then sat down
next to her, while Syoddhan
and Shakuni took a throne-
like chair each. Asvattama,
continued to stand, genially
waving away Syoddhan’s
gesture to sit.
‘It all depends on what you
see as cause and
consequence, Mahamatra,’
Shakuni explained. ‘If the fall
of the dice is the end result,
then we must ask why they
fall that way. Those who
believe in chance, in fate, will
argue that it is predestined,
and we are just tools, or a
means for the dice to be cast.
I’d reckon Emperor Dharma
here subscribes to this view.’
‘Indeed I do,’ Dharma
emphatically said. ‘What
happens to us is the will of
fate, of the gods. Even if
there is means or skill
involved in the throwing, that
itself becomes a predestined
causality.’
 ‘Or,’ Shakuni said, ‘one
may believe, as Syoddhan
here does, that the fall of the
dice is completely the result
of human skill or the lack of
it. It may be that you can’t
predict the way the dice will
fall, but an unskilled player
ought to know that he is
unlikely to get the outcome
he seeks. It is a game of
probability, of
inevitability…’
 ‘He knows that he doesn’t
know…’ Panchali muttered to
herself.
‘Exactly!’ Shakuni
confirmed.
The loud exclamation
made Panchali come out of
her brief abstraction. She
asked, ‘And if the fall of the
dice is not the consequence?’
‘Ah! If that is not the
consequence, what can it be?
Can it be the cause?’ Shakuni
said in a dramatic whisper.
He chuckled. ‘And that is
why I always win,
Mahamatra.’
‘I don’t understand…’
Panchali said.
‘Now, now! Don’t force
him to reveal his secrets and
tricks,’ Dharma said.
Shakuni waved his hand in
disagreement. ‘A skill may
seem like a trick, or even a
sleight of hand, to one who
doesn’t know how it’s done.
But I have nothing to hide.
The rumour goes that these
are magic dice and they
follow my command, but
there is no magic. Very
simply, these dice were cast
using the lightest of iron
alloys, one that allows for
skill on a throw to determine
the outcome. Nothing
surpassing this metal has
been crafted since…’
 Panchali shook her head,
again confessing that she did
not comprehend.
Asvattama spoke now, an
occasion unusual enough to
surprise Dharma and
Syoddhan both. ‘These dice?
They are Wright-work, like
the imperial sceptre. Made
from the bones of an
Angirasa scholar. No need to
explain what that is probably
a metaphor for,’ he
sardonically added.
‘Unless the scholar was an
exceptionally hardy…or
bony…man,’ Panchali
quipped.
Asvattama, Syoddhan and
Shakuni roared with laughter,
while Dharma looked aghast.
He forced a polite look onto
his face, but his voice was
laced with derision.
‘Amazing how we still allow
these unsanctified artifacts to
be treated with such
reverence… Once, the
Wrights polluted our entire
realm with their supposedly
magical silver-white metal.
Now, it’s the heathen Nagas
and their black ironwork,
their life-sucking arrowheads
and other such nonsense,’ he
declared with gravity.
‘Come now,’ Asvattama
said. ‘It would be a pity to
forget history. It was the
restrictions we imposed on
the Nagas’ ironwork, the
subjugation we had kept them
under these past decades,
which has made their
weaponry both rare and
valuable. If the Nagas begin
to trade freely throughout
your dominion they would no
longer need to push their craft
as something elusive, steeped
in dark magic and all that.
They can sell their products
simply and openly for their
own gain. But they are now
under a different form of
subjugation – one that uses
economic forces instead of
political or social sanctions –
and that might again lead to
what you call pollution, and
science being lost. It’s
imperative now, as you well
know, Emperor, that the
Nagas be encouraged to trade,
to share their craft. At the
very least,’ he added, ‘it
would save us the trouble of
another bloody scourge in the
years to come.’
‘And over time,’ Panchali
added, ‘popular demand
determines how the craft
moves forward – why make
arrows and other weapons, if
there are no wars? Instead,
we can turn our attention to
devices that make life more
productive for the common
people. Instruments that may
help us grow more crops, or
perform effective medical
procedures… Imagine!’
‘There are no maybes,’
Syoddhan said. ‘We could
certainly do much. The
library at Hastina is a treasure
trove of knowledge that
becomes mere arcanum with
disuse. To put knowledge
together with method would
create a whole universe of
possibilities. You’re right:
Imagine. We can do so much,
if only we have the courage
to…’ He stopped, aware that
he was leaning forward,
eager, as was Panchali. He
was also conscious of a
thought that had never
occurred to him in all these
years, but had just taken hold.
What if…? What if it were he
who had married Panchali,
won her hand? Would he now
be Emperor? He would have
been a good one, taken
Aryavarta forward in the
obvious direction. Yet, it was
not he, but Dharma, a feeble,
prejudiced gardhabha who
lorded over them all.
With silent self-
recrimination for what he
considered purposeless, blind
ambition, Syoddhan turned
his attention back to a
hopeful-looking Panchali,
forcing himself to note and
then to ignore the becoming
spark in her eyes.
Dharma, however, was
growing more discomfited by
the moment, more so because
he felt compelled to condone
this mild but open heresy. He
directed his words at Panchali
and allowed a rough note to
enter his voice, one that he
could not assume with any of
the others in the audience.
‘You presume, my dear, that
these tales of heathen magic
are nothing more than
fantastical creations aimed at
creating sensation. What you
forget is that there is a greater
duty, a higher morality that
binds us Aryas; a duty to
wipe out all that espouses an
unsanctified way of life. The
correct, accepted way is one
that reflects and recreates
Divine Order on earth.’
 ‘Divine Order doesn’t fill a
man’s stomach when the
rains fail, or pestilence
sweeps through the realm,
killing king and commoner
alike, Dharma,’ Syoddhan
pointed out.
‘My dear Syoddhan, if
Divine Order were truly
recreated on earth, why
would it not rain? Or why
would the lands be cursed
with pestilence? That is
precisely the point. It is not
for us to defy destiny, but
merely our duty to protect the
way of life that submits to it.
Anything that subverts the
Divine Order – be it called
magic, heresy, or science – is
to be fought and destroyed.
There is no room to question
our ultimate allegiance to the
gods themselves!’
Sitting tall, Dharma
quoted,
‘With civilization comes
law,
A remedy for flaw
And both law and social
norm
Must weather every storm.

‘When the innocent quail

Know the law has failed.
When rulers forgo what is
right,
Know that evil shall
delight.
 ‘There. Did I get that right,
Panchali? You are so well
versed in these tomes. If only
I too had the time to read and
study as I wished… But I
cannot, and it is one of the
many ways in which I must
pay for my destiny. But I
cannot defy it.’
Panchali made to argue,
defiance a lifelong instinct.
Yet, wisdom prevailed and
she held her tongue. Dharma
wanted – no, needed – to
establish his moral and
temporal authority, given
especially their current
company. She was merely an
instrument and this was yet
another part she had to play.
She nodded, admitting the
Emperor’s point without
really apologizing for her
own and said, ‘Well, it’s late,
and I’m sure you have many
things to attend to. Chivalrous
warriors that you are, I know
you won’t admit you’re bored
of my chatter, so I’ll excuse
myself while you’re all still
awake…’
Panchali left the room,
providing the others with an
opportunity to close that part
of the conversation. Her
graceful exit drew a look of
appreciation from Syoddhan,
but he said nothing.
‘I should go too,’
Asvattama said. Unlike
Panchali, he saw no reason to
accommodate Dharma and
felt himself to be in rare
danger of losing his temper.
‘Stay…’ Syoddhan urged,
only partly out of courtesy.
Asvattama’s presence was not
required to keep Dharma’s
attention diverted from the
outside world, though it did
make it a less onerous chore.
Asvattama shook his head.
‘I’m needed back at
Ahichhattra… I’ll return in a
few days. Why don’t we all
hunt together then?’
The men exchanged
farewells and, with a polite
bow, Asvattama left.
An uncomfortable silence
followed his departure as the
three who remained found
themselves at a loss for
conversation. ‘Well, cousin,’
Syoddhan eventually said,
‘what shall we do now? I for
one wouldn’t mind a game of
dice, given all this talk of it.’
Dharma’s voice was
unusually cold. ‘Yes. We
shall play dice. They say that
a man who turns away from
dice is a man who turns away
from battle. Let’s test our
mettle, shall we? Let’s see if
your wagers can match your
uncle’s words.’
‘How do you mean?’
 ‘Do you dare play to
conquer, Syoddhan? Dice
truly is not very different
from war. It may well prove
why one man is an emperor
while another remains just a
prince. Destiny.’
‘Surely you jest?’
‘Jest? But of course! Just
as you were jesting when you
spoke of courage. It is not
courage to defy destiny. It is
folly.’
 ‘Folly is sitting down to a
game against Shakuni. He is
an exceptionally skilled
player…’
‘Well, then you should
have no problem staking even
your kingdom on the game.
For my part, the wealth of the
Emperor is boundless, and
more bountiful than the
wealth of virtue that is mine. I
am Dharma, and by my word
and deed I remain virtuous,
free from sin. The gods must
reward me, as they always
have, irrespective of whether
you call on probability or
magic… And that, Syoddhan,
is the truth of who I am. It is
not men who have made me
Emperor, but the gods
themselves. ‘It’s time all of
you understood that. As for
talk of courage and folly…
Well, it was you who
proposed that we play. I have
agreed. It is now up to you.’
Syoddhan stared at
Dharma, unsure whether he
ought to take up the challenge
or simply walk away,
disgusted as he was. What
gave Dharma the right to
behave the way he did? Was
this what Govinda Shauri had
done; was? Was Dharma’s
soul now so corrupt that he
had forgotten his basic duty
as Emperor? Syoddhan made
to speak out, but stopped
himself. If Dharma took
offence, if he left Hastina
now, it would put all their
plans at risk. He had, over the
past few days, made sure that
Dharma had received nothing
but the most harmless of
missives. The one messenger
who had brought tidings of
troop movements in the west
– a fact that required nothing
but observation in the normal
course of events – had met
with an unfortunate accident.
But all this was possible only
because Dharma was in
Syoddhan’s palace, under his
influence. If he were to
leave… Syoddhan could not
afford to let that happen.
Gritting his teeth, he readied
himself to play his part. ‘As
you wish, cousin.’
He turned to Shakuni. ‘Let
the preparations be made,
Uncle. Gather all the
emissaries as well as the
vassals, in attendance. The
entire assembly shall witness
this conquest, such as it may
be, of Hastina. The game
commences tomorrow
evening.’
‘But…all right.’ Shakuni
left the room.
Dharma regarded
Syoddhan with an amused,
pretentious air. ‘Well, I think
I’ll call it a night. I believe
there are lovely ladies,
exceptionally skilled at
music, and other
entertainment, waiting for
me. Indeed, your hospitality
is impressive, cousin!’
Syoddhan nodded his
thanks, but said nothing. His
thoughts lay elsewhere.
Despite the fact that he ruled
an empire, it was clear that
Dharma’s heart still desired
Hastina. Would he truly ask
Syoddhan to play the
kingdom as stake?
It’s just a game, he
reassured himself. A game of
dice. What can either of us
lose beyond a couple of
horses and elephants and a
few heaps of gold? Yet,
Syoddhan could not escape
the sense of foreboding that
shrouded his thoughts.
Someday they will speak of
us, his mind raged, of
Syoddhan and Dharma. But
whatever happens next, they
will remember that I invited
Dharma to Hastina, and I sat
him down to a game of dice…
But that mattered not. There
were greater issues at stake
than what would be said of
Syoddhan Kauravya in times
to come.
With stern resolution,
Syoddhan turned his mind to
the west. Saubha and his
armies would have reached
the gates of Dwaraka by now.
A day or two more was all
they would need. By then, the
city would surely lie in ruins.
In the depths of Syoddhan’s
imagination, Shisupala’s
handsome face delighted at
the sight of foul vultures and
carrion crows picking and
tearing away at the remains of
Govinda Shauri.
 14
SCATTERED RUINS WERE
ALL THAT REMAINED OF
WHAT HAD ONCE been
Kampilya. Now the city had
shifted westwards, closer to
the river, and grown into a
sprawling trading centre,
while its original location was
but a small cluster of rubble
and stone, a dot in the vast
moonlit fields between the
city’s walls and the Great
Road. Though used on
occasion by travellers to rest
or by lovers seeking privacy,
for the most part the ruins
remained deserted. The
people of Southern Panchala
tended to avoid the crumbling
structures altogether – the
result of a healthy wariness of
snakes and other avoidable
occupants of the area,
coupled with a less
wholesome but more
colourful belief that ghosts
and spirits too resided there.
Shikandin cared little for
either kind of inhabitants as
he made his way into the dark
heart of the broken structures,
leading his horse beside him.
The bright moonlight made a
torch unnecessary. Besides, a
torch would attract attention,
which neither he nor the
person he was to meet
wanted. The distinct smell of
horse and bridle-leather told
him his visitor had already
arrived and he turned as he
heard slow, measured
footsteps behind him.
Silhouetted against the night
sky that shone through the
nearly roofless ruins was a
tall figure, wrapped in a
black, shroud-like cloak. The
man reeked of danger, an
animalistic power that
Shikandin found
comfortingly familiar. The
vistor, he knew, was in many
ways not very different from
him.
‘Do you still have
nightmares?’ the man asked
without prelude, his eyes
taking in the subtle but
unmistakeable glint of the
silver-white beads Shikandin
wore on his neck.
‘No. Not since…not since
Panchali and
Dhrstyadymn…’ Shikandin
let the words hang between
them, before adding, a hint of
laughter in his voice, ‘not
since you stole half my
kingdom from me…Chaura!’
Asvattama laughed softly
at the accusation, well aware
that it was true but delighted
that Shikandin did not mean it
with malice. He noted with
satisfaction that the last time
the two men had shared a
moment of mirth had been
before Panchala was split in
two. Laughter had been all
the more precious then, for
terror and bloodshed had
surrounded them in the last
phase of the Great Scourge,
when all of Aryavarta had
turned against the
Firewrights. The terrible
things they had seen had left
scars in many ways. He was
glad to know that Shikandin
had found some relief from
his haunted past. Asvattama
said, ‘You love them very
much, don’t you?’
‘As I would my son and
daughter.’
‘I think the affection is
mutual. Panchali can’t have
an extended conversation
without bringing you and
Dhrstyadymn into it. I
particularly enjoy watching
Vasusena grimace at every
mention of Kampilya.’
‘That’s a sight worth
seeing, I’m sure. I take it
the…erm… imperial visit is
going well?’
‘Tediously well and
consummately boring, as
most of these family
gatherings tend to be.
Speaking of family…’
Shikandin pre-empted the
question. ‘Yudhamanyu is
well. He has grown up to be a
fine young man. Makes me
proud to be a father.’
Asvattama knew better
than to say or ask more. He
reached out to give
Shikandin’s shoulder a
squeeze, earning him a warm
smile from the man.
‘And you?’ Shikandin went
on, as he lightly looped his
horse’s reins over a plant that
grew from a fallen pillar, ‘I
don’t suppose you’ll ever
marry?’
‘It’s too late. I’m a few
years older than you are, as
you well know. Besides, I
seem to have built up an
undeserved reputation for
being celibate, among other
things. It has its uses, so I
won’t complain too much. I
do what I want to anyway.’
‘Do you? Do any of us?’
‘We can pretend to…’
Asvattama said, with a light
shrug. The statement
dispelled the illusion of
friendly, aimless conversation
for he said in a grim tone, ‘I
have a very bad feeling about
all of this.’
‘Devala?’
‘Yes. Why isn’t the son-of-
a-whore dead yet? I don’t see
what the Vyasa gains by
keeping him alive.’
‘Is it the Vyasa who’s
keeping him alive,
Asvattama?’
‘Point well made. I fear
that the Vyasas, old and new,
no longer retain the power
and influence they once had
over Aryavarta. A
development to a good end,
no doubt, but…’
Shikandin nodded. ‘So,
someone else’s influence is
instrumental in keeping
Devala alive… What could
this person want?’
‘What did anyone ever
want from the Firewrights?
Power.’
‘Weapons?’
‘But of course!’ Drawing
in a deep breath, Asvattama
confessed, ‘Devala asked me
about the Naga-astra – the all-
powerful toxin Agniveshya
supposedly created after the
fall of the Firewrights, during
his years of hiding.’
 ‘Was he trying to tempt
you, do you think?’
‘He knows better. He was
trying to find it.’
‘Find it? But that would
imply…’
‘Precisely.’ Asvattama
knew he did not have to
explain as Shikandin’s brow
furrowed into an unusually
deep frown. He continued, ‘If
it weren’t for this bastard,
whatever weapons remained
would soon become relatively
obsolete. In any case, in a few
years from now it will all be
redundant. Aryavarta will be
one united economic entity,
and any weaponry that has
been found or invented will
only make us stronger against
foreign invaders. Internally,
we’d be bound by forces far
stronger than Firewright
weapons or Firstborn morals.
I swear, Shikandin, we should
have killed Devala the day we
had our hands on him. We
should never have let him be
taken alive! But now, he or
whoever it is that’s behind
him wants whatever weapons
may still be out there… An
ambition that is best fulfilled
now, while the Firstborn are
weak.’
Shikandin considered the
analysis briefly, before
declaring, ‘Yes. It is also an
ambition that you can fulfil as
well as any other man.’
‘You mean…find whatever
Firewright weapons are left?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
Asvattama slowly shook
his head. ‘No, Shikandin.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t trust
myself. I don’t trust what I
could become if the power of
Hara himself came into my
hands. I’m just a killer, an
assassin, and a good one at
that. Don’t tempt me with
power. I lack your nobility to
resist it.’
‘You underestimate
yourself,’ Shikandin declared,
forceful. However, he did not
press the point. Instead he
concluded, ‘So we do
nothing.’
‘We do nothing. Especially
since…’ Asvattama did not
finish, but knew that
Shikandin had understood. It
was the best decision they
could make in the current
ambivalent situation. A
situation both men suspected
they would have to soon get
used to. A situation that he
did not like in the least. ‘It
could have been you,’ he
said.
‘What could have been
me?’
‘You, Shikandin. You
could have been Emperor of
Aryavarta. The house of
Panchala comes from the
blood of Pururavas and
Yayati. Your claim to the
throne by blood and deed is
as strong as Dharma
Yudhisthir’s. In fact, if it
weren’t for you, I know
Dharma could never have
conquered the east. Did you
never wonder why…’
‘And what has my brother-
in-law done now to irk you
so?’
‘Don’t change the topic,
Shikandin. I asked you a
question.’
Shikandin showed neither
affront nor regret. ‘And I
answer: I would not have
served the purpose. Dharma
is Emperor by consensus.
Whatever he thinks of
himself now, he will soon see
that the only way to remain
Emperor is to do what serves
the larger interests of the
realm, not just that of his
conscience.’
‘If I didn’t know better I’d
call you muhira. And not just
any fool, but one blinded to
ineptitude by his own
wisdom. I said I lack your
nobility to resist power. I am
not the only one.’
‘All men have a weakness.’
‘And most have the same
one.’
‘As do I…’
Asvattama smiled, the
edges of his eyes creasing to
reveal warmth that few had
seen in him. ‘Someday,
Shikandin, I will tell you
what I think your weakness
is. But not today.’
‘In that case, you had best
leave now. The road is well-
patrolled, and though I have
no doubt of your skills, I
don’t want to lose any of my
soldiers in an unnecessary
scuffle.’
‘But of course! I’d sooner
be taken for a spy and
arrested than be seen
fraternizing with you, you old
crone!’ He gripped Shikandin
yet again by the shoulder.
Shikandin clapped him on the
back in return and walked
with him a few steps to the
horse that had been tethered
outside. Without another
word, Asvattama swung on to
his steed. He was soon gone,
a silent shadow vanished into
the night.
Shikandin stood as he was
for a while, listening intently.
Then he mounted his horse
and made his way back
towards the city.

Silence fell once again over

the ruins as the soft thud of
hooves on grass faded away.
A sigh that was almost a sob
tore through the heavy
stillness. Assured that he was
alone and could not be heard,
or uncaring that he might be,
Dhrstyadymn fell to his knees
in the shadowed corner that
had hidden him all this while.
Not a word of the
conversation had escaped
him. Indeed, every word was
etched in his mind, stirring
questions too painful to
answer. He was oblivious to
the sharp shards that cut into
his knees as he crumpled into
a heap, relishing the sting on
his palms as jagged debris cut
into the skin.
My brother! My brother!
Never had he believed the
rumours that had floated
around the palace, the hushed
whispers hinting at
Shikandin’s dark deeds, at
actions that had irrevocably
stained King Dhrupad’s
honour. He had always
thought their father’s anger
against his brother was
undeserved, and used every
opportunity he got to try and
prove his brother innocent.
Now he wondered if it truly
were so. What else was he to
think after having heard and
seen what he had?
What did anyone ever want
from the Firewrights? Power.
Dhrstyadymn shuddered at
the thought of an ambitious
Shikandin – it felt unnatural,
even frightful. There was no
doubt he had been denied his
right, been treated unfairly at
many a turn – but to resort to
treachery and deceit of the
worst order? Shikandin had
only to ask and Dhrstyadymn
would gladly give him the
throne, no matter what
Dhrupad had to say about it.
But to join forces with
Asvattama? To find
Firewright weapons? And to
what end? Rebellion?
Patricide?
The last thought made
Dhrstyadymn retch silently.
He had no idea how long he
remained that way, before
finally pulling himself
together and forcing himself
to face facts. If things did
come to that, he reasoned, if
he had to protect his people,
his family and their kingdom
against an attack… Could he?
He felt anger – wide,
undirected rage – swell up
within him as a sense of
being completely alone fell
over him. Not just he, but his
kingdom, his beloved
Panchala was on its own. For
all his talk condemning the
Firewrights, Grandsire
Bhisma of the Kurus had not
balked at learning from them
or taking the best of their
weapons. His grandchildren
too had been trained by Dron
and Asvattama, not to forget
Acharya Kripa, Dron’s
brother-in-law. Rumour had it
that Vasusena of the Angas
had also acquired Firewright
weaponry. And Panchala?
Panchala had nothing, except
a fearful king, a traitor of a
prince and, worse, an inept
muhira of a crown prince!
An ambition that is best
fulfilled now, while the
Firstborn are weak.
The words continued to
haunt Dhrstyadymn as he
slowly trudged across the
silver fields to the city he had
called home for as long as he
could remember.
 15
IN ALL THE YEARS THAT
VIDUR HAD SERVED THE
BLIND KING Dhritarastra of
the Kurus as minister, advisor
and companion, he had taken
the utmost care to never
impose on the ties of blood
that bound them. He could
not, for they were not equals.
Though they shared the same
father, Dhritarastra was born
of a queen, whereas Vidur
was the child of an unknown
serving woman who had died
at childbirth. Or so he had
been told as a child by
Bhisma Devavrata, then
Regent of Kuru and its
effective ruler. Bhisma had
also ordered that despite his
unequal birth he be brought
up in the same manner as his
royal half-brothers.
Vidur had soon developed
a reputation for great
intelligence and wisdom, and
the young boy quickly learnt
his place in the larger scheme
of things. He was not a
prince, but a kshatta – the
polite term used for sutas,
those of his kind. The same
acumen had made him
Dhritarastra’s constant
companion over the years
and, more importantly, the
blind king’s eyes. It was a
role Vidur had played with
consummate discretion, never
transgressing the bounds he
had set for himself in
childhood. He had, thus,
earned Dhritarastra’s
affection and implicit trust.
Now, for the first time in all
these years, Vidur wondered
if he might impose on the
privilege and proffer his
opinion, though unsolicited.
‘Is this all right?’
Dhritarastra’s voice cut in on
his thoughts.
The king stood in his
private anteroom, adjusting
his robe before a mirror that
he knew to be there as a
matter of habit. Dhritarastra
often behaved as though he
were a sighted man, partly
from a childhood kindness to
spare others the discomfiture
of his condition, and partly to
prove that he was in no way
incapacitated by it. Indeed,
the other two men in the
room – Grandsire Bhisma,
still the titular Regent of
Hastina though no longer its
effective ruler, as well as
Acharya Dron – ignored the
king’s question as rhetorical.
Vidur, however, stepped
forward to adjust the pale
blue silk over his half-
brother’s broad shoulders.
Barring his blindness,
Dhritarastra was a splendid
specimen of Kuru manhood:
wide-chested and well-
muscled, with a ruddy face
and an excessive but not
unpleasant tendency towards
the hirsute. A strong chin sat
well on his square jaw, the
mark of King Hastin’s line
that Syoddhan too displayed.
Nature’s mockery was not
lost on Vidur. He and
Dharma looked nothing like
their great ancestor, while
both Dhritarastra and
Syoddhan did. Yet, none of
them was truly of Hastin’s
descent. In them all ran the
blood of Krishna
Dwaipayana, once Vyasa of
the Firstborn.
When the young prince
Vichitravirya had met his
untimely demise, Bhisma
Devavrata, bound by his vow
to never take a woman or the
Kuru throne, had sent for
Dwaipayana. As the situation
demanded, the assistance
rendered had been extremely
direct, to the point that
neither Dwaipayana nor
Bhisma had ever attempted to
conceal the fact that Pandu,
Dhritarastra and Vidur were
all Dwaipayana’s sons.
Vidur was not a man to
believe in curses or boons,
but he was briefly tempted
when it turned out that the
lack of progeny would haunt
the Kuru line yet again –
Pandu was, to everyone’s
dismay, incapable of
consummating his union with
his two wives. This time, the
resultant niyoga surrogacy,
though not denied in fact, was
never admitted in detail. No
one quite knew who had
fathered Dharma and his
brothers beyond the
metaphorical allusion to gods
and their boons – a strategy
Vidur had heartily approved
of, hoping that it would help
seal the legitimacy of
Dharma’s eventual claim to
the Kuru throne. He had not
accounted for Dhritarastra’s
fecundity or his ambition,
both of which had led to
strained relations between the
monarch’s many sons and
Pandu’s five. And now, after
all these years and the
building of an empire, trivial
sibling rivalry was raising its
head.
Vidur made up his mind to
speak. ‘My King…’
Dhritarasthra interrupted,
‘Do you know, Vidur, you
sound exactly like my dearest
wife Gandhari did this
morning. It makes me wonder
if, like her, you too are going
to counsel me at length to
stop this evening’s
entertainment. A pity, since I
believe Syoddhan entrusted
the arrangements to your
care. Things are coming
along well, I hope?’
Vidur inclined his head, the
action both answering and
ignoring the question at once.
‘It’s more than entertainment,
Your Highness,’ he said, ‘and
the queen remains as wise as
she has always been, so we
would all do well to heed her
words.’
‘She is as persistent as she
is wise,’ Dhritarastra laughed,
though it sounded more like a
rasping cough. ‘So much so,
that I had to rely on Grandsire
Bhisma here, as well as on
Acharya Dron, to rescue me. I
do hope their presence is
enough to dissuade you,
Vidur. I don’t want to go
through all that again.’
 ‘Your Highness…’ Vidur
stopped short as Dhritarastra
frowned, the gesture all the
more pronounced for the
vacant stare that accompanied
it.
‘My son is a patient man, a
very patient man. He is a
loving and dutiful child who
is content to thank the gods
for the long life and reign that
they have blessed me with,
instead of resenting them or
me for it. The least I can do,
Vidur, is to allow him these
small adventures that please
him so. It is but a game, a
dice game. What sort of a
father would I be if I were to
deprive my dearest son of
meaningful pleasures?’
‘My king, with all due
respect, a dice game is not
meaningful in the least.’
‘All the more reason to
allow it then, don’t you
think? Why fret over such
trivialities? At best a few
coffers of treasure and a few
herds of cows and horses will
be lost or won. At worst, my
children – and I include here
my brother’s sons – will drink
themselves into oblivion, bed
a few courtesans and leave
the game forgotten for other
pleasures. And you want me
to forbid that? You think too
much, Kshatta!’
 ‘But…’
‘Enough, Kshatta,’ the
irascible Dron interrupted.
‘This is no longer a matter for
us old men. Dharma is
Emperor of Aryavarta.
Syoddhan is his brother.
These lions among men are
more than capable of making
decisions for themselves.
Ours is the task to watch and
applaud, to share in their joy
and laughter. It is not for us
to decide what must be done.’
‘But…’
‘He is right,’ Bhisma
added. ‘It is time we learnt to
gracefully accept the honour
these youngsters still show
us, and leave them be. Let
Syoddhan do as he wishes.’
The subtle implications of the
statement carried far more
finality than the words
themselves.
Vidur allowed his gaze to
rest lightly in turn on each of
the three men. He did not fail
to notice Dron’s defiant
glance, or the Grandsire’s
patronizing smile.
Dhritarastra’s face was set in
a careful expression of apathy
that Vidur knew was the
king’s attempt to conceal
ambition. ‘In that case,’ he
said, ‘I shall go see to the
arrangements right away.’
The royal assembly of
Hastina was, even in these
times of prosperity, a marvel
that could only be described
as excessively lavish. Those
who stepped into the hall
could not help but raise their
gaze upwards each time they
entered. The high, vaulted
ceiling was painted to rival
the blue of the clearest skies,
and a series of precisely
placed skylights allowed for
the sunlight to colour the hall
in the shades that nature was
disposed to don. Against this
tapestry of light were set the
images of gods and ancestors,
great men who looked
downward at the mortal
occupants of the hall. They
were meant to be a constant
reminder to those who sat on
the Elephant Throne of King
Hastin.
And now, the grand legacy
of King Hastin comes to
this… Vidur dismissed the
thought and squared his
shoulders in resolution. He
briefly observed the on-going
preparations for the dice
game. A multitude of
activities were underway –
from laying out the seating to
decorations and lighting – for
the Kurus had no qualms
about playing through the
night. Sharing a few words of
instruction and
encouragement with the
attendants overseeing the
arrangements, Vidur made his
way to the slim, pleasant-
looking man who stood
against a pillar, watching.
‘Don’t tell me you condone
this travesty?’ Vidur began as
he neared the man.
Dhaumya shrugged. ‘Dice?
I have no love for it. But I
have no principled argument
against it either.’
‘Dharma insists that it was
Syoddhan who proposed a
game and that to refuse to
play would be cowardly. I
tried speaking to Syoddhan
for the few trasenus he would
suffer to hear me. He agrees
that he suggested a friendly
game, and this…’ he waved
his hand at the elaborate
arrangements around them,
‘…was Dharma’s idea. As a
host, Syoddhan was bound to
honour the request. My
brother will not heed my
warning, and the only person
who shares my concern is
Queen Gandhari.
Unfortunately, this once, she
is as powerless as I am.’
‘It is not like dice has
never been played here
before, or that it shall never
be played hereafter. I don’t
understand why you are in
such a state.’
‘Even when you know
what sway it holds over a
man like Dharma?’
‘He is compulsive…’
‘Compulsive?’ Vidur’s
eyes took on a faraway glaze.
‘Compulsive may be one
word, and an apt one for sure.
But it is not enough. No one
knows Dharma better than I
do, Acharya… Not his
mother, not Panchali, and not
you. Perhaps not even
Dharma himself. His
ambition is of the most
dangerous kind, for its
existence is neither suspected
nor admitted. He is Emperor,
but he wants more.’
Dhaumya said, ‘What more
could he want?’
‘He wants to deserve his
title.’
‘He can deserve it by
ruling well. Really, Uncle
Vidur, you make the Emperor
of Aryavarta sound like a
child.’
‘I make him sound like a
man, Acharya. And a man he
is. He wants to believe that
what is his is so because he
has earned it by his own deed,
or because he was destined to
it by a greater power. And
that sense of self-respect is
really not too much to ask for,
if you think about it.’
 ‘It’s not self-respect; it’s
sheer self-indulgence. And,
frankly, I care little about it at
the moment. There’s
something else that has been
bothering me,’ Dhaumya said
with a frown.
‘Oh?’
‘Panchali tells me we are
missing a report, and the man
who was supposed to bring
it.’
‘A report?’
 ‘Yes, she had instructed
that a daily summary of all
administrative reports be
delivered to her…to Emperor
Dharma, that is, here at
Hastina. Yesterday’s
messenger has not arrived as
yet.’
‘But today’s has?’
‘Yes. His material was the
most mundane, but our
interview with him was not.
He said that he and his
possessions, including the
scroll he carried, were subject
to inspection. Possibly, the
other messengers too were so
searched.’
‘It is unusual, and not the
most diplomatic of
behaviours, but certainly not
cause for suspicion? Unless
you think that… Surely the
scrolls were sealed?’
‘They were,’ Dhaumya
confirmed. ‘In fact, Panchali
insisted on receiving written
messages for that very
purpose. These may be days
of peace but she knows, as an
Empress should, that such
times are cause for more
caution, not less.’
‘She is a wise one,’ Vidur
noted with a dash of
affection.
‘Dharma is a fortunate
man.’
‘All the more reason for
him to be careful.’ Vidur
frowned. ‘I don’t like it,’ he
repeated, this time with far
more vehemence.
Dhaumya shook his silver-
grey hair out of its loose knot
and decisively pulled it back,
securing it with a scrap of
ochre cloth. ‘You’re right,’ he
said, ‘I don’t like it either.
And it’s time I did something
about it.’
‘What…?’
 ‘For one, I’m getting out of
here. I shall find Shikandin,
or send a message to
Asvattama. By Rudra, I’d feel
so much better about
everything if either one of
them were here.’
In a sad, hushed whisper,
Vidur declared, ‘I’d feel
better if Govinda were here.’
Dhaumya stiffened and
then forced himself to relax.
His eyes held warm
memories but his voice was
cold as he said, ‘There is no
point speaking of those who
are gone; of those who had
best stay away. Trust in those
who remain. Trust in our
Emperor and Empress…’ He
left the hall, making his way
directly to the stables.
With a heavy heart, Vidur
turned back to supervising the
preparations for the evening’s
festivities.
 16
THE HYENAS LOOKED UP AT
THE SOUND OF HOOVES, BUT
DID NOT retreat. The carcass
was just a day old, far too
succulent to pass up.
Cackling, the bold leader of
the pack buried its face back
into the young soldier’s flesh.
An arrow whistled over the
animal’s head, grazing but
not wounding it. With a yelp,
it fled into the depths of the
woods, its cronies close
behind.
Govinda felt a pang of pain
at the sight of the disfigured
soldier, but he knew better
than to take his anguish out
on the hyenas. They were
merely following nature’s
dictates. A seasoned soldier,
he ignored the flies and
maggots and pulled the arrow
sticking out of the fallen
soldier’s back. The shaft was
short and made of black iron,
a common metal in
Aryavarta, but it was the vane
that told him more. A huge
feather, curved nearly like a
horn, was attached to the end
of the arrow by means of
thread and wax. Spitting out
an expletive, Govinda cast the
arrow aside. The curved
feather, with its brown, white
and black markings was from
the wings of a gorgeous,
graceful eagle native to the
mountains of Kyrghis, far to
the north of Aryavarta. The
thread, on the other hand,
came from the land of the
Danavas, even further away.
Add to that sweet beeswax
from their mountains and, of
course, iron from Aryavarta,
he mentally noted. His face
grew grim as the implications
jumped out at him. More
Danava mercenaries.
When Govinda had left
Central Aryavarta, right after
his encounter with Devala, he
had headed south-west,
through the wooded lands of
the Nishadas. He found the
entire route abuzz with troop
movement. It made him fear
the worst and yet he had
hoped for the best. While it
was the prerogative of every
ruler to move troops in
whatever manner he pleased
within his own borders, the
extent of the present
deployment was still enough
to merit mention in the daily
reports of imperial affairs that
Dharma would receive. Even
if the Emperor did not find
anything suspicious or
significant in these events,
Panchali would ask questions
and that might just spur
Shikandin or Partha to
investigate. However,
Govinda had considered the
possibility without optimism.
If his friends tried to help,
they would walk right into the
cordon that the Nishada and
Chedi forces had set up,
sealing the west off from the
rest of Aryavarta. It had been
one thing for a lone traveller
like him to slip through,
largely unnoticed, but it
would be impossible for even
a division of men to get
through without a fight. Now,
finding Dwaraka under attack
from a mercenary army
explained everything.
Letting the mercenary’s
tell-tale arrow fall from his
hand, Govinda briefly
retraced his path before
cutting away from the main
road, into the woods. Instead
of taking the direct route to
Dwaraka, he headed up one
of the smaller promontories
that dotted the shore north of
the island. Finally, he could
see the blue of the sky
beyond the last line of trees
on the cliff. Dismounting, he
surveyed the scene before
him. The rocky hill fell in a
sheer cliff right into the
ocean, to his right. To his left,
in the distance, the Raivata
mountains ran parallel to the
sea. The gentle green slope
eased down on the seaward
side to form a huge cultivated
plain dotted with creeks and
lakes. Golden sands fringed
the plains and natural dunes
offered protection from
tempestuous sea winds.
Shoals of rock dotted the
seascape, leading to the huge
outcrop that extended out into
the sea.
Dwaraka! His magnificent
city was surrounded – like a
mighty lion cornered by
jackals. A large fleet of ships
waited, anchored on the open
sea at a distance from the
city. Closer to land, two of
the huge vessels swayed on
the lashing waves, wrecked or
abandoned. Govinda smirked.
Few knew how to navigate
through the series of sharp
ridges that were hidden in the
waters of the channel
between the port and the city.
 On the landward side of
Dwaraka, however, the
situation was one of concern.
Govinda stiffened at the sight
of the bodies and debris that
littered the plain, chilling
evidence of the war that had
been fought there. Both the
outpost atop the last mountain
peak on the Raivata range as
well as the one on its foothills
flew the enemy’s ensign – the
flag of Saubha, king of
Salwa. The pastures and the
homesteads on the plains had
been burnt down and the
occasional storage tent
showed that Salwa forces
now occupied the land. Well
beyond the verdant terrain,
just where the beach began, a
barricade of sorts had been
set up. A wooden pole
defiantly flew the pennants of
the various tribes of the Yadu
nation, but it did not appear
likely that it would remain
there for long.
Govinda watched as the
huge force advanced towards
the barricade, the last post on
land still under Dwaraka’s
control. The earth seemed to
shudder as the enemy
marched out of the soft grassy
plains and onto the
deceptively hard, packed
sand. The Yadu soldiers at
the barricade did not move.
They were waiting. The sand
gave way without warning
and many of the enemy
soldiers fell headlong into the
deep pits that had been dug
underneath. Confusion
reigned briefly amid Salwa’s
forces as Dwaraka’s archers
began shooting at those still
advancing towards them.
Moments later, the gates
opened, letting a group of
men out across the single
bridge that led to the
mainland. At the same time
archers appeared on the
turrets of the city’s walls and
began letting loose their
arrows. Clearly, Balabadra
had kept a passage open in
the hope that the Emperor
would come to their aid. But
Govinda knew Dharma would
not. No one would. Saubha
would have rallied the Nagas
and Nishadas to his aid, along
with Chedi and Vidharbha.
Dwaraka had been isolated
completely.
And right now Dharma is
probably presiding over some
diplomatic assembly or the
other, blissfully unaware of
what is going on here…
Govinda imagined
Panchali frowning over a
parchment or listening
intently to administrative
reports, an expression of
graceful indifference on her
face. Pushing the image out
of his mind, he led Balahak
ahead. If he could make his
way down the cliff, there was
a chance he could race along
the sand and across the bridge
while the barricade still held.
Once that too was conceded,
there would be no way across
to the island city except by
boat.
The path was little more
than a goat-trail, and it was
with difficulty that horse and
man made their way down the
hill. No beast other than
Balahak would have so
trustingly followed his rider
down the treacherous,
slippery path, nor could any
man other than Govinda have
commanded such faith. Even
so, the two soon reached a
small ledge and could go no
further. Below them, the cliff
angled inwards all the way
down to the sea.
Govinda gently patted the
stallion on his haunches and
swung back into the saddle.
‘Ready, my friend? Now!’ he
commanded, urging the horse
forward in a short burst of
speed. Then rider and horse
leapt off the ledge.
They hit the cold, frothy
waters with a hard splash.
Govinda held on tight, his
arms around the horse’s
muscled neck, as their weight
dragged them both deep into
the water. Balahak kicked his
powerful legs in an attempt to
surface, even as Govinda
slithered off and began to
swim alongside him. The
currents were powerful, and
Govinda had to let go of the
reins and use both his arms.
He kept his head up, out of
the water, and constantly
called out to Balahak,
shouting encouragement and
instructions. Eyes wide with
fear, the horse managed to
battle his panic and stay at
Govinda’s side.
Just when he thought his
strength had finally run out,
Govinda realized that
Balahak was wading. With a
shout of effort, he kicked
hard, willing himself to swim
the next few feet against the
tide’s incessant pull. Finally,
he felt his feet skim the
ground and a little later he
was on the shore. He gave the
snorting, heaving Balahak a
moment of rest, but that was
all they could afford – the
barricade had fallen and the
few men that remained had
drawn back to the bridge.
Govinda urged the stallion
on at a gallop, riding into the
thin gap that divided the two
warring fronts. He was now
close enough to see the
carnage, hear the cries of rage
and pain. As he drew near, he
realized with a shock that
more than half the elite Yadu
forces known as the
Narayaniya had already
fallen, and the rest were
hopelessly outnumbered.
Those who remained had
formed a human wall,
protecting a person or thing
that was being carried back
towards Dwaraka. Looking
towards the tower over the
city gates, he caught a
glimpse of Balabadra’s
horrified face. It made him
fear the worst, only to have it
confirmed as he neared the
scene – Yuyudhana and the
second of his adopted heirs,
Samva, were together
carrying the bloody, listless
form of Pradymna, his elder
son.
A shout went up from the
city walls as Govinda was
sighted. It made the enemy
hold back for an instant even
as it gave the Yadus a
renewed surge of strength.
Govinda swiftly turned
Balahak onto the narrow
bridge and then slid off as the
horse came to a stop.
Drawing his sword, he raced
back to the foot of the bridge,
where the Narayaniyas were
valiantly holding off the
Salwa soldiers. He threw
himself into the fray with a
vengeance.
‘Father!’ Samva shouted
after him.
Yuyudhana swung into
action at once. ‘Samva! Take
your brother and get back
inside. Tell Balabadra to
close the gates,’ he instructed,
hauling the limp Pradymna
across Balahak’s back.
‘But…’
‘Go!’
With a nod, the youth
complied. Immediately,
Yuyudhana turned his
attention to the other men on
the bridge, calling for them to
retreat. Balabadra and the
other archers stood with their
bows at the ready. The first of
the enemy soldiers was now
on the bridge. Govinda fought
on, stepping back slowly,
hoping to give those still on
the bridge enough time to get
back into the safety of the
city. Yuyudhana yelled,
urging him to start moving
back. It was only once
Pradymna was safely inside
the city that Govinda
complied.
The path was covered with
blood, still warm as it oozed
out from the bodies of the
dead. Govinda slipped,
landed on his hands and
knees, but quickly got up
again to parry an attack by a
Salwa lancer. He disposed of
the man and looked down at
his palms, coated with blood
and pieces of flesh, the sight
stunning him into inaction.
Yuyudhana ran forward and
dragged him for the last few
feet. They had hardly stepped
through the gateway when the
heavy iron doors were swung
shut behind him. The whistle
of arrows filled the air,
followed by a loud crash and
many screams. Balabadra and
the archers had set the bridge
on fire.
Dwaraka was now
completely under siege.

17
WHEN BALABADRA CAME
DOWN FROM THE COMMAND
POST AT THE gate, he found
Govinda gone. Anxiously, he
set off along Dwaraka’s
streets looking for his brother.
Debris littered his path and
haggard and tired faces could
be seen everywhere. The city
and the sky above it glowed
with light – not the orderly,
colourful artistry of a planned
celebration but the red, primal
glow from bonfires lit by
those who were simply glad
to be alive for one more
night. People huddled with
loved ones around the circles
of light, singing sad songs or
sharing old reminiscences.
Some soldiers found escape
in the arms of bewitching
courtesans, others in
sharpening their swords.
There was a dull weariness
underlying their activities.
For what it was worth,
Balabadra realized, his people
did not despair. This was the
sombre, unsullied tiredness of
those who would fight to the
last. When they fell, it would
not be for lack of courage or
hope.
Balabadra made his way to
the infirmary, where
Pradymna lay still and pale.
Rukmavati and Samva sat by
his side, their faces drawn in
grief and fear. Govinda had
already been there, he was
told, leaving with a simple
nod of his head when the
medics told him that
Pradymna might not last the
night. The news made
Balabadra frantic, and he
continued his search of the
city with renewed vigour.
Faint notes of music drew
him towards Sudharma, the
Hall of Justice that was the
heart of Dwaraka. Through
either a stroke of luck or
some brilliant secret in its
construction, the structure
remained undamaged. Its
crystal walls were, however,
stained with soot and grime,
adding a poignant
steadfastness to the building.
Balabadra peered inside. At
first, its vastness looked
empty. Finally, he spotted a
forlorn form huddled in the
darkest corner. He walked up
to Govinda, who sat leaning
against a sculpture of Varaha,
the boar-unicorn form of
Vishnu, lifting the Earth from
the waters that threatened to
destroy her. Balabadra
chuckled softly. He should
have guessed that his brother
would be here.
From the sea came the first
manifestations of life, and
then came land, and all
creatures including humanity,
Balabadra reflected, but who
made the sea, and what was
the first form of life, the
Hiranya-garbha or entity of
creation? It is that force we
name Varaha and worship.
This force is what we search
for all of our lives.
Next to Govinda sat a little
boy, one of the simple farm-
dwellers who lived in and
cultivated the plains between
the sea and the Raivata
mountains. The boy played
soft, sad notes on a reed flute
like the ones the brothers had
used years ago as children
herding cows. For an instant,
it seemed to Balabadra that
the Govinda he saw sitting
there was also just a boy – an
innocent playful child – and
not the great warrior who had
set Mathura free and built the
nation of Dwaraka against all
odds. He felt a lump in his
throat as he wondered where
and how that mischievous
boy had been lost. Is it my
fault? I’m his elder, yet he’s
the one who leads us all. Why
haven’t I protected him, as I
should have?
The music stopped.
Govinda looked up at his
brother. He had never cried in
front of another person, not
even as a child, and he would
not do so now. But Balabadra
saw the sadness in his dark
eyes. In an instant it was
gone, and Govinda was as
tranquil as always. Balabadra
studied him, then turned to
the little boy. ‘Go find
Raivati. Tell her I said you’ll
be having my rations of
tonight’s meal…and all the
sweets you can eat.’ The boy
grinned at that, his simple
delight both incongruous and
refreshing in their precarious
situation. Balabadra gently
ruffled his hair and sent him
off with a light pat before
sitting next to his brother, his
back to the wall.
It was Govinda who broke
the silence. ‘Have you seen
this?’ He gestured to the
arrow that he held in one
hand. His voice was filled
with admiration and
amazement, as he went on,
‘Our enemies have outdone
themselves. It’s quite
impressive – it contains a
small vial of a special kind of
powder, right at the tail.
When the arrow burns all the
way down it ignites the
powder, causing an
explosion. Of course, even
Devala hasn’t been able to
solve the problem of how to
ensure that the flame doesn’t
go out as the arrow flies
against the wind. The
Firewrights have designed
these arrows using a mix of
powdered sulphur and rock
oil for generations now. It’s
still the flaming tip that’s the
problem.’
‘Devala? But…’
‘He was captured. And
now he is free.’
‘You should have killed
him yourself!’
‘So I’d originally planned.
But it would have defeated
the purpose. Devala’s capture
was meant to reaffirm the
power of the Firstborn, of the
Vyasa, after what happened at
the Coronation. But he was
taken to Hastina, instead of
Indr-prastha. I don’t know
why.’
Balabadra was far too
taken aback to respond.
Govinda did not notice. He
continued, ‘Do you think I
did the wrong thing? Was I
selfish, Agraja? Were we
selfish when we rebelled
against Kans? Were we
thinking only of our
imprisoned parents,
ourselves, our family? Did we
really think about the
people?’
‘We did what we thought
was best, Govinda. We never
meant to end up at Mathura,
or even at Dwaraka. I didn’t
think things would go this
way.’
‘You’re right. I didn’t think
it would go this way either.
At each stage, I just thought
of it as a task to be done. I’m
not even sure I thought,
really,’ Govinda admitted.
‘The first time we were
brought to Mathura… I
assumed that sooner or later
we would go back to our
village and life would be as it
was.’
‘You mean back to your
romancing and unabashed
flirting with the women of
our vraja,’ Balabadra said.
‘It was you they were all
crazy for! I just tried to
console them, as best as I
could!’
The two brothers savoured
their memories in silence.
Suddenly Govinda asked,
‘Do you remember…when
the Naga Kaliya chief
attacked the herds?’
‘Hmm…’
‘We were just gwalas,
cowherds, all of us. But we
stood up to him, we fought
him and his warriors. Why?
Where did a bunch of gwala
boys find such courage?’
‘We fought for our own,
Govinda. We fought for what
was ours, for what we
believed in. That is what
everyone does. It’s not just
the two of us.’
‘And Aryavarta? To whom
does the Empire belong?
Why don’t we, why don’t the
people, fight in the same way
for the empire?’
‘What empire do you want
us to fight for? The only
empire we – all of us in
Aryavarta – have known is a
fragmented sense of nothing.
At the end of the day, nothing
changes. We are many
nations, subjects of many
kings, no matter what
glorious titles we give them.
We are divided by borders
and loyalties, we are
fragmented and powerless…
Or so we’ve been, till now.’
‘And now?’
‘Now, it might be worth
fighting for.’
They sat for a few more
moments, again in desolate
silence. Slowly, Balabadra
stood, and pulled a tired
Govinda to his feet. He
walked towards the door,
assuming that his brother
would follow.
‘Agraja…’
Balabadra turned to see
that Govinda remained rooted
to the spot. With a sigh, he
retraced his steps. ‘Yes,
Govinda?’
‘Tell me the truth, brother.
Have I failed?’
Balabadra sighed. ‘No,
Govinda. You haven’t failed.
You’ve done right by
Aryavarta, by the empire.
But…and you must know
this…Dwaraka will pay the
price.’
‘But why? Because of who
I am? Because I’m a
Firewright? Or because I
brought them down?’
‘Govinda, please…’
 Govinda ignored his
brother, needing to hear
himself speak. ‘What was
supposed to be the fall of the
Wrights was a way to break
them, break everyone away
from their obsession with the
past, with astra-weapons and
poisons and destruction. Both
Ghora and I, we thought that
if we shook the order to its
core the Wrights would once
again, as a matter of survival,
turn their skills to tools of
prosperity instead of weapons
of war. And Aryavarta would
accept them. After all,
knowledge doesn’t grow in
isolation – society grows
alongside, driving and being
driven by it, by economics as
much as politics. But…’
With a sad smile, he
confessed, ‘I used to think
that my mistake was that I
had desires of my own,
desires that weren’t dreams of
something greater and good –
wanting to go back to the
vraja, wanting to live my own
life…I’ve wondered if, had I
been less selfish, things may
have gone differently, all
those years ago. Perhaps the
Wrights would have lived,
perhaps she…’
Govinda stopped mid-
sentence. Acutely aware of
the fact that he had revealed
more than he wanted to, he
went on, his voice even, ‘But,
like all mistakes, it was fine if
one learnt from it.’
‘Maybe, Govinda,’
Balabadra gently said, ‘it was
a lesson learnt in excess. You
know for a fact that many of
our own kinsmen have
doubted your intentions…
They haven’t always believed
that you acted objectively. To
be honest, you’ve even tried
my patience and trust on
occasion!’
‘Why? I don’t understand
what they fear so much…’
‘Tyranny.’
‘Tyranny? But how does a
rule of and by the people
become tyranny? I dream, I
hope, that one day all of
Aryavarta will be as
Dwaraka, a united realm
where the people are their
own sovereign. How is that
tyranny?’
With the soft, practised
patience of a man who had
explained things before and
knew he would have to do so
yet again, Balabadra said, ‘To
those who would lose their
power, Govinda, it may well
be one and the same. These
kings cannot comprehend
might divided among many.
They cannot comprehend a
society that does not follow
the Divine Order, a hierarchy
of power. So they assume that
if you wish to supplant
Divine Order, it must be for
your gain. They would not
dare leave Dwaraka
standing.’ A trace of irritation
crept into his voice. ‘I know
this is something that you
stubbornly refuse to get into
your head, that you’d rather
stick to your idealized notions
of the inherent goodness of
human beings and all that, but
surely the Secret Keeper
would have anticipated this?’
Govinda smiled, the first
mention of the unnamed,
unknown leader between
them in years becoming a
moment to relish and regret.
Balabadra had never asked
him, even once, who it was
that Govinda had laid their
hopes on, who it was for
whom Dwaraka would now
fall. The realization of the
overwhelming trust so many
had placed in him hit him
hard. They had believed in
him, and he had done nothing
but let them down. But the
fault was his, and Govinda
could not let the Secret
Keeper be held to blame
instead. He said, ‘He did. He
advised me to leave
Aryavarta at once to prevent
Dwaraka being attacked.’
 ‘Why didn’t you? Where in
the name of the Brahmi bull’s
backside have you been all
these days?’
‘I was waiting for them to
find me.’
‘But why?’
‘Do you really not know,
Agraja? In all these years, in
all the plans I have made,
there is one fatal flaw, a loose
thread that can cause the
entire weave to unravel. You
saw how the fear of the
missing Ghora Angirasa took
hold of everyone, including
the former emperor
Jarasandha and Vyasa
Dwaipayana. It was only his
death, his indisputable and
violent death, that set off the
chain of events that led to the
formation of Dharma’s
empire. In the same vein, if I
simply disappeared, if I’d left
Aryavarta, it would have been
of no use. I have to fall.
Otherwise the notion that the
Firewrights remain would
drive the kings of Aryavarta
to mutual distrust and
suspicion, and the empire
would splinter in a matter of
months. I couldn’t let that
happen.’
‘Can’t you?’ Balabadra’s
tone held unrestrained ire. ‘I
don’t suppose you considered
the fact that to some of us you
are far more important than
these ideals. Your own life
may not matter to you,
Govinda, but surely the
heartache you cause us does?’
Govinda sighed, and met
his brother’s accusatory gaze.
‘You have to understand, I
chose this option over others
because I thought it to be the
best one.’
‘What do you mean?’
Govinda said, ‘Dharma
Yudhisthir was not my first or
only choice for Emperor. A
stronger man might have
allowed me to stay in the
shadows and fade quietly into
obsolescence. I considered
many choices, from then-
emperor Jarasandha to
Vasusena of Anga. But it had
to be a Kaurava.’
‘Because of the Firstborn?
Because of the Vyasa?’
‘Yes.’
 ‘In that case, you should
have backed Syoddhan,’
Balabadra grumbled, making
no effort to hide his affection
for Dhritarastra’s eldest son.
‘I almost did. I really like
him. But it was neither
practical nor prudent. Short of
turning him against his own
father, there was no way of
making him king of his own
land, leave alone Emperor.
Once that happened, his reign
would have been fraught with
rebellion and civil war with
his own brothers. Besides, I
didn’t dare let Panchali near
that lot – Dussasan and the
others. Well, so much for my
objectivity… And as soon as
I realized Dwaraka was under
attack…’
Balabadra began to
understand the enormity of
what his brother had done.
Gently, he said, ‘It’s not too
late, Govinda. It’s never too
late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘To be human. To admit
what you feel. To let yourself
care and love and…’
‘But I don’t.’
Balabadra knew his brother
was not a man to shown
extreme emotion or lose his
equanimity, but to remain so
unaffected under these
circumstances seemed to him
inhuman. He stepped up and
grabbed Govinda by his
shoulders. ‘What’s wrong
with you? You’ve really
started believing in your own
prattle about selflessness and
letting go, haven’t you? By
Govardhan, don’t you see
what sort of a man you’ve
become? Not a man even, a
monster, a thing that believes
in its omnipotence. How can
you be this way?’
 ‘Omnipotence? Time is the
only omnipotent force,
Agraja. What you see as my
selfishness is nothing but an
acceptance of my place in the
larger scheme of things. What
you deem arrogance is just
awareness, self-awareness.
Like many, you too think I
want power. I want nothing
and, yes, that is power. I can’t
help it, and I don’t care to.
Being understood is a luxury
I don’t need any more.’
‘Does nothing move you?’
Govinda hesitated. Though
he willed it not to, his mind
went back to his last
conversation with Panchali.
‘No.’
‘But…’
‘Nothing can move me, at
least not while there remains
work to be done. It is for
posterity to decide whether I
have been right or wrong.’ He
cleared his throat and said,
‘Now, how many ships do we
have left?’
‘The whole fleet, except
one,’ Balabadra said shortly.
He remained terse. ‘We used
her as a decoy…’
‘That’s more than I had
planned for. Excellent!
Here’s what I need you to do,
right away. If we move our
ships at night, it’ll confuse
Saubha and his sailors. Take
ten of the vessels and sail
them around the northern
cove. They won’t stop you.
The wind will be against
them now, and they won’t
risk getting the men to row
without having some idea of
what we’ve planned.’
All Balabadra could
manage was a disbelieving
stare. Slowly, he found his
voice. ‘No! No, no, no!
Govinda, you’d better not be
thinking what I suspect
you’re thinking… In the
name of Yama’s black bull,
no! It’s too dangerous.’
‘To whom, Agraja?
There’s nothing left to grieve
for, nothing left to lose. Don’t
you see? My purpose here is
served, and I’m ready for
whatever may lie ahead, even
the end. As for Dwaraka, all I
know is that I shall not let this
city fall!’
 ‘And Aryavarta?’
Govinda took a deep
breath. ‘The Secret Keeper.
The Secret Keeper will take
care of everything. The task
that remains, the last part of
Ghora Angirasa’s plan, is one
that the Secret Keeper alone
can fulfil. I’m finally free, for
there is no more use here for
me.’
Balabadra’s eyes glazed
over with numb acceptance –
a sense of acquiescence that
he ought to have been used to
by now but was not. With a
silent prayer, he let go of all
thoughts of the future. There
was no other choice.
Whatever happened, he
doubted that either of them
would ever leave Dwaraka
again, alive.
 18
MORNING RAYS GLINTED
ACROSS EVERY LINE AND
FACE OF Shakuni’s dice,
setting the silver-white metal
afire. At that moment,
Syoddhan could almost
believe that they had come
alive, demons that served
their master’s command to
fall as he wished, no matter
who cast them. Yet, it was
not Shakuni, a man filled
with love and loyalty for his
nephew, who made the air
feel malevolent. Syoddhan
knew that his uncle had
harboured no ill will when he
first sat down to play. It was
the stakes that had changed it
all.
‘Syoddhan?’
He started as he became
aware of Shakuni’s voice.
Slowly, he looked around
him, aware that every friend
and ally of the Kuru kingdom
present in the assembly hall
was waiting for his response.
His own brothers seemed
jubilant, as did Vasusena, for
much had been won.
Sanjaya’s face showed no
discernible emotion at all.
Across from Syoddhan,
Dharma sat with his eyes
raised to the ceiling of the
great hall. The gods still
looked down on the assembly
as they always had, but none
were inclined to descend to
the Emperor’s aid. Quelling
the urge to reach out and
shake his fool of a cousin out
of his crazed stupor, his self-
righteous sense of potency,
Syoddhan sought out
Dharma’s brothers instead.
Partha pointedly ignored him
and surveyed his
surroundings with an air of
affected superiority. Bhim
was brooding. The twins were
grim. All of them stood, arms
crossed in a posture of
servitude, upper bodies bare,
as a sign of respect.
Dharma played his
brothers as
stakes…Syoddhan repeated
the words in his head hoping
that the sheer absurdity of
what they conveyed would
make them false. How had it
come to this?
At first, both he and
Dharma had wagered simple
baubles – jewellery they
wore, or gold they had on
their person, a newly acquired
stallion, then two. But as the
night progressed, Dharma had
grown bolder. Bolder? No, it
wasn’t boldness, but a need, a
yearning of sorts. A hunger
Syoddhan had not seen in
years. Not since he and
Dharma had been young men.
The scene remained vivid in
Syoddhan’s memory, as did
the conversation that went
with it.
‘Agraja, tell them to stop!’
‘Relax, Syoddhan. I have
ten gold coins that say Bhim
is going to land a blow to
Dussasan’s face in… Oh,
there. He does it as we
speak.’
‘What’s wrong with you,
Dharma? I brought you here
to stop them fighting, not
gamble on them!’
‘Don’t be so scared,
Crown Prince! Gambling is a
warrior’s art, just as fighting
is. Our very lives are games
of risk and reward, and…
He’s down, he’s down! Well
done, Bhim! Who’s next?
What say, Yuyutsu? Care to
wrestle Nakul here? Wait,
let’s make it more exciting…
Sadev, blindfold Nakul, will
you… I bet twenty coins that
he will still win! Well,
Syoddhan, what have you to
play with? I’d hate to make a
wager you cannot meet.’
‘You cannot do this,
Dharma.’
‘What do you mean I
cannot, Syoddhan?’
‘You cannot be so callous
with another’s life, not even
your own brother’s. You
don’t own them.’
‘I own nothing, Syoddhan.
I am just an ordinary man. It
is because of the love my
brothers hold me that they
will follow my every
command, no matter what I
ask of them. They don’t have
to do a thing they don’t want
to.’
‘You know they won’t
disobey you. That is not how
things are. We are brought up
to believe that it must be thus,
that hierarchy is the sacred
manifestation of Divine
Order. But that is no
justification for you to do, as
you like. One of our brothers
could die as a result of your
stupid wagers.’
‘Divine Order? No,
Syoddhan. My brothers obey
me out of their love and free
will, as do the people… Oh
yes, the people of Kuru. I
command nothing, I own
nothing. Yet, my dear Crown
Prince, it is me they want as
king, and not you…’
That day, Syoddhan had
seen a spark in Dharma’s
eyes, a spark not of
something good but of an
insanity that was beyond
good and bad. At first he had
thought it the madness of a
common gambler, the
intoxication that he knew
could take the best of men at
times. But as the years passed
Syoddhan understood that the
intoxication was of a unique
nature. Some men became
drunk with power. Dharma
was the first man Syoddhan
had seen who could become
inebriated with morality, the
satisfaction of being right and
good. He believed that the
force of destiny guiding his
life was not a cause but the
consequence of his piety. And
a gambler he remained in
chiefly one thing: Dharma
believed that he would,
sooner or later, win. It was
destiny.
And so, after he lost his
lands, his jewels, all his
possessions, he had played
his nations, his empire and
his people as stakes. And
then, one by one, his brothers.
But he does not own them!
Syoddhan’s fury, delayed till
the moment by his sheer
astonishment, finally
overcame him. He looked at
Bhim, Partha, Nakul and
Sadev, and it made him sick
to see how they had accepted
their fate without protest. Just
as Vidur, Bhisma, Dron and
Kripa had accepted the
outcome of the gamble
without protest. Their regret
was apparent, but none of
them had raised the smallest
objection.
Once again, Shakuni’s
voice intruded on his
reflections. ‘Syoddhan?’
Syoddhan turned to his
uncle. Trying his best not to
show how shaken he was, he
said, for no reason other than
to speak, ‘What was the last
stake, Uncle? What did we
win?’
Shakuni looked puzzled,
but answered, ‘Dharma
Yudhisthir. He staked
himself.’
Syoddhan stared at
Dharma. His cousin, no
longer the Emperor of
Aryavarta, sat lifeless. His
eyes were blank; he had
become incapable of thought
or emotion, regret or despair.
He is a corpse now,
Syoddhan thought. Or worse,
a hollow, wooden image of a
man who had never known
life. And this is the man
Govinda Shauri put on the
imperial throne? Yabha!
Rage coursed anew
through Syoddhan and he
made to rise from his seat and
put an end to this mindless
game, to walk away from it
now as mad wagers made in
excess, a brotherly squabble
of little consequence within
and beyond the household.
He froze halfway.
Slowly, like an unreal
spectre come to life,
Dharma’s fingers moved. His
eyes did not see, nor did the
rest of him shift. Filled with
energy of its own, his hand
edged towards the dice,
reaching out to lightly touch
the cold white metal. His eyes
lit up, as though he had drawn
life from the accursed dice.
He pulled his hand back, sat
straight and fixed his
opponents with a confident
look. ‘I stake Panchali.’ As
the dice rolled to a stop,
Dharma hung his head.
It took a while before
Syoddhan finally stirred. He
felt devoid of sensation or
emotion. Slowly, the beat of
his own heart filled his ears,
the throbbing a meaningless
rhythm, as were his words
and his actions. He turned,
without really knowing that
he did so, to one of the many
attendants around them. He
said, ‘Go, bring Panchali
here. Dharma Yudhisthir, the
man who was supposed to
rule us all, has just
condemned his wife to
slavery. I shudder to think
what would have become of
this realm if he had remained
Emperor. Go now. Bring her
here and let her see for
herself what her husband has
done.’

19
THE SUN WAS SEARING
DESPITE THE EARLY HOUR,
ITS STRENGTH leaving little
hope of cloud or rain. A hot
wind blew in from the north,
dry and stinging. One by one,
five huge galleys cruised out
of the safety of Dwaraka’s
harbour. Each carried a crew
of three hundred oarsmen and
another hundred fighting
men, as well as a large supply
of armaments. The sixth and
last ship alone was much
lighter and less heavily
manned than the rest.
Govinda stood on its deck,
his light metal and hard
leather chest armour
gleaming under the bright
sun, his curly hair dripping
with perspiration, as his
captain, Daruka, brought the
ship into position. The six
vessels were now arranged in
the shape of an arrowhead,
with this, the flagship, as the
tip of the formation.
All of Dwaraka had
gathered along the city walls
and on its towers to watch
what would be the final battle
for their city. If they lost,
there would be no hope left.
Salwa’s soldiers, now
thronging the beaches,
reminded them of that with
their taunts and rude jeers.
‘We’re in position,
Commander,’ Daruka
informed Govinda. The
warrior nodded in response.
And then they were off.
Hundreds of oars creaked in
unison and cut the choppy
waters with a loud splash.
The arrowhead of ships
slowly began to move north-
west, against the headwind
and towards the open sea.
King Saubha had astutely
positioned his fleet as close as
possible to the placid waters
of the gulf off Dwaraka. They
waited just ahead of the long-
shore currents that ran from
north to south, parallel to the
coast, but were still close
enough to use the tide to
move his ships in and out of
formation. The fleet loomed
like a floating wall, the bare
masts making the vessels
look ominous, like the
skeletons of dead ships. The
northern wind was too strong
for the Salwa navy to use
their sails this close to shore;
the wind would drive even
the largest galley onto the
treacherous shoals. Vayu the
wind-god, it seemed, would
favour neither side.
‘They’re expecting us,’
Govinda dryly commented as
the enemy ships began raising
anchor.
Daruka eyed the
formidable array from his
post at the ship’s wheel.
‘Commander,’ he pointed out,
‘King Saubha must already
know that ten of our vessels
left the harbour last night…’
 ‘He surely does…’
Govinda distractedly said as
he took a look over the side,
judging the depth by the
colour of the water. He
placed a light hand on the
wheel, adjusting their course.
‘Hold this line,’ he instructed.
Behind them, the other
vessels of their force too
veered, using the flagship’s
wake as a guide.
Govinda went forward to
the bow of the ship and
surveyed the scene before
him. Saubha’s forces,
comprising over thirty vessels
of navy and pirate origin,
were arranged in the arc-
shaped attack formation
preferred by large navies. All
they had to do was to encircle
the smaller Yadu fleet and
methodically sink each
vessel. At sea, nothing
determined the outcome of a
battle as much as the size and
strength of the navy.
Occasionally, smaller navies
would use decoys or set traps
in the hope of averting an
inevitable rout. One such
trick was to lure the enemy
fleet to form a tight circle
around a few ships sent out as
bait and have another fleet of
ships attack from the outside.
Govinda hoped that this was
exactly what Saubha was
expecting them to do.
It was.
Torches went on Saubha’s
flagship, in a signal to the
others of their group. The
vessels began manoeuvring
and the arc split into two,
right down the middle.
Anticipating that the ten ships
Govinda had moved during
the night would inevitably
spring an attack, Saubha was
dividing up his huge force. A
group of ships, most of them
of Danava make, heavy and
massive, veered hard and to
the left in a quarter-turn.
They were now moving due
east, directly towards the
mouth of the gulf.
King Saubha’s command
ship, however, was all set to
engage Govinda’s fleet. The
mighty Salwa war-craft,
which had earlier been the
centre of the arc, now veered
right and forward. More
vessels came up alongside to
form a straight line. All of
them pulled in their oars.
The ships were little more
than empty hulks, bobbing up
and down on the waves.
Suddenly, as though pushed
by a powerful but invisible
hand, the entire line began
bearing down on the Yadu
ships at great speed. Saubha
had moved into the longshore
drift. He planned to harness
the powerful current to ram
down and sink Dwaraka’s
feeble fleet. A cheer rose
from the shores as Saubha’s
army realized what was
happening. Once this was
over, Dwaraka was theirs to
plunder.
Saubha’s flagship was
closing in fast, set to smash
them on the side.
‘Commander…?’ Daruka
hesitantly ventured, when
Govinda did not give the
expected order to take an
evasive course.
Dwaraka’s vessels were
fairly hardy, but not heavy
enough to take the impact of
a direct collision. Their ships
would most likely keel over
and capsize, or simply break
into two and sink. Daruka
normally would not have
dared doubt his commander,
but he had watched Govinda
as Pradymna had been
brought in from the previous
day’s battle and knew that
Govinda would undoubtedly
conceal his own grief to keep
up courage and morale
among their troops.
‘I’ll take it,’ Govinda said,
turning and walking to the
ship’s wheel. He grabbed
hold of it as Daruka let go
and began issuing instructions
in loud shouts. ‘Tell the rest
of our ships to drop anchor.
Keep them on alert to cut and
run.’
The captain felt reassured.
At least, Govinda was not
going to be reckless with all
their lives – the five ships
behind them would come to a
quick stop, requiring King
Saubha to change his course
if he still intended to run
them down. If the others then
cut free of the anchor instead
of pulling it in, and ran, there
was a chance they could
evade the first attack. But to
what end?
Govinda continued,
answering the unspoken
question, ‘Stand by to raise
oars on one side. And ready
the sails…’
Daruka’s jaw dropped,
utter surprise defying his
well-trained stoicism. They
were going directly into the
wind, which was blowing
against them. Not only would
they have to turn the entire
ship around with just the oars,
but with a wind as strong as
this, even the smallest
miscalculation – a little too
loose, too soon – and the
whole ship was doomed.
Even if they succeeded they
would still have to get control
of the ship, wrestle her
rudder, as it were, swiftly
enough to avoid colliding into
one of their own ships that
would be anchored behind
them.
Finally Daruka found his
voice. ‘Yes, Commander,’ he
said, and left to carry out the
orders.
The sound of the oarsmen
rowing dimmed as the other
five ships dropped anchor.
Soon, they were left behind a
fair distance. Ahead of them,
though, Saubha’s flagship
was hardly ten lengths away.
A few stray arrows shot into
the sky fell into the water
between the two vessels. The
ship was still out of range, but
Saubha was taunting them.
He had no wish to put his
archers to work. He wanted
the satisfaction of physically
crushing Govinda.
Govinda held his course till
the ship’s wheel jerked hard,
nearly wrenching itself out of
his hands. Gripping the wheel
tight, he shouted out to
Daruka, ‘Now!’
Instantly, the rowing
stopped. Oars were lifted out
of the water and pulled in, but
it took a short while for the
ship to lose its momentum
completely. In the uncanny
stillness that followed, a
sense of despair settled over
the men. Then the ship began
to move slowly turning
around without sail or oar,
like some possessed being. A
few of the men cried out in
alarm, fearful despite their
natural bravery. Daruka knew
full well how this was
possible, how it was
happening, but that made it
no less astonishing. He now
realized that all this while
they had been rowing directly
into a strong rip tide or
reverse current, which headed
away from land. The moment
they had stopped moving
forward, the current began to
make the ship heel, or swing
around. The captain ran
forward, as it struck him that
this was no accident. Govinda
must have known. He must
have expected this.
Govinda was bent over the
wheel, every muscle in his
body tense as he fought both
ship and sea. As the vessel
swung around with the
current, the force of the tide
hitting squarely on one side
would make her tilt over.
When that happened, the
ship’s rudder would get lifted
out of the water and they
would lose control of the
craft. To avoid that, he had to
let the rudder catch the
current and use its force to
stabilize the ship. The warrior
instinctively adjusted his
footing, balancing himself as
the stern of the ship began to
lift clear of the water.
Buffeted by the waves, the
rudder squirmed and twisted
against the forces of nature,
held in position by nothing
more than Govinda’s entire
weight against the ship’s
wheel.
Daruka made to help, but
Govinda shook his head.
‘Get…the… men…astern,’
he grunted through clenched
teeth.
‘But…’
Warning shouts rent the
air, drawing everyone’s
attention. The second group
of Salwa’s ships had been
taken unawares by the reverse
current. One had capsized,
while another two had
crashed into each other. One
more was keeling over
precariously, its mast
touching the water. A few of
the vessels had tried to
navigate out of the current
and were now caught in an
undertow, which was
dragging them towards the
crags and shoals. Two of the
enemy craft, however, were
being pulled right towards
them by the drift.
‘Mih!’ Daruka swore under
his breath, and began calling
out orders, getting the men
into action. Together, they
scrambled to the end of the
ship, trying to weigh it down.
After what was a long and
tense interval, the tilting
slowed down, almost stopped.
It was, however, only a
matter of time. The rudder
was still out of the water.
Govinda knew it was now
or never. His arms had gone
numb with exhaustion, a
welcome relief from the
spasms he had borne for a
while, but now he needed to
use them. He flexed his
fingers as best as he could
without letting go of the
wheel, welcoming the pain
that shot through them as
sensation returned. Breathing
deep, he focused on the wheel
in his hands until he could
feel its every move, the pull
of the tide and the embrace of
the sea. Then he knew it was
time to let go. ‘Daruka!’ he
ordered, ‘hoist the sails!’
As the wind filled the silk
and linen canvas with the
force of a storm, it drove the
ship forward as though it
were nothing more than a
piece of wood. But only for
an instant. Thrown ahead by
the wind, the vessel hit the
water evenly. With a
perceptible jerk, the rudder
sliced through the waves.
Govinda was ready. He
quickly spun the wheel
around, getting the rudder to
turn, steadying the ship in the
current. The huge craft
moved around completely, set
to glide with the wind and the
unexpected tide. Finally,
filled with the power of the
elements, the craft proudly
rode the waves.
 Cheers of celebration rose
from the deck and turned to
cries of war and victory as
they cut effortlessly through
the sea, heading straight for
Saubha’s command vessel.
The hunted was now the
hunter.

20
IT WAS NOT UNCOMMON FOR
A MENIAL IN THE SERVICE
OF THE princes of Hastina to
feel fear. Dussasana and
many of his brothers were not
known to tolerate failure, and
anything that displeased them
was often deemed as such.
Yet, the kneeling messenger
had never quite felt as
terrified as he did now.
Panchali remained
expressionless, but her voice
was hoarse and cold. ‘What
senselessness is this? What
do you mean I have been
wagered and lost?’
The messenger shifted
uncomfortably, aware that it
was the sheer ridiculousness
of his statement that still kept
him safe in the presence of
the Empress and her guards.
‘Dh…Dharma Yudhisthir
commands you to…to…’
‘That is Emperor Dharma
Yudhisthir.’
‘Mahamatra… He…he is
no longer… He…he…
wagered his crown and
lost…’
‘That’s impossible. The
imperial crown is not a
bauble to be wagered.’
‘Mahamatra,…that is what
has happened. He first began
with his personal possessions.
Once those were lost he…he
began to wager the tribute
due from your…from the
empire’s vassals…at first for
a month or a year, and…and
then in perpetuity. When that
was gone, he began to
wager…wager armies, then
other tradesmen. And…’
Panchali smiled, as though
reassured. ‘I don’t know who
asked you to play this trick on
me, pratikramin. As a joke it
is not in good taste, but I
know the fault is not yours.
Now, tell me, who is this
prankster?’
To that, the attendant could
only respond with a horrified
stare.
As the first tinges of doubt
crept in, Panchali began to
argue, with herself as much
as with the menial before her.
‘But…he can’t wager people!
It is madness to wager his
treasury and lands and
property, but he has no
authority to wager people! No
one stopped him?’
The man before her looked
stricken at the suggestion.
‘Mahamatra, he was the
Emperor…’
Panchali quailed – not at
the statement, but at the
honest conviction with which
it was delivered and accepted
by those around her. ‘And so
he staked me? He had nothing
left to stake?’
 ‘No…no, Mahamatra.
When all his four brothers
were lost to slavery, he then
staked himself… Only then
did he…’ the attendant began
sobbing. The chilling and
pitiful sound rankled in the
always-festive surroundings
of the women’s palace.
With great effort, he pulled
himself together to deliver the
last part of his message. ‘He
also sends word for your ears
alone, Mahamatra. He bids
you to come as you are,
distraught and, begging for
mercy, to the assembly. He
has asked me to say that as he
is your husband and lawful
master, he orders you thus…’
the man broke down
completely, unable to speak.
Panchali did not know
whether it was compassion or
cowardice that had driven
him to tears, and she didn’t
care. Drawing in a deep
breath, she made her
decision. ‘Go back to the
assembly,’ she directed the
messenger. ‘Go back, and
present my message to
Dharma Yudhisthir, to Prince
Syoddhan who gambled with
him, and to the entire
assembly that ruled this
wager as lawful. Tell them…
Tell Dharma Yudhisthir that I
am Panchali Draupadi, and he
had no right to stake me.’

It felt as though she had

hardly sent the messenger
back, or perhaps she thought
it so for the shock and horror
she felt, but Panchali was still
standing where the
pratikramin had left her when
she heard the knock at the
door. Her sairandhari looked
at her, uncertain.
‘Mahamatra?’ she said, the
question in her tone
conveying concern.
‘Open it,’ Panchali said,
but before the girl could act
on her orders, the door
splintered apart. The two
eunuch guards posted in
every royal woman’s
chambers at Hastina stepped
in to intercept the intruder,
but immediately moved aside.
Dussasan stood in the
doorway, a hungry expression
on his face. ‘You had a
question for the assembly,
had you not, my dear? I’ve
been sent to escort you there,
so that you may ask it in
person.’ He sprang at her.
Panchali wasted no time on
protest or plaint. She elbowed
Dussasan in the stomach as
hard as could and he doubled
over with a grunt of pain. She
had hardly reached for her
sword when he grabbed hold
of her by her hair. She
grimaced at the pain, but said
nothing.
Dussasan twisted her
around, making her face him.
‘Slave!’ he cackled. ‘You
whore! Come, you are ours
now.’
‘This is madness! How
dare you? Let go of me!’
Panchali demanded.
‘Hush, my dear,’ Dussasan
said, unaffected. ‘You’ve
been duly wagered and lost
by your husband. You’re now
rightfully our property, a
slave to the Kuru princes.’ He
caught her face in his thick
fingers and forced her to look
at him. The action prompted
her handmaidens to gasp, but
the same sway of authority
that had led them to accept
their Emperor’s untenable
stakes without question now
kept them from questioning a
prince’s deeds, no matter how
vile. They stayed silent and
still, their eyes fixed on the
floor.
Oblivious to them,
Dussasan bent his head and
ran his thick tongue up the
side of Panchali’ neck and
face. She squirmed. In
response, Dussasan trailed his
thick fingers over her thigh,
cupping her from behind to
pull her close against him. He
forced his fingers against her
skin, howling with feral
delight as they came away
stained red with her monthly
blood.
‘They say an insatiable
woman like you is all the
more desirable when your
season is upon you…like a
wild animal in heat.’
Panchali let a defiant
screech escape her, as she
struggled against Dussasan’s
hold. It only served to spur
him on. His gaze leaving no
doubt as to his future plans,
he taunted her, ‘If you’d been
any other slave in this palace,
I’d have taken you right here,
right now. The things I want
to do to you…’ he left the
sentence unfinished. With a
chuckle he added, ‘But who
knows, you might enjoy
my…special attentions…
insatiable as you are! We
shall see. For now, slave,
come along. Your masters are
calling for you. Come now,
whore!’ He began dragging
her out of the door and
towards the assembly.
Panchali fought hard
against his hold. She kicked,
she slapped and scratched –
but to no avail. Dussasan
slammed her against the hard
walls of the corridors and
threw her to the floor, using
her long hair to keep his hold
on her. When that did not
suffice to stop her struggling,
he kicked her in the stomach
and grabbed her again by her
hair. Overcome by her own
desperation and helplessness,
she felt herself going numb.
Her limbs felt heavy, and she
could not struggle any more.
Afraid that she would faint,
she focussed on the raw,
burning sensation on her legs
from being scraped across the
stone floor. Then, just when it
seemed she had got used to
the pain, she suddenly felt the
cool smoothness of marble
and heard the hum of
conversation. Panchali looked
up despite the painful grasp
that Dussasan still had on her
hair. She was in Hastina’s
hallowed assembly hall.
Each and every elder,
every vassal, every ally of
Kuru, was present and their
eyes were on her and her
alone. She was painfully
aware that her robes had
come loose and clung,
disorderly, stained and wet
with her own blood, to her
thighs. Laughter, mocking
and derisive, punctuated the
air. Vasusena pointed, not at
her but to her body. He
clapped his hands in glee and
cried out, ‘Look at the slave!
Look at the whore of the
Kaurava clan!’
The words seared through
Panchali, filling her with a
bitter strength, stoking her
fiery spirit out of its
submissive resignation. She
looked into the crowd around
her, searching out, one by one
those who ought to have
known better. But neither
Dharma nor his brothers
could meet her eyes. She
noted that Syoddhan was
staring at her aghast, his
mouth hanging open. He
briefly looked away to glare,
furious, at Dussasan, but the
younger prince, consumed by
his brutish power, remained
oblivious to it. At that,
Syoddhan turned back to
Panchali, his eyes holding a
helplessness that she
understood far too well, as
she did the controlled horror
that she saw in Dron’s eyes,
and Bhisma’s, and in every
gaze that fell on her.
Fear and ambition rule us
all. Fear and ambition… Oh
Rudra, how has it come to
this?
And then, Vasusena was
speaking again. ‘Panchali!
You are to proceed
immediately to the
attendant’s quarters of the
king’s palace. There, you will
change into the white hemp
robes of a slave-woman and
cast off all your jewels and
begin the menial duties
assigned to you.’ He paused,
and pointedly added, ‘You
are now a slave to the Kuru
princes. You were wagered
by Dharma Yudhisthir and
lost. That is the law.’
Panchali rose to her feet
with effort. She turned to
look at Dharma and his
brothers. The five of them
stood with their arms crossed
in subservience, eyes
downcast in shame and
submission. Her own gaze
fixed on Dharma, she said,
‘And whose master was
Dharma Yudhisthir to make
such a wager?’
The assembly erupted in a
roar, and indistinct murmurs
of disbelief vied with cries of
anger. Panchali knew that
many of the abuses and
admonition were directed at
her. Shakuni and Vasusena
called for silence and after
much gesticulating managed
to get the assembly to
comply.
‘You dispute that Dharma
had a right to stake you?’
Vasusena asked as soon as he
could make himself heard.
‘Yes.’
The chaos resumed. Now,
even the elders, Dron, Kripa
and Bhisma looked offended.
Dharma’s head drooped
further still. Shakuni stood up
and gestured to the assembly
to take their seats. Once
again, the hall fell quiet and
all eyes turned towards
Panchali, who continued,
unperturbed. ‘We speak of
our role, our duty as the rulers
of Aryavarta, to ensure that
Divine Order is replicated
here on this earth. And the
greatest function that comes
of that duty is to ensure that
justice is served; a function
that the Emperor of this land
swore to discharge without
fail. Unfortunately, neither
the Emperor nor the Empress
of Aryavarta are in a position
to preserve that oath,’ she
punctuated her words with a
sarcasm that was as soft as it
was scathing. ‘So it is, that I
call on the rulers of Kuru, in
whose jurisdiction this matter
now lies. I call on the famed
justice of Emperor Bharata’s
line and submit to the
authority of this royal
assembly – now in effect a
court of law.’ Her speech was
more than many could take.
‘Slave!’ Dussasan cried
out. ‘You’re a slave and a
whore and, by the gods, you
will give us brothers as much
pleasure as you’ve given
those five eunuch cousins of
ours!’
With an enraged cry, Bhim
launched himself at
Dussasana. It took the
combined efforts of Partha,
Sadev and Nakul to hold him
back. Dharma did not stir. His
inaction infuriated Panchali
far more than Dussasana’s
abuses had, and though she
tried not to let it show her
face was strained with wrath.
Shakuni stepped forward,
eager to break Panchali’s
confidence in his own subtle
way. ‘So, you maintain that
you are not a slave?’
‘Yes,’ Panchali affirmed.
‘Because Dharma had no
right to stake you?’
‘That is correct.’
In a voice filled with mock
astonishment, Shakuni said,
‘But you are his lawfully
wedded wife, are you not?
Doesn’t the husband have the
right to stake his wife? Or do
you admit that you are not his
wife alone? For if the case is
that you are wife to his
brothers too, as some
suggest… But then, we return
to the question of whether a
woman of…err…such
distinction deserves any
protection at all…’
The statement was met
with much crude laughter and
applause.
Panchali ignored it all. She
said, ‘I am wife to Dharma
Yudhisthir. However, the
moment Dharma’s
enslavement began, he ceased
to have the rights accorded to
free men…including rights as
a husband over the property,
if one should tastelessly call it
so, that is his wife. Whether
you deem him my overlord
by virtue of his position as
Emperor of Aryavarta, or as
my husband, when a man has
lost himself, he has no one
left to command and nothing
left to rule over.’
‘That is of no
consequence,’ Vasusena
roared from his seat. ‘The
wager was made, clear and
loud. It was accepted by
Dharma without objection.
The stake was then declared
lost, and that too was
accepted by Dharma without
objection. You were accepted
by the princes of Hastina as
their property and sent for.
Again, Dharma did not
object. When the one who
made the stake has conceded
you as lost and the winner has
accepted you as newly won,
what question then of the
propriety of the wager?’
Panchali shook her head.
‘The gambler may dream in
his sleep and in the course of
his dream believe that he’s
playing at dice. He might
proceed to lay a wager as he
wishes, and even concede the
stake as lost. Yet another may
dream that he has won at dice
and claim the stake as his
rightful due. In the sane light
of morning, however, neither
is the stake relinquished, nor
is it claimed. Such is the case
here, for a wager made
without authority, no matter
how unambiguously declared,
accepted and admitted, is
simply not a valid one. I
await the assembly’s
judgement. Grandsire
Bhisma, you have always led
this gathering in delivering
justice. I ask you, what is
your decision?’
Throwing herself on to her
knees, Panchali awaited
justice. Bhisma’s expression,
however, was far from
cheering. By and large, the
elder remained impassive, but
there was that particular way
he thrust his chin up, as
though irked at being
involved in such sinfully
human affairs. Panchali was
familiar with the posture, for
she had seen Dharma adopt it
often enough, as she did the
words that went with it: It is
fated. Destiny is willed by the
gods, and we are all
powerless against it. It is fate
that you must suffer. Let the
gods do as they will. Panchali
had no doubt that similar
thoughts were going through
Bhisma’s head.
Finally, Bhisma stood up.
‘My child,’ he said, ‘morality
is a subtle thing, and what is
considered moral often
depends on the situation.
Laws are crafted so that we
may live noble, honourable
lives. Your question isn’t an
easy one to answer.’ Clearing
his throat, he declared, ‘If
anyone here can answer you,
my child, it has to be your
husband, Dharma, the very
embodiment of justice. For he
alone can truly say what
authority he has, or had, over
you, and whether or not you
are now a slave. It is for
Dharma to speak and set you
free.’
In the expectant quiet that
followed Bhisma’s
declaration, Dharma said
nothing. Dharma said nothing
at all.
‘Well then,’ Vasusena’s
words cut through the void
that surrounded her.
‘Dharma’s silence speaks for
itself. Dussasana…’
All sound died, replaced by
an ominous stillness. Panchali
knew that stillness. It was the
soundless anticipation that
filled the air when a
sacrificial animal was brought
in, the eager calm when
humans, for a short while,
believed they were no less
than the gods, for the power
of life and death that was in
their hands. It was the instant
before the axe fell, blood
splattered in wanton worship
and the crowd rose with a
roar to celebrate the raw
might they held as though
each one had struck the
killing blow with his own
hand, the unmistakeable
tumult of life that was a blood
sacrifice. And then, like
animals at a feast, they would
pounce on her to consume her
alive, her body left bloodied
in more ways that one. She
tried to look into their eyes, to
find reason, but there was
none left in them to find. A
mob, no, a pack: a feral pack
that worked as one to serve
the singular command of
brute instinct.
It was all she could do to
not bleat in fear as Dussasan
advanced towards her. His
eyes held an inhuman
pleasure and his face was
contorted in evil satisfaction.
Yet again, Panchali tried to
resist his grasp, only to be
thrown painfully to the
ground for her efforts. She
tried to edge away. He
mocked her feeble defiance,
pretending to tease and bait
her. Slowly, deliberately, he
raised his leg and brought it
down on her thick, flowing
tresses. Pain shot through
Panchali as he pinned her
down, but she tried hard not
to show it. As far as she
could, she would deny this
animal its sadistic pleasure.
But the hunter was not
done. His eyes were locked
on hers, his gaze that of a
predator paralysing his prey.
Enjoying every moment of
Panchali’s torment, he
leisurely bent down to grope
at her flesh, in the process
grabbing hold of the single
length of cloth that covered
her body. Then, his breath
heavy and ragged, eyes
bulging with the anticipation
of ecstasy, Dussasan pulled at
the cloth.

21
‘MIH!’ DARUKA CURSED.
‘THESE MEN ARE NOT GOING
TO GIVE up without a fight,
Commander.’
 ‘Then a fight is what they
will get, Daruka,’ Govinda
replied, his eyes fixed on
Saubha’s flagship as he
remained at the wheel.
Saubha’s archers rained
down a torrent of arrows,
catching those on the Yadu
warship who failed to take
cover in time, or were not in a
position to leave their posts.
Their cries of pain and dying
prayers made Govinda’s eyes
blaze, though he neither
turned around nor offered
help. Before their bodies hit
the deck, he knew, another
one of his sailors would take
their place. Each man now
fought, not for glory but for
their city and their loved
ones.
‘Get the oarsmen to
abandon ship, right now!’ he
commanded. ‘And as many of
the crew as we can spare. Get
our ships to pick them up.’
The orders left no room for
doubt. Daruka gave the signal
and the men lowered
themselves into the sea. At
the same time, the anchored
ships sent out rowboats.
Keeping well beyond the
reach of the current, the
soldiers on the boats threw
out ropes to the men as they
treaded water against the
current. Realizing that a
collision was inevitable, a
few of the Salwa soldiers,
too, began to abandon their
vessels in fear, taking their
rather dismal chances with
the raging tides.
‘Look at them scurrying to
hide like rats!’ Daruka
gleefully noted.
‘You know what needs to
be done now, Daruka?’
‘Yes, Commander.’
‘Go on, then…’
 Bowing to his commander,
the captain made for the
sheltered space below the
deck. There, he thrust a few
oil-soaked torches into the
glowing embers of a brazier.
Then, as an afterthought, he
kicked the brazier into the
depths of the hull, which was
now empty of oarsmen. He
understood why Govinda had
insisted on carrying as few
men as possible on this ship.
Making his way back up to
the deck, Daruka called out to
the crewmen for help. Three
of them rushed to take the
torches from him. The flames
spluttered in the strong wind,
but did not go out. Acting
quickly, the four of them
moved to different parts of
the ship, setting the sails and
the dry wood on fire. Like
their own vessel, the men
knew, nearly every part of the
enemy’s ship was easily
flammable. Fire ships were an
old and dreaded means of
naval warfare. They seldom
failed to destroy their target,
especially when piloted by
willing and brave men till the
last.
An alarm rang out on board
the Salwa command vessel as
the enemy realized what was
going on. In a desperate
attempt to avert the attack,
King Saubha’s men
relentlessly launched arrows
at the burning ship. Many of
Govinda’s crewmen fell,
pierced by the black-tipped
arrows, but the fire ship did
not swerve from its course.
Govinda kept his place at the
wheel of their infallible
weapon, the faithful Daruka
at his side. Propelled by the
mighty northern wind, it
smashed through the side of
King Saubha’s craft, and
remained wedged there.
Govinda held on to the
wheel with one hand, and
with the other kept Daruka
from falling down from the
impact. The two men watched
as the fire spread across the
two vessels caught in their
ghostly embrace. Barely
moments later the towering
mast of the Yadu ship fell,
shattering as it hit the other
vessel’s iron-clad stern. Like
bolts of lightning, burning
shafts of wood shot out across
the water. The Salwa navy’s
close formation now proved
to be its downfall. Fuelled by
the wind and the debris, fires
began to break out on many
of the vessels.
The task done, Daruka
readied to abandon ship but
realized that Govinda was
standing rooted at the wheel,
staring across the mangled
decks of both ships at a group
of similarly unmoving men
about thirty feet away. The
war was over, but one battle
remained.
‘Commander…’ Daruka
called out, hoping to defray
what he considered an
unnecessary altercation.
Despite all their naval
preparedness, Saubha and his
men were in no position to
swim to safety. Trusting in
their ships, they remained
attired for intense battle, clad
in a shining array of mail and
metal, grotesque masks
covering their faces. To
Daruka’s eyes, they appeared
veritable monsters. Saubha
himself was discernible by
his large helmet, shaped in
the form of a snarling beast,
some strange mythical being
from legends native to Salwa.
It broadly resembled a bear,
though its maws were longer
and extended outwards at the
king’s chin, making it look
like he had teeth of shining
black metal. Horns rose long
and sharp over the bear’s
head, forming a diabolical
crown. The armour on
Saubha’s body matched the
visor, and spiked shoulder
plates and claw-like
protrusions from the gauntlets
on his arms and hands gave
him the look of a metallic
monster. Slowly, the king
removed his helmet to reveal
his face, repugnant not for its
features but for the malice
that lined every bit of it.
Govinda defiantly met his
enemy’s gaze, uncaring that
time was running out. To
remain on board the
floundering vessel was to
face certain death, either by
burning alive in the spreading
flames, or drowning as the
sinking debris created
whirlpools impossible to
swim out of.
‘There’s no way they can
swim with all that armour,
they’ll just drown.
Commander…let’s go!’
Daruka shouted.Govinda
ignored him, and drew his
sword.
Saubha rushed forward, his
own sword drawn, a fearful
yell renting the air. Govinda’s
actions mirrored Saubha’s.
The two men met over an
uneven, smouldering surface
formed by the wood of both
ships mingled in eerie
conjugation. Smoke and
flame added a curtain of
confusion; screams of pain
and terror filled the air. But
neither of the two
commanders seemed to care.
 Daruka stood ready, his
own sword drawn, but none
of the other soldiers came
forward. This was, he
realized, a different sort of
fight. Saubha knew he was
going down. And he wanted
to take Govinda with him.
The thought only made the
captain worry more. King
Saubha’s feared reputation as
a ruthless slayer was a well-
deserved one, and he would
be all the more vicious if he
had no concern for his safety.
In fact, if he kept Govinda
engaged long enough, both of
them would burn and drown
together.
Saubha knew this. He
prowled around, biding his
time. He was fast on his feet
and used his curved, whip-
like sabre to good effect,
keeping his opponent out of
striking range but still
engaged. Daruka cried out in
alarm as Govinda rushed in
recklessly. For a while, all the
soldier could hear was the
soothing rhythm of the waves
against the shattered hull of
the ship, punctuated
occasionally by the whiplash
sound that meant a dodge or
the clang of metal hitting
metal.
Saubha drew first blood.
He aimed for his opponent’s
neck, but Govinda deflected
the blow. Relentlessly,
Saubha whipped his sword
round to catch him on his
upper arm, inflicting a deep
gash that began to bleed
profusely. He stepped back,
satisfied, and once again the
two men began circling each
other, oblivious to the flames
and smoke around them.
Sensing that his opponent
would be weakened by the
loss of blood, Saubha moved
in. His next stroke came
down hard. Instinctively,
Govinda brought his sword
up in a double-handed
counter. It was just the
opportunity King Saubha had
been waiting for. He pulled
out a thin dagger, coated with
a distinct, brown liquid, from
a secret compartment set
inside his metal gauntlet. A
smile curving one side of his
mouth, he struck hard to drive
it in between Govinda’s ribs.
In an instant, his delighted
expression changed to one of
panic. Mortal terror filled
Saubha’s eyes as he realized
what had happened. He had
stepped in close to stab
Govinda, but it was a bit too
close.
Govinda had switched his
sword hand and used his
now-free right hand to grab
Saubha’s wrist and pull him
in closer still. Saubha tried to
thrust the smaller, poisoned
blade in where he could but
the pain in his arm from
Govinda’s grip was
unbearable. Not one to give
up so easily, Saubha slashed
wildly with his curved sabre.
But at this proximity, the thin
whip-blade was no match for
the unyielding Nandaka.
Govinda deflected Saubha’s
attack and in a left-handed
sweeping thrust caught him
from the side, finding a gap in
his armour between his
shoulder and chest plates. The
white metal blade ran clean
through the king’s chest and
stayed wedged in his flesh.
Saubha looked down at it, his
mouth stuck in a disbelieving,
idiotic grin. He staggered
back a few steps and fell.
Govinda wrapped his
fingers around the hilt of his
sword and pulled it out of the
dead king’s body, sending a
spray of blood and fine flesh
through the salty sea air. He
would have thrown himself at
the rest of Saubha’s warriors,
who stood paralysed with
awe and fear, but for
Daruka’s insistent calls.
‘Commander! Now! We
need to get off the ship now!’
The captain pulled at
Govinda’s arm, gesturing
wildly to another wayward
Salwa ship that now bore
down on them, no longer
under the control of its crew.
The two men had hardly
climbed over the edge of the
deck, when the vessel ran into
theirs. It turned out to be a
blessing in disguise, for the
impact of the collision threw
both Daruka and Govinda
into the water, well away
from the huge swirling eddy
that was created by the three
battleships sinking in unison.
The two men watched the
ensuing chaos as they treaded
water, waiting for the Yadu
rowboats that were already
heading in their direction.
Their plan had worked
‘There’s just one thing…’
Daruka said ‘Where are our
other ships? The ones you
moved during the night? The
ones Saubha thought you’d
bring back in a surprise
attack?’
Govinda managed a tired,
but irrepressible grin. ‘Under
water, in the cove north of
Dwaraka. Saubha saw the
ships leave the habour and
assumed that I was just hiding
them there. He planned to
turn the trap against me with
his naval formation. But I
didn’t hide those ships, I sank
them.’
Daruka laughed out loud at
the matter-of-fact declaration.
By sinking the ships, Govinda
had created an artificial
barrier that had the same
effect as shoals and sandbars
had in nature. As the natural
flow of the landward tide was
barred by the submerged
wreckage, it pooled near the
shore eventually becoming a
narrow but strong rip tide that
flowed away from land, into
the sea.
Amidst the clamour, the
shouts of victory and the
desperate cries of drowning
men, the destruction by fire
and water, the two men
looked fondly over the waters
at their beloved crystal city.
Trumpets and horns blared
from the towers of Dwaraka,
and thousands raised their
voice in a united war cry.
Spurred by the victory on sea,
Balabadra and Yuyudhana
were leading what remained
of their soldiers against
Saubha’s landward forces.
‘What…?’ Daruka
frowned.
Govinda said, ‘I told him
to. There is no way those
mercenaries will fight without
their paymaster, nor will the
Salwa soldiers fight without
their king. Once they are
gone, the rest of the forces –
Damagosha’s men and the
others – will scatter and
disclaim all involvement. The
blame for this will fall on
Saubha and his ambition
alone.’
‘So…it is over?’
‘Yes,’ Govinda replied,
with a content sigh, ‘it is
over. Dwaraka is safe.’
 22
DUSSASAN’S TOUCH
SEARED, VIOLATED.
PANCHALI FELT ANGER prick
the back of her neck and she
pulled her shoulders back in
instinctive defiance. The
sensation lasted for just a
moment and then fell heavily
to the pit of her stomach,
turning into a cold, clammy,
desperate trepidation that
became an incomprehensible
sorrow. She no longer felt his
touch, no longer cared where
he touched her. The pain
inside her was incorporeal
and endless, as though the
most sacred part of her being,
the core, which held love and
hope and happiness, was
being ravaged into a bloody
pulp.
It did not occur to her to
beg for mercy. She felt her
rage to fight tamed into
numbness by shock and fear.
She willed her hands to
move, her legs to kick and her
voice to scream, but they did
not. Thoughts swirled
through her mind. Words,
voices, images – she was
racing through them, in
search of something. Some
meaning, or an anchor.
Lucidity came in torturous
bursts, and she realized that
the screaming in her head was
not against her aggressor but
against her own sense of
helplessness and despair, the
petrified stillness that had
taken over. Her being was
hers, every pore of it, to
always own and give as she
wished. And that was
precisely why Dussasana
wanted it. His was not an act
of lust. It was an act of
dominance.
 Pleasure was something
any one of these men could
easily have in greater
measure and at a lesser cost.
Dussasana hungered for
power, as did Vasusena and
the rest. Over her body, her
will, and over those they
considered the owners and
protectors of her being. To
take her was to destroy
Dharma, his brothers, the
empire; to burn to cinders
their hearts and will and
reduce them into tiny specks
of shamed subservience. It
did not matter that she was
not anyone’s to own or
protect. She was no longer a
woman, a person, a human
being. She was simply the
embodiment of everything
they wanted for their own, a
thing – not unlike the land
they wished to conquer, to
plunder in the name of right,
duty and morality in perverse
proof of domination. Like
soldiers in the heat of battle,
like hyenas that had scented
blood, the entire hall seemed
to her a mammoth, slithery
creature of legend, with many
sharp-fanged heads but a
single body and collective
will driving it. She was no
longer aware of Syoddhan or
Vasusena, or the crazed
Dussasan, the silently
acquiescent Bhisma,
submissive Dharma or
maddened Bhim. There was
neither friend nor foe, just
one fell, foul creature, a
mindless mob that sought to
affirm its own being.
Some things are defined
only by their property to
destroy another. Every
antidote is defined by its
poison.
She could not remember
where she had heard those
words or who had spoken
them. It was strange that they
came to mind at a time such
as this but she knew why they
did. It was because she felt
now what she had felt when
she first heard them – a
debilitating fear that left her
with no strength to fight, no
will to protest, given the
futility of it all. She
remembered fire and screams,
though the screams were not
hers, and she remembered
thinking that to be burnt alive
was far better than to survive,
that pain lasted longer and did
not always bring death at the
end of it. And that was what
it had come to – the thought
of one doom being better or
worse than the other, because
doom was all that was left to
come. For that which gave
meaning to the world as she
knew it had collapsed, utterly
and completely.
Kings and queens, wise
courtiers and acharyas of
great learning, and those of
no station at all, but still
people, living, sentient
beings, had all failed and now
looked on in mute awe as one
of their own dared to do what
ought to have been
unthinkable. There had been
law, a system beyond the
folly of human beings and
their fickle minds, but that
too had failed, as had the
ultimate fibre of life as
ordained by Divine Order –
morality. She had called on
the noble keepers of the
empire to deliver justice, but
they had failed her. Dharma
had not spoken a word, and
by their laws she was a slave.
While Panchali weaved in
out of the universe in
lightning bolts of thought,
time expanded, and the single
action of Dussasana pulling at
her robe spanned many
lifetimes. Instinct told her to
resist, reason told her to
submit.
This is not justice, her
inner voice railed. An unjust
law is no law at all; an unjust
monarch is no ruler. The
realization made Panchali
more despondent than before.
She felt surrounded by the
empty blackness of a soul in
despair, stripped of every
hope, every joyful feeling she
had ever known, of any sense
of calm and contentment. Her
fingers, which had clutched
reflexively at her robe, were
weak and lifeless, and she let
go. Like the slow, inexorable
movement of the planets,
Dussasan kept pulling. She
did not know if she was
smiling but felt as if she did –
a sad curve of the lips that
was worse than tears.
Is this what death feels
like, she asked herself. The
cool marble of the floor was
soothing against her cheek. It
reminded her of the spring
winds, cool and laced with
the heady smell of jasmine.
Then she was elsewhere. She
did not want to open her eyes,
and look, lest she still find
herself here and not there. As
her senses took over, she
could smell the fresh grass,
its own crisp scent mingling
with that of the heavy pollen
that dotted its blades. The
wind blew soft but incessant,
now whispering, now singing
in tune with the music of the
birds. She waited for her
pulsing heartbeat to ebb,
listening to it with a vague
sense of curiosity. Gradually,
it seemed to slow down and
fade. Panchali waited for it to
stop, certain that it would
soon fade away. All that was
good and happy, dreams of an
empire, of glory and
prosperity – all of it would
shatter into tiny invisible
specks and disappear forever.
There is nothing left to
fight for, she heard herself
say, though it was in another
time and another place.
 A voice replied, Then there
is nothing left to lose… It is
time to rise.
Panchali felt a detached
sense of surprise as she
recognized the voice, though
she had no recollection of
these words having been
spoken. The words brought
with them the sensation of
another touch, quite unlike
the filthy hands that groped
and squeezed at this shell that
no longer felt like her own
body. That touch had been
strong but gentle, as
respectful fingers had picked
up a ragged cloak and
wrapped it around her in a
promise of protection and
hope. That touch, she knew,
was from before the fire that
had made her who she now
was: Panchali Draupadi,
Empress of Aryavarta. As
was the warmth that had
coursed through her body,
thrusting life into it as though
against its will. Her body
heaved as she took a great,
long breath into her near-
extinguished lungs and blood
began to pound once more
through her veins. She
remembered his eyes – his
dark, infinite eyes, filled with
love. She felt his warm breath
on her skin, as he placed a
soft kiss on her forehead.
 A single name screamed
through her head and spilled
from her lips, bringing her
crashing back to reality.
This isn’t death. This is
life.
Her consciousness returned
as though she had been in a
dream, falling headlong only
to wake up before she was
smashed into nothingness.
She realized that Dussasana
was no longer pulling at her
robe, and had stepped away
from her, letting the garment
slip from his hands. It had
fallen to cover her bare
shoulders and back, the soft
silk forming a loving cocoon.
Then she became aware of
the silence around her.
She did not understand
what had happened, what she
could have said or done that
might have turned the earth
over in a moment. Her eyes
met Syoddhan’s and she was
stunned by what she saw
there. He looked as though he
had just been slapped hard on
the face, the force enough to
make him lose all hold on the
present. And in his eyes she
saw how it was that he saw
her, as though he were trying
to remember where it was he
had seen her before. But it
was not quite her he was
trying to place but the
conviction, the subtle
confidence she exuded as if
she wielded the very power of
the Universe. Through the
haze that briefly surrounded
them both, she gradually
became aware that Vasusena
was speaking, instructing
Dussasana once more, to take
her to the pleasure-quarters.
But it did not happen.
‘Vathu! Enough!’
Syoddhan called out,
speaking for the first time
since Panchali had been
dragged into the assembly.
A hush fell over the entire
hall. Bhisma’s grip on the
arm of his seat tightened, and
Dhritarashtra sat forward.
Dron and Kripa remained as
they had all this while, staring
into the distance as though
the events around them were
of no immediate concern.
Sanjaya was the only one to
show obvious emotion, the
act as unusual as its content:
unfettered contempt. It only
served to fuel Syoddhan’s
newfound resolution.
‘Mahamatra,’ he said, his
respectfulness surprising
many in the audience, ‘let
even one of Dharma’s four
brothers endorse your claim.
Let even one say that the
stake was not valid and that
Dharma isn’t their master. I
swear to you, all shall be as
before.’ He then turned to
Dharma and his brothers. ‘We
can end this now at one word
from any of you. One of you,
any one of you, can set
Panchali free if you as much
as question Dharma’s right to
stake her. Or even if Dharma
himself admits that he was at
fault and ought not to have
staked Panchali, I’ll accept
it.’
 A tense silence followed.
Trying hard to contain his
earnestness, Syoddhan tried
yet again to appeal to
Dharma, willing him silently
to stand up just this once, to
come forward and accept his
part of the blame.
‘Dharma…?’ Syoddhan
prompted, promising himself
that for what Dharma would
say now he would forgive all
his cousin’s past silences, the
many instances since their
youth when Dharma had
failed to rise to his rightful
defence and led them all
down the path of antagonism
that had brought them to this
juncture. But Dharma
remained resolute.
Unexpectedly, it was
Partha who stepped forward.
He said, ‘I…we… We have
always been loyal to Dharma,
and so we remain. Dharma
was our master as he began to
play. But…’ He took a deep
breath, and fixing his gaze on
Panchali, continued, ‘whether
he remained master of anyone
or anything after losing
himself is doubtable.’
Murmurs ran through the
audience. If Panchali was
relieved, she did not show it.
Syoddhan breathed out hard
and looked to his father.
Vidur was already whispering
in Dhritarastra’s ear,
vehemently waving an eager
Sanjaya back.
The king stood up and all
conversation subsided. He
addressed Panchali, ‘Come
here, my daughter. Come
closer.’
Silently, expressionlessly,
Panchali complied. She did
not bother to adjust her
clothing as she stood up, or
attempt to cover her body
further as she moved forward.
Dhritarastra continued, ‘Ask
of me anything you desire.’
Panchali did not hesitate.
‘Father, I ask that you set
Dharma free from slavery,’
she plainly stated.
‘So be it,’ the king ordered,
raising his voice over the
murmurs that filled the court
He then added, ‘My heart
isn’t yet filled, Panchali. Ask
of me another wish.’
 ‘I ask that you set Bhim,
Partha, Nakul and Sadev free
from bondage so that their
mother and children may not
suffer.’
‘It is also done. Ask for
more, Panchali. Ask now, for
your own sake, what you
will.’
Panchali looked at the old
king with an expression that
was haughty and innocent at
once. The blind king
remained unaware of her
stance and waited to hear her
words.
‘Thank you, Father,’ she
said. ‘I fear that asking for
one more gift is but avarice
on my part. I already have my
freedom. It was never taken
from me. I need nothing
more.’
Dhritarastra was all
affection. ‘Go in peace, my
daughter. Take back all that
was lost, including your
realm. Forget these tragic
events, and do not hold it
against your cousins.
Remember always that you
are all my children, you are
Kauravas bound by blood.
Let there be peace and
prosperity in the empire. Go
now, return to Indr-prastha
and rule again as Emperor
and Empress.’
Dharma gave a discreet
sigh of relief and looked
uncertainly at his brothers.
They refused to meet his
gaze, each one of them lost in
their own private nightmare
of fury, shame and regret. A
soft babble of conversation
filled the air, a mix of
disappointment and reprieve.
The rustle of people standing,
of moving, of the general
conclusion of things was a
soothing melody. In the
middle of that meaningless
rustle of activity, Dharma
smiled.
Syoddhan flinched at the
unexpected reaction. It turned
to contempt as he saw
Dharma glance longingly at
the dice, the board, and the
remnants of the game,
unaware of his cousin’s gaze
on him. The spark in the
reinstated Emperor’s eyes
was neither lust, nor
ambition, for even those
Syoddhan might have
condoned. Dharma looked at
the dice with nothing short of
reverence, as if they had the
power to redeem his soul.
Syoddhan glanced at
Panchali and found that she
too was staring at Dharma. In
her eyes he saw acceptance,
even understanding, and it
spurred his own. For all his
talk of destiny and fate,
Dharma Yudhisthir could not
bring himself to accept that
once again his empire had
been given to him by another.
He would either win it on his
own, or lose it all. But
Syoddhan had no pity left in
him, not for the creature he
saw in front of him. He said,
‘One more throw?’
Dharma nodded. Yet
another silence fell over the
assembly. His brothers stood
dumbfounded. Panchali
watched, expressionless.
‘Identical stakes, this time.
Even and identical stakes, for
one throw.’
Dharma nodded again.
‘And the wager?’
Syoddhan’s voice held the
pride of a man ready to die a
warrior’s death, a man bound
by honour to the way of life
that they all stood for. A man
who could no longer let
Dharma Yudhisthir rule. ‘The
empire. We play for just the
empire. And the right to be
known as Emperor of
Aryavarta. The loser must
retire into exile.’
‘I agree.’
Shakuni reached for the
dice, but Syoddhan waved
him back. His eyes fixed on
Dharma, he picked up the
dice and passed it over for
him to throw. Shakuni made
to protest, but decided against
it. This, he realized, was his
nephew’s destiny. Fame or
dishonour, Shakuni was
merely an agent. It was
Syoddhan who would be
praised, or cursed, for
millennia to come.
When the dice fell,
Syoddhan did not look down
at them at all. He said
nothing. No one did. Even the
loud Dussasana could not
bring himself to break the
tense silence.
‘Kali…’ Dharma
tremulously said the word.
Kali.
The single dot.
The ultimate losing throw.
After what felt like a long
time, Dharma rose from his
seat. He silently bowed to the
assembly and walked out, his
brothers behind him.
Panchali followed the five
men, the outline of her feet
leaving red stains on
Hastina’s white, marbled
floors.

23
THE GATHERING STARED AT
GOVINDA LIKE A CROWD AT
A RAGING bull, not knowing
whether to run for their lives
or fall with unified strength
on the frightening creature
and destroy it. Govinda’s
eyes were transformed. What
was once infinite bounty was
now barren, not the bleak
barrenness of drought but the
charred, blackened
devastation of burnt
prosperity, as though the
endless ocean of eternity had
collapsed in on itself, leaving
an empty, formless void filled
with pure, molten, wrath.
Govinda neither looked at
nor spoke to any of them. He
no longer cared for
Dhaumya’s relieved greeting
or the description that had
followed of what had
transpired at Hastina and
since. He paid no attention to
the many questions that came
at him of what had happened
at Dwaraka, or the answers
that Balabadra and
Yuyudhana gave. His eyes
roved over the gathering,
searching for the only face he
wanted to see.
In the three days it had
taken him to reach Vyasa
Markand’s hermitage in the
heart of the Kamakya forest,
where Dhaumya had brought
the six exiles, much had
changed in the empire he had
built. Treaties had been recast
and alliances remade.
Allegiances had been sworn
anew, titles given and taken.
The heart of Aryavarta had
swiftly shifted to Hastina, the
hallowed seat of ancient
rulers of the realm and rested,
tenuous, in the hands of an
old king and a prince yet to
be Emperor. It was, everyone
knew, only a matter of time
that the prince would claim
the throne. Without doubt,
Syoddhan was the most
powerful man in all
Aryavarta and wise enough to
know its perils. He had left
Indr-prastha, with its
armouries, armies and
treasury, in the hands of the
man he trusted the most.
Neither enemy nor ally would
dare covet Indr-prastha while
Asvattama Bharadvaja served
as its regent, and a quiet
peace hung over the famed
White City.
 In contrast, what ought to
have been a serene hermitage,
refuge and home to scholar-
seers, was abuzz with
activity. The visitors were not
many, but were of a nature
that had thrown the
settlement’s placid routine
askew. A horse whinnied;
Govinda recognized the dark
steed as Shikandin’s but
bothered neither with beast
nor man, not even when
Dhrstyadymn called out to
him or when Yuyudhana
went forward to grip his
dearest friend’s hand in a
silent pledge of support.
‘Govinda!’ Partha’s voice
held many sentiments – hope,
apology and plaint.
‘Govinda?’ The question
was Bhim’s and held its own
agonizing answer.
‘Govinda, where have
you… If only…’ Sadev
began, and it was clear he
spoke for Nakul too.
Dharma said nothing, but
stepped forward. Govinda
ignored him and walked on
through the hermitage. He
ignored the clusters of people,
his eyes searching instead
among those who sat alone.
He felt her presence before
he saw her. She came up to
him, a cool, soothing breeze
that enveloped his pain.
Panchali smiled and took his
hand in hers. His eyes filled
with agony. He tried to speak,
but could not find any words
that would do.
When she spoke, her voice
was soft, but it cut through
the oppressively heavy
moment. ‘I keep trying to
remember the first time we
met, Govinda,’ she said.
‘Maybe it was many lifetimes
ago. The point is, I can’t. I
can’t remember how it all
began, and I think I’ve known
you ever since I existed and
there was no first meeting.
But I feel that you were there
even when I didn’t exist. The
very thought of you was a
warm cocoon of safety,
Govinda. It made me feel
clothed and covered, no
matter how many times I was
stripped naked by Vasusena’s
harsh words and Dussasana’s
ugly hands. By Rudra, how
much affection you must hold
for me.’
She laughed softly and
went on, ‘See now, how the
mighty have fallen. We
bowed to kings and seers, and
hailed them as gods on earth,
gave them unimaginable
power over our lives. But
what about the benevolence
they owed us?’ She paused,
as though hoping the silence
would be filled with an
answer, then resumed. ‘What
we call corruption, the failed
strength of the noble, is
nothing but a system of
power without responsibility.
A man, an emperor, saw it fit
to wager those he was sworn
to protect. A court of kings
sat in judgement, but declined
to pass its verdict. Honestly, I
ask you, why then do we need
to be ruled? Am I not better
off fighting for myself? I’ve
asked myself time and again
how it came to this, and I can
find only one explanation,
however difficult it may be to
accept. It isn’t the gods who
have failed, it is us humans.
Nothing moves us anymore;
nothing moves us enough to
question what is just…’
‘Panchali…’ Govinda
began, but faltered. He tried
to reach inside himself,
searching for the fount of
dispassion, the beatitude that
he had wrought himself into a
long time ago. He had
selflessly given up all that he
could ever have or want even
before he wanted it. Nothing
could affect him, or hurt him,
for he had neither purpose nor
meaning of his own.
For the sake of all that
exists, the Primordial Being
sacrificed himself. From him
came all existence. I am the
Primordial Being, Existence
itself.
Those words had defined
Govinda’s life, taught him
that nothing was more
precious, or sacred, than the
willingness to give up one’s
own self. It had made him
who he was, showed him
what to aspire to. He had
denied himself the essence of
being human, an
imperceptible but acute
torment that no one had
noticed or understood. Except
for Panchali. And that is why,
Govinda told himself, she is
your greatest sacrifice.
He tried to remember the
decisiveness with which he
let her marry Dharma, let her
serve his purpose in building
this empire, let her draw the
Wrights out of hiding. But he
could not. He could feel only
passion, as it flowed through
him, filled him with life, with
strength, though he had tried
for years to smother it. To his
own surprise, Govinda
realized he was enraged, and
was forced to admit the anger
that had smouldered in him
ever since he had heard of the
dice game and what Panchali
had endured.
He took both her hands in
his, uncurling slender fingers
that she had rolled into tight
fists. Her palms were red and
welts showed where she had
dug her nails in deep. He
stroked her palms over and
over, as though with this
action he could erase her
terrible memories. Or,
perhaps, erase his own guilt,
the burden of knowing that he
had failed.
What Panchali said next
cut him to the core. ‘You
raised me to the greatest
possible heights, Govinda.
But you too staked me, used
me, for what you thought was
a greater cause. Look what
has become of your precious
Empress now… Or, this is
what I deserve for charging
you to never to set foot in
these lands while I reigned…
This is what was needed to
bring you back. And you had
to come back, to see what has
happened to the glorious
empire you left, your
promises and dreams of a
spectacular future…’
The tears she had fought
back since Hastina now
spilled out of her being.
‘Before he staked me,
Dharma had gambled away
our citizenry, and their
property, their lives. Such
was the empire that you
created! Why didn’t anyone
stop him? Why didn’t anyone
say that this sovereign had
lost his power over the people
as soon as he abandoned his
responsibility? Why don’t we
protest now, to say that the
Kuru court had no authority
over us once they refused to
judge the plaint before them?
And why do we sit here now,
bemoaning what we’ve lost,
instead of asking whether
anything was lost at all?
 ‘Aryavarta looked the other
way, when I was treated with
such impunity. Husbands,
fathers, brothers, friends, and
sons – some have many
protectors, but I had none,’
Panchali admitted. ‘I didn’t
even have you, Govinda… I
don’t have you, for you won’t
admit you care. How can you
honestly claim equanimity
when your blind dispassion
keeps you from doing what
you were meant to do as a
simple human being? As a
fellow human being, as your
friend, and as one whom you
respect as an individual, don’t
I deserve at least a touch of
indignation on your part?
Doesn’t the basic compassion
that makes us human inspire
you to anger, not because of
who I am, but because of who
you are? Is this the empire
you dreamt of, for which you
treated me so callously?
Fourfold and many times
more did I deserve your
protection; but even you
weren’t there when I needed
you. You weren’t there when
I needed you the most. What
am I to you, Govinda?
Nothing at all?’
Govinda stared at her, his
expression inscrutable.
Specks of a strong sun had
reddened Panchali’s bronze
cheeks. Her eyes were deep
pools of mystery that could
turn into fire or a benevolent
twinkle. He saw her as the
earth, as life itself, full of
compassion and bounty. She
was all that was good, alive,
and beautiful. Creation, the
spirit of nature, existence, all
that he loved, every creature,
every leaf and blade of grass,
every drop of water, every
atom, endless potential, the
reason for reason. He reached
out to the vastness of the
Universe around him,
drawing in its energy, finding
meaning and succour. Time,
since the beginning of
existence, flashed through his
mind as a single thought. He
could hear his own heart
beating, feel it as the source
of the life that coursed
through him, and it amazed
him how that one tiny
sensation could engulf all his
senses. Closing his eyes, he
let himself revel in the
sensation as it coloured the
Universe, becoming one with
a myriad other emotions. He
lived through aeons, he saw
universes come into being
and shrink into nothingness,
stars that existed just for
moments, and moments that
lasted forever. He lived as
every being, every sentient
creature through all of
eternity, feeling all their
hopes and fears, their despair
and euphoria. Familiar and
unfamiliar faces were all his
own as he expanded, filling
everything there was and
everything that could ever be.
Taking Panchali’s face
gently in his large hands,
Govinda looked into her eyes,
willing her to understand his
newfound clarity. His voice
was hoarse as he told her, ‘I
am you, just as you are me. I
am the primordial being and
you flow through my body,
course through my veins as
the life-force that gives
meaning to the manifested
and the material. I am
Existence, and you are the
Earth. Together we are life
and death, creation and
destruction, we are the
cosmos. We are complete. No
one can understand the
difference between us, for
one has no meaning without
the other, but together we are
meaning and nothingness
both. We are all there is.’
Panchali felt complete. It
was all that mattered.

24
DHARMA FELT A SHIVER
RUN DOWN HIS SPINE AS HE
WATCHED the exchange
between Panchali and
Govinda, undoubtedly private
even though it took place in
the middle of a throng. An
indescribable emotion told
hold of him. Slowly, he let
himself notice what he had
seen many times, but always
ignored – the warmth in
Panchali’s eyes, her unspoken
words and the omnipresent
affection, well-restrained by
the bounds of propriety. The
silence in her suffering
tugged at him, even as its
uncharacteristic presence in
her nature filled him with
doubt. He had always
respected her as a woman of
good conscience, but as he
studied her now, it seemed to
him she had acquired a
quality that was undeniably
Govinda’s. She had become
one with something larger,
her heart opening wide to
embrace as much of humanity
as she could.
The silent change in
Panchali had its impact on
Govinda too. Squaring his
shoulders, he completely
ignored Dharma’s presence as
he called out, ‘Shikandin!
Dhrstyadymn! Rally your
men. We attack, five days
hence. We take back Indr-
prastha and then deal with
Syoddhan and his friends at
Hastina. If we send word
now, we should have
reinforcements from
Dwaraka. Samva can lead
them here.’
Dhrstyadymn snarled in
delight, as Shikandin
responded with grim
anticipation. A reluctant
Bhim, however, pointed out,
‘Govinda, Syoddhan has
appointed Asvattama as
Regent of Indr-prastha. Do
you really think we can win it
back from him?’
‘We will win back this
empire. We will win it back
from Yama himself if we
have to,’ Govinda declared.
He turned to look at Dharma
for the first time since he had
arrived, his eyes holding a
disdain that was completely
absent from his voice.
‘Before long, Dharma
Yudhisthir will be Emperor,
once again.’
‘He’s right,’ Sadev added,
‘there are men in the armies
of Indrprastha still loyal to us.
We should rally them first.
Also whatever personal
forces we have are deployed
outside and not under
Asvattama’s control. We can
do this. We can win
everything back.’
‘Panchala’s armies are
already on high alert,’
Dhrstyadymn said. ‘That
should be enough for now,
but let’s send messages to the
east and to Dwaraka as well,
if you have men to spare at
this time.’
Shikandin affirmed, ‘For
all we know, there won’t be
any need to fight. I suspect if
Dharma steps up to reclaim
his throne, it won’t be denied
him. We need to get him to
Indr-prastha, from where he
can send a call rallying the
vassals. As Govinda said,
Dharma will be Emperor
once again, and soon.’
‘No, he won’t,’ a tired
voice interjected. Before any
of them could retort, Dharma
stepped forward, his eyes on
Panchali as he spoke. She
stepped aside to let him come
face to face with Govinda. In
a lower, but determined
voice, Dharma repeated, ‘No,
he won’t. I won’t, Govinda. I
won’t ignore what has
happened. My empire was
meant to be lost. The gods
wished it so. It was an empire
of unrighteousness and
darkness, built on treachery,
blood and the work of
heathens. It is best that it
remains lost, and I…I shall
fade into nothingness for my
mistakes. We – Panchali and
my brothers – we shall
remain in exile and seek
forgiveness for our sins
through penance.’
Govinda said nothing, but
the others stared, incredulous,
even as Yuyudhana voiced
their common thought. ‘You
are out of your mind!’
‘Mind your words,
Yuyudhana!’ Dharma
snapped.
‘Why? You’re not an
emperor, and you don’t want
to be one. You won’t even
fight for your honour, to
claim what is rightfully
yours!’
For a short while it looked
as though Dharma would
retort, but then, with a deep
sigh, he took a step back.
‘You’re right,’ he finally
admitted. ‘It’s wrong of me to
take offence. It’s wrong of
any of us to take offence,’ he
said, gesturing to his brothers
and Panchali. In a tone that
made it clear he would brook
no argument, he added, ‘I
thank you all for coming to
our help in these difficult
times. But I must ask you to
return to your homes. It is not
for me to comment on whom
you owe your allegiance to
now, but I hope that together
you all will build the
glorious, pious and righteous
realm that I had dreamt of.
Please, for the love you hold
for me, for the allegiance you
once owed me as your
Emperor, whether I have
deserved it or not, I ask you
to return to your homes. My
reign is over. The empire
stands but the Emperor has
fallen. This is the end.’
Dhrstyadmn sprang
forward, equally ready with
word and sword, but
Shikandin placed an
unyielding hand on his chest
and forced him back. A
confused Yuyudhana looked
from the two men to Govinda
and then reluctantly began
walking away. It served as a
sign of sorts to all the other
assembled, for slowly, with
mumbled words of
commiseration, even
discontent, they began to
disperse.
Balabadra stepped forward
to place a hand on Govinda’s
shoulder. ‘Come,’ he added,
for emphasis.
Govinda nodded, but did
not move. He looked directly
at Dharma. ‘Why?’
It required an obvious act
of will for Dharma to restrain
his rage. His voice quivered
with the effort to not shout or
even lunge at Govinda, as he
seemed about to do. But the
impulse passed and Dharma
met Govinda’s piercing gaze
with recrimination. ‘Do you
really dare ask me that
question, Govinda? Don’t
you know? Don’t you know
that of all that has been
wrong with my reign, my
empire – why, my very life,’
he spat through gritted teeth,
‘there is no greater stain than
the one you’ve left on it? It is
you that the kings of
Aryavarta wanted to destroy,
not me, though I deserve no
better for having trusted you!’
Yuyudhana responded by
drawing his sword from his
scabbard. The ring echoed
through the glade as many
others gripped their weapons,
some to stand by Yuyudhana,
and others against.
‘Please…’ Dharma looked
around, appealing for peace.
He turned back to Govinda
and said, ‘You have done
much for me, Govinda, and I
have loved you as a friend, a
brother even. But I cannot,
and will not, let it be said that
Dharma Yudhisthir the
righteous, Dharma the just,
the heir of Dwaipayana in the
house of the Kurus rose to
might on the wings of the
Firewrights. I thank the gods
for taking away from me
what I should have refused in
the first place. At least they
leave me with my honour.’
The fury in Govinda’s eyes
had subsided. He considered
the statement with a neutral
expression, as though
Dharma had asked him if he
thought it was likely to rain.
‘You speak to me of honour,
Dharma? Then it shall be so:
I swear that mountains may
break, the skies fall, the earth
shatter, or even the oceans
run dry, but what I say now
shall bear true. Upon my
honour, I’ll change Aryavarta
as you know it. I promise you
all, the world will remember
Panchali, her valour and her
dignity; that she dared to hold
the gods, and you honourable
kings and queens of these
lands accountable when no
one else did. Those who have
hurt her, who have failed her,
shall pay. The bones of men
will mingle with dust and
their blood will fill the core
of this earth such that it tells
her story for millennia to
come. And Panchali will,
once again, be a queen over
all kings!’
‘You will change nothing,’
said Dharma, defiant. ‘You
can change nothing. Leave
now, Govinda. Leave before I
spit on the ground where you
stand.’ His voice cracked as
he added, ‘And if I had even
a tenth of the authority that I
once wielded, not as Emperor
but as the least of the loyal
vassals who served the
interests of the realm and
respected all about our way of
life that is just and divine, I
would have ordered you to be
arrested this instant. As it
stands, I am lord of nothing
but my own self and can give
no orders. But there are
others, even among those you
count as your own people,
your own friends, who will
not be as tolerant.’ As a sense
of doom hit him with finality,
Dharma finally hissed out the
words he had tried to hold
back, even though it burnt at
his very conscience. ‘You
have no place here,
Firewright. Leave. Leave us
to our destiny.’
‘Destiny? Hah!’ Rage,
hatred, joy, desire – all fused
into one sense of being alive
till Govinda exuded a raw,
terrifying energy. Yet, for all
his fiery authority, he
wrapped his arms around
Panchali in a tender,
protective embrace. ‘There is
no destiny but what we make
of it. Come, Panchali. Come
with me. Enough is enough!’
 Panchali shook her head.
‘No, Govinda.’
Govinda dismissed her
refusal as petulance and
smiled. ‘Come.’
She shook her head again.
‘You don’t understand. I said
that you weren’t there when I
needed you the most. Do you
not understand? The world
will already tell my story for
millennia to come. It is up to
you what they will say.’
 And with those simple
words, it was over. Govinda
understood, and the weight of
comprehension crushed him.
He had let Panchali down
before, but she had always
been his sacrifice. This time,
it was apathy, betrayal,
failure, folly…a senseless
sacrifice, an offering made in
vain. He had no words to
convey the unbearable grief
that took him, twisting him
beyond redemption into a
lifeless creature that he had
never known he could
become.
At last, Govinda Shauri
realized what force it was that
had ended the dice game,
stopped Dussasan mid-act
and brought the entire
assembly of Hastina to a
stunned silence. It was the
very same force that had
stained Dharma’s conscience,
shattered his pride, and
reduced an Empress to exile.
In her moment of
excruciating agony, when she
had lost sight of all hope and
meaning, Panchali had let just
one word fall from her lips…
Govinda.

25
THOUGH HE DID NOT SHOW
IT, SANJAYA GAVALGANI
WAS A HAPPY man. If an
omnipresent observer had
even suggested as much,
Sanjaya would have denied it,
because he preferred to think
of himself as far too
disciplined to indulge in
personal pleasures while there
remained important tasks to
be completed. Or, as in this
case, two important tasks that
were connected in mutual
fulfilment, like the fragile
balance of a jeweller’s fine
scales. One by one, he
reminded himself as he came
into the former Vyasa’s
presence. One by one.
Diminished. That was the
word that came to mind when
he saw Dwaipayana. Sanjaya
knew well that conflicting
emotions – guilt, rage, pain,
self-recrimination – had left
the old scholar in this state.
Yet, above all, ruled a
poignant regret mingled with
pride. Dharma Yudhisthir, the
man on whom Dwaipayana
had pinned all his hopes, had
failed. Yet, Dharma
Yudhisthir, Dwaipayana’s
beloved grandson and moral
heir, had succeeded. He had
done that which Dwaipayana
himself had been unable to:
He had spurned the might of
the Firewrights, cast aside the
tainted empire that Govinda
Shauri had built for him, on
sheer principle. Sanjaya knew
that this one act alone was
enough to compel
Dwaipayana to forgive
Dharma his every
transgression and excess and
hold him up as the beacon of
morality. It was the only way
the former Vyasa – or Veda
Vyasa, the compiler of the
great books of knowledge, as
Suka had now taken to calling
him – could maintain his own
moral integrity in the face of
all that had happened. As far
as Sanjaya was concerned,
Dwaipayana’s situation was
entirely to his benefit. Now,
more than ever, the Veda
Vyasa was under his control.
Now, more than ever,
Dwaipayana would rely on
Sanjaya to keep his biggest
secret safe.
Appearing very much like
a man who could not be
cheered even by the hearty
mountain air, Sanjaya walked
up to the two men – one
sitting on the threshold of the
hut, the other standing next to
him. Dwaipayana looked up
from his mournful huddle as
Sanjaya approached, but
spoke no words of welcome.
Next to him Suka looked
alternately unconcerned and
worried. It struck Sanjaya that
if at all the younger scholar
cared about the situation, it
was for reasons far more
trivial and selfish than any of
them might have anticipated.
All Suka wanted was to be
left alone. Sanjaya relished
the prospect of fulfilling that
particular wish someday,
quite literally. Right then,
however, he had to deal with
Dwaipayana.
After a brief, awkward
silence, Sanjaya hung his
head, looking shameful, and
said, ‘I’ve failed you,
Acharya. Forgive me.’
‘After all that I’ve lived
for…’ Dwaipayana began in
a tremulous voice, ‘…after
everything that the Firstborn
have struggled to do… One
miserable dice game… A
chain of events started by a
single, stupid act… Look
where it has brought us! Hai!’
Suka placed a comforting
hand on his father’s shoulder,
at which Dwaipayana forced
himself to calm down. He
turned back to Sanjaya, ‘Who
can understand the workings
of destiny, my boy?’ he said.
‘Don’t be so harsh on
yourself.’
Sanjaya nodded, even as he
observed the silent exchange
of glances between father and
son with interest. Not once
had Suka shown
Dwaipayana’s zeal, his
commitment to the Firstborn
order. He had been happy,
even relieved, it was said,
when his father had passed
the title of Vyasa to the elder
Markand. Such lack of
ambition was something
Sanjaya had never been able
to understand or come to
terms with. One day, he
promised himself, he would
spit in Suka’s face. He would
spit in the faces of both the
Vyasa’s heirs who had taken
from him his rightful due. But
this was, he knew, not the
time for such ruminations. He
had a task at hand, one that he
could not compromise.
‘Acharya,’ he softly began, ‘I
will keep my promise to you.
I will see your blood, Queen
Satya’s blood, rule Aryavarta.
The glory of this line shall
not fade.’
‘The glory of this line?’
Dwaipayana cried out,
enraged. ‘Muhira! What glory
do you speak of, Sanjaya?
The glory of my two sons –
the blind fool and his
impotent brother? Or that of
my grandsons – one a
gambler, the other a
malicious beast? For years I
have kept the records of our
times, preserved the history
of Aryavarta, and now the
history of my line, Queen
Satya’s line, has been
besmirched forever. If
Dharma is held up as the
noble, righteous king that I
had expected him to be when
I helped him become
Emperor, it makes Syoddhan
an evil, greedy demon. And if
history speaks of Syoddhan
as the reasonable, honest man
he is, it leaves Dharma as
little more than a cheap
gambler. What would you
have me choose as my
legacy? And if I make the
wrong choice…then what?
Sanjaya, my ultimate failure
is not even that my grandsons
behaved like common
gamblers. My ultimate failure
is that such events, such great
events swept across the face
of Aryavarta, and yet the
Firstborn knew nothing, did
nothing. Morality was lost
and faith was broken and the
Firstborn… They were good
for nothing but a few words
of prayer and blessing when
all was done and broken! Did
we not know or did we not
care? We are broken!
‘Please…’ Sanjaya said,
earnest, his eyes glimmering
with tears of raw emotion.
‘Trust me to do what I must.
Let me take care of this.
Acharya, you’ve taught me
much. The least I can do is
repay you by putting those
precepts to good use, as best I
can.’
‘But how…? What can you
do? What can anyone do?’
Sanjaya looked once again
to Suka, hoping for words of
support or reassurance to the
weary Dwaipayana. The
scholar, however, stood by
his father, expressionless, as
though he were nothing more
than a serving boy waiting for
orders. What kind of a man
could remain so
unambiguously apolitical?
Fighting back instinctive
disgust, Sanjaya reminded
himself that Suka’s
malleability was an
advantage. He said, ‘These
sordid affairs need not
occupy you… or Suka here.
There are things best not
known to you. You’re both
men of the gods, while I
remain a man of the world.
Do not ask me for details, but
simply know that what is
done is done for the greater
good. You have my word. A
Kaurava shall rule this
empire, now and forever.’
Dwaipayana remained
quiet, his eyes showing
doubt. Sanjaya persisted, his
voice low, even though he
knew that the elder alone
could understand his veiled
words. ‘You’ve carried more
than your fair share of earthly
burdens, of terrible secrets.
There is no reason why Suka,
or anyone else, should inherit
this load. Let me deal with
this. Let me make the choices
you are not in a position to
make. There is yet another
tiger that can be tamed to our
use…Asita Devala, the
prisoner…’
‘Are you out of your mind,
Sanjaya?’ Dwaipayana
snapped, a little harsher than
he had intended to. His heart
raced as he studied Sanjaya’s
face and the pang of
disappointment that crossed
it, and he could not help but
wonder whether someday the
courtier might discover the
horrible secret that he hid
away in his heart. And if that
were to happen, would
Sanjaya have the strength and
the loyalty to preserve such a
terrible secret? For if Suka
ever found out…Dwaipayana
looked at Suka, who returned
the gaze with even certitude.
He knew it would destroy his
son if he ever found out who
his father really was. And that
brought him back to Sanjaya.
What choice do I have but to
trust him, Dwaipayana
silently admitted. My hold
over Aryavarta weakens. The
Firstborn’s hold weakens. We
need Sanjaya.
‘Can I rely on you to act in
the interests of Aryavarta,
Sanjaya? It is not enough if
Syoddhan rules in Dharma’s
stead. You must counsel him
towards peace. You must use
your political craft to set
things right. The realm cannot
be compromised. Divine
Order cannot be forgotten.’
‘I shall do as you
command, Acharya.’
‘And what about…the tiger
that I failed to tame? What
about Govinda Shauri?’
‘He is of no consequence.
At best, he is already dead. At
worst, he soon will be – either
by his own hand, or that of
one of his kinsmen. It’s been
just days since he has
returned to Dwaraka, and
already the Council has asked
that he step down as
Commander. Without
Govinda at the helm of
affairs, the Yadus will
inevitably regress to the
infighting and squabbling that
has been their lot. They don’t
matter to us anymore.’
‘All right, then. Go with
my blessings. Varuna protect
you, my son. Aryavarta is
now in your hands.’
Sanjaya bowed, glancing at
Suka as he did so. His heart
nearly quailed at what he
saw. Like a simple-minded
child whose broken toy had
just been mended, Suka was
smiling.

26
THE SECRET KEEPER
WATCHED THE SCENE
UNFOLDING IN THE heart of
the hermitage with well-
veiled satisfaction. For a
moment, personal affection
reared its head and he wished
that things had not come to
this. The lapse lasted for just
a fraction of an instant before
trained rationality took over.
He had had to do what he had
done. Govinda knew that as
well as he did.
Your greatest strength is
also your biggest weakness.
The Secret Keeper
remembered the day Ghora
Angirasa had told him that.
Govinda had been by his side.
It had been a long time ago,
and felt longer still. He had
been young then, and full of
optimism, too much so to
believe that Govinda could
ever become weak. But it had
happened. Finally, the man
had broken under the great
burden of them all: guilt.
Panchali’s refusal to come
with him, her confession that
in her great need it was his
name she had called out – it
had destroyed him in a way
no one had expected. The
same dispassion, the
detachment that had once
made Govinda the most
efficient and strategic thinker
in all of Aryavarta, had left
him bereft. Govinda had not,
and could not contemplate a
world where sacrifice was in
vain. He had given up
everything for a cause, but
when the cause itself was lost
he had nothing left to hold on
to. Nothing in his world made
sense once that rule had been
broken.
Nothing except pain.
‘Do you want to leave
Aryavarta?’ the Secret
Keeper had asked Govinda
soon after he had returned
from Kamakya to Dwaraka.
Or rather, he had asked the
man who had once been
Govinda, for the shadow that
had stood in front of him was
a vacant corpse, a shrivelled
soul.
‘Do you want me to?’
Govinda had said, at length.
‘No. I think it’s best you
stay here, where the rest of
Aryavarta can see you, so
they know that you are...’
‘That I am...?’
It had hurt the Secret
Keeper to say the next words.
‘They must see that you are
harmless, Govinda, that you
have been conquered and
tamed and are no longer a
threat to any of them.’
At that, Govinda had
laughed, cold, mocking,
bitter. He had said, ‘Bring
them here and tell them to
spit in my face. I deserve it. I
deserve that and more.’
‘I would, if it served any
purpose. All I need now is for
you to let the Council try you
as a Firewright and sentence
you as they will.’
‘To death?’
‘No, not death. You need
to stay here, alive, a symbol
of the Firewrights’ complete
defeat. Only then can I fulfil
the ultimate task that was left
to me, Govinda. Forgive me,
my friend, but even the
affection I hold for you
cannot get in the way of that.’
Govinda had said nothing
more. The Secret Keeper had
sat with him in silence for a
while, before leaving him to
his misery. The scholar’s own
path lay towards the future,
and he had no time for regret
or repentance. True, men like
Govinda came once in
millennia, but the Secret
Keeper was a practical man.
He would make do with the
resources he now had in
hand: Sanjaya.
The Secret Keeper did not
completely understand why
Sanjaya acted as he did, but
that did not make it difficult
to predict what he would do
next. Using Devala’s power,
Sanjaya would support
Syoddhan’s rise, a rise that
would be built on Govinda
and Dharma’s downfall. It
was not the most desired
outcome, but the Secret
Keeper had planned for it
nevertheless. Govinda’s
empire had depended on
peace and commerce to bring
about prosperity and, with it,
the resurgence of the
Firewrights. Syoddhan’s
empire would be one of equal
prosperity and resurgence,
but be built on strife and
mutual distrust as the various
nations of Aryavarta fought
to outdo each other. But it
was the only way forward.
The Secret Keeper felt age
hit him anew as he
remembered that once Ghora
Angirasa, too, had made such
a choice and failed. But then,
there had been Govinda.
Now, there was no one.
We are on our own.
Govinda is a spent force. His
time is over. With a sigh, the
scholar turned his attention to
the four-year-old acolyte
tugging at his robe with all
the endearing impatience of
childhood. The future is what
matters. One man for an
empire. That is a very, very
good trade…even if that man
is Govinda Shauri.
Part II
 1
SYODDHAN KAURAVYA
OPENED HIS EYES AND
STARED INTO THE darkness.
Twelve years as Aryavarta’s
virtual ruler had done little to
dim his trained instinct. He
slept uneasily on most nights,
that was if he slept at all. His
dreams were nightmares of
wakefulness, memories of a
day twelve years ago that still
came to him, heavy with
silent accusation. The day he
had rightfully won this
empire from Dharma
Yudhisthir in a travesty of a
dice game. The day Panchali
had been dragged into the
assembly hall of Hastina…
He dismissed the thought
and strained his ears in the
darkness, trying to decipher
what had woken him. All he
could hear was his wife’s
even, content breathing, and
feel the warmth of her cheek
as she slept with her head on
his chest. He smiled at her in
the dimness and, with a light
touch, smoothed back her
dishevelled hair – the result
of their slow, passionate
lovemaking, a ritual
celebration of the deep bond
they had shared over the
years. It was an affection he
had come to cherish, for it
had nearly been lost.
After the dice game, as
Dharma and his companions
had left Hastina as exiles,
Dussasan and Vasusena had
made their departure as
difficult as possible,
following them to the city
limits, shouting abuses and
jeers. Syoddhan, however,
had left the assembly hall and
directly made his way to his
quarters. He wanted to make
sure that his wife, Bhanumati,
heard the news of what had
transpired from him, first.
Bhanumati had been
aghast. She had sat rigid with
denial while he had sobbed
quietly, his head on her lap,
like an errant boy. ‘What if it
had been me?’ she had asked.
He had not known what
answer to give but had
realized that things would
never be the same again
between them. And so he had
set about trying to make
things all right the only way
he had known how: by being
a good ruler to the people of
Aryavarta.
It had not been an easy
task, but slowly the realm’s
prosperity had grown, healing
even the destruction from the
war in the west, till people
from nations far and near said
that Syoddhan’s rule was no
less than the golden age
promised by Dharma
Yudhisthir. Just as, over time,
Bhanumati had healed and
grown to love him once
again. As had the people of
Aryavarta – all but those who
ought to have loved him the
most. It was the price
Syoddhan had paid for
Aryavarta’s prosperity. The
stronger and more affluent
the nations grew, the more
they began to distrust and fear
their neighbours, and the
more their rulers prepared for
war. None was more eager
for battle than his own
brothers, and none more
apathetic to that fact than his
advisors – Grandsire Bhisma
and the acharyas Dron and
Kripa. Yet, their advice for
him in the face of the nations’
aggressive weaponization
was far from ambiguous.
 ‘Fight fire with fire,’
Bhisma had said, with
obvious reference to the use
of Wright weaponry. Dron
had remained impassive as
the Grandsire had continued,
‘What the others have, you
must have too, and more. It is
what once made the Kuru
kingdom the greatest nation
in all Aryavarta, even up to
my father’s time. Enough of
politics. A warrior’s honour
lies in battle. A nation’s
peace lies in its strength. Be
the strongest, Syoddhan. You
shall never want for peace.’
Partly convinced, partly
concerned, Syoddhan had
complied. It had not only
changed the face of
Aryavarta, but had also
elevated him above the rest.
Strife, when it came, was in
clusters and pockets, for his
overwhelming strength and
influence was enough to
maintain a kind of peace.
Domestic boundaries and
borders were sometimes
adjusted, entire territories
sometimes acquired. But the
empire remained as it was, a
huge pond that subsumed a
stray ripple.
In truth, the situation made
Syoddhan fearful. He knew
the limits of his influence and
power, as well as the fact that
the empire itself was not a
creature of loyalty. It was
then, and only then, that
Syoddhan envied Dharma.
More specifically, he envied
Dharma his brothers. Among
his own, Syoddhan felt alone.
His brothers seemed
strangers, creatures that he
could no longer recognize or
understand. It had taken him
a while to see what the
unstated tension between
them was. He had created a
bigger, stronger empire,
which his brothers could not
dream of taking over in a
single stroke – of war, dice,
or otherwise – as he had done
with Dharma Yudhisthir.
From the news that came in
about the recent exiles, Bhim,
Partha, Sadev and Nakul had
taken to their lives as forest
dwellers, without demur.
Five, forged into unshakeable
oneness. That is what had
helped build the empire. That
was Dharma’s greatest
strength, and it is my biggest
weakness.
Once, in a fit of frustration,
Syoddhan had confessed to
Bhanumati, ‘Perhaps Dharma
was a better Emperor.’
Her response had been
vehement, ‘He was not! And
certainly not a better man.
You would never stake your
wife at dice, nor watch while
she was molested.’
He said nothing, but
flinched at the memory of
Panchali’s terror in Hastina’s
assembly hall and the fact
that he had been a mute
witness. When he looked at
his wife, Bhanumati’s eyes
had finally held forgiveness.
At length she had said, ‘You
are a better Emperor, no
doubt. But Dharma
Yudhisthir had Govinda
Shauri.’
Govinda Shauri. It was a
name Syoddhan hardly heard
any more. Yet, it was a name
he remembered often, and
with mixed emotions. He
wondered what it was that
had made Panchali call out
Govinda’s name in her
moment of utmost
helplessness and greatest
need. Had it been a token of
surrender? A plea for help?
Or a final whisper of
affection with what he
imagined must have felt like
her dying breath?
And what sort of a man
was Govinda Shauri, who had
sought no vengeance? He had
simply faded away, leaving
Panchali behind to live as a
commoner, a woman of no
importance, in the forests of
Kamakya. But that had not
been without cause or
consequence, Syoddhan
noted. As soon as the puppet
falls, so does the puppeteer.
And so, the further Dharma
had receded into the oblivion
of exile, the more Govinda
descended into infamy, while
he, Syoddhan, had gained
legitimacy and support over
all of Aryavarta.
It had worked well.
Syoddhan had seen at once
that to leave Dharma alone in
anonymous seclusion was
useful at many levels, but
Dussasan, who had made the
most of his new-found fame
as the Emperor-in-fact’s
brother and soon acquired an
air of superiority and
assumed the title of second-
in-command, had not
understood the reasoning.
Vasusena and Shakuni had
prevailed on the younger
prince to be patient, though
he remained reluctantly so.
The fault, Syoddhan knew,
was his own. He had, over the
years, freely shared his
criticisms and complaints
against Dharma, but never his
reasons for them. It had
served only to breed in his
brothers unfettered hostility
and hatred for the sons of
Pandu. In the past decade the
hatred had become his own,
serving as vindication and
validation both. He threw
himself heart and soul into
running the empire the way
he believed Dharma ought to
have run it and into becoming
the man he believed an
emperor ought to be. But
nothing he did, and no
amount of rationalization or
probing, had helped him
answer the question that had
haunted him for most of his
adult life. He just could not
fathom what sort of a man,
really, was Govinda Shauri.
Weary with the futility of
his introspection, Syoddhan
gently shifted his wife off
him and turned, curling
uncharacteristically into a
foetal position, as he would
never have done but for the
privacy of darkness. The
action saved his life.
 2
SYODDHAN WAS OUT OF BED
AS SOON AS HE HEARD THE
DAGGER whiz past his ear, in
the instant before it plunged
into the soft pillow by his
head. His eyes locked on the
outline of the intruder and his
hand reached out for the
sword that always remained
by his bed. But he need not
have bothered. The assassin
did not see the dark form
creep up behind him, too
silent to be a shadow, too
fearsome to be a ghost. The
killer got no chance to make
even a sound as the sliver-like
blade went right through his
throat, severing his vocal
cords, the blade precisely
placed so as not to draw a
hideous spurt of blood.
Before he could crumple and
hit the ground, the dark figure
moved again, twisting the
blade completely into the
assassin’s torso to kill him
instantly before easing the
body down to the floor.
‘Who…’ Syoddhan began
as he wrapped on his lower
garment.
His rescuer silenced him
with a nod at the still-sleeping
Bhanumati. Syoddhan
realized that his wife was
naked under the sheets, but
the other man neither noticed
nor cared. To Asvattama
Bharadvaja, everything was
an element on a battlefield –
friend, foe, inconsequential
victim and incidental
bystander. Silently,
Asvattama hoisted the dead
man over his shoulder and
made for the door. Syoddhan
followed.
‘Who…?’ Syoddhan
repeated once both men had
stepped out into the room
adjoining his bedchamber.
In response, Asvattama
pushed back the cowl
covering the dead man’s face.
‘Him?’ Syoddhan was
incredulous. ‘He’s always
been loyal!’
‘To you or your brother?’
‘Which one?’
‘Do you really need me to
answer that, Syoddhan?’
‘But…why? Why would
my brother do this?’
‘Why not? There is
rebellion in the east. One also
hears rumours of invaders on
the western frontier.’
‘One always hears rumours
of invaders on the western
frontier.’
‘True. But often a rumour
is excuse enough. Your
brother thinks your position is
precarious.’
‘And you? Do you think it
to be so?’
‘Yes, I do. You’ve done a
rare thing, Syoddhan. You’ve
given your vassals and their
people enough to be happy
about. Usually, it’s one or the
other. Such success is bound
to have its price. In this case,
too, many people have
become powerful, too soon.’
‘I am one of those people,
am I not? My death would
have suited many, you
included. Is that why you let
this assassin through? If you
knew I was in danger, why
didn’t you just have him
arrested? Why did you wait
till the last instant?’
If Asvattama found the
statement offensive, he gave
no indication of it. Matter-of-
fact, he said, ‘I wanted you to
have irrefutable proof,
Syoddhan. I’ve warned you
before that not all of your
brothers are to be trusted.
Now, you know as well as I
do who sent this assassin. As
for making an arrest… I have
the contingent of your royal
guard waiting. I’ll personally
escort the real criminal to…’
‘No!’
‘Syoddhan…’
‘He’s my brother. They all
are. I cannot arrest them for
treason, Asvattama. What
would you have me do next,
execute them all? I cannot do
it!’
‘With all due respect, Your
Highness, there is no room
for fraternal affection in these
matters. You brothers are
divided in their loyalties.
Some have ambitions too big
to be constrained by their
affections. Others have no
ambition, but they lack
courage. They will follow
whoever takes the reins of
power without dispute,
whether it is you or one of
their other brothers. You must
act now. The man who sent
this assassin cannot be
ignored.’
‘Acharya, you have your
orders,’ Sanjaya’s voice
interrupted, artificially soft
and sweet.
Asvattama did not bother
to turn around. ‘Stay out of
this, Kshatta. A servant
should know his place, and it
certainly is not in the middle
of a conversation between
two monarchs.’
‘Servant I may be, and I
am gladly one – but so are
you. You stand here tonight
in your capacity as Prince
Syoddhan’s vassal and
commander, and I as his
minister and advisor. This
conversation concerns me as
much as it does you.’
 ‘Really? And what advice
do you intend to give your
liege-lord?’
‘Actually, Acharya, I was
going to agree with you.
Indeed, there is no room for
fraternal affections in this
situation. It is time Prince
Syoddhan assumed the title
that goes with his power and
settled these affairs once and
for all. It is the best way to
quell dissent – both within
this palace and outside it.’
Syoddhan was astounded,
but the feeling soon gave way
to visible sadness. ‘You speak
of dissent like I’m a tyrant or
usurper, Sanjaya. By law,
moral and convention, by any
means we hold to in
Aryavarta, Dharma
Yudhisthir lost his empire to
me. The former Vyasa, the
current Vyasa, Grandsire
Bhisma…why, Dharma
himself admits that there is no
questioning the legitimacy of
my acquisition.’
‘And what of his brothers?
And the next generation?
Your father was lawfully
installed as king of Kuru, but
did that stop Dharma from
staking his claim? From
portioning this great realm
into two? And the tribal
uprisings in the east? You
cannot ignore them as
sporadic events. If Dharma,
or even one of your brothers,
takes it upon him to ally with
them, it might give their
cause legitimacy. Before we
know it, we will have war on
our hands. If you want to
avoid that, you must make
your claim absolute.’
‘How?’
Sanjaya set his face into
the appropriate expression of
resignation, as though it
pained him to say that which
duty demanded. ‘Kill Dharma
Yudhisthir, Your Highness.
Make an example of him, and
your own brothers will learn
the meaning of loyalty. We
should crush this fraternal
rebellion right away.’
‘No,’ Syoddhan’s tone
suggested he would brook no
argument, but Sanjaya
persisted.
‘I know you find it
heinous, but it is for the
greater good. What would
you rather choose, Your
Highness? The death of one
man can save the lives of
many, including his own
brothers and his wife. Once
Dharma is dead, his brothers
pose no threat to anyone, nor
will they be of use to your
enemies. You can even bring
them here, or let them be
housed in comfort at Indr-
prastha as your dependants.
The alternative is to risk civil
war within the Kuru
kingdom, for sooner or later
your dear brother – yes, the
same one who sent tonight’s
assassin – will mistake your
kindness for weakness.’
‘Another man would never
have dared speak to me this
way, Suta,’ Syoddhan hissed.
‘In case you did not hear me,
I said “no”. And if my brother
thinks that letting Dharma
live for twelve years, when I
could have had him killed
within this very city, shows
my weakness and not my
strength… Well, I suppose
that explains why he can
never can be king. He’s an
idiot.’
‘Your Highness…’
Asvattama interrupted, ‘He
is an idiot. But that doesn’t
make him any less dangerous,
Syoddhan.’
‘Asvattama! Don’t tell me
you agree?’ Syoddhan was
shocked.
‘All I know is you need to
do something. I shall leave it
to you to decide what will be
done.’
Sanjaya nodded, eyes
downcast, as though
honoured to find support
from Asvattama. He said,
‘Send Jayadrath. Vasusena
and Devala are still needed in
the east… And once that is
done, Your Highness, it will
be time to think of your
coronation…as Emperor.’
Asvattama’s voice dripped
sarcasm. ‘My, my, Suta. You
are the best prime minister
these lands have seen yet.
And, who knows, you may
soon enough become an
imperial counsellor…’
Sanjaya accepted the
remark as a compliment with
the restrained arrogance of
one who knew he would be
much, much more.

3
THE RAIN BEAT AN
INCESSANT RHYTHM
AGAINST THE DRY ground,
pushing the fragrance of wet
earth into the air.
Dhrstyadymn lay awake on
his reed mat, listening,
breathing, but finding no
relief in sleep. His body
ached from the numerous
blows he had received from
the flat of Dron’s sword and
he longed for rest, but his
mind was awake, going over
the morning’s sparring
session again and again,
trying to identify his
mistakes. He found it difficult
to concentrate – but then it
had been difficult to do
anything with certainty since
the day he had left Panchali
behind in the forests of
Kamakya.
Dhrstyadymn had ridden
straight home to Kampilya,
eager to rouse Panchala’s
massive armies and lead them
in an attack against Hastina.
But his father, Dhrupad, had
been ready to make an
agreement with Bhisma,
Grandsire of the Kurus.
Panchala would swear
allegiance to Syoddhan.
Panchala would not go to
war. And Panchala would
continue to pay Syoddhan’s
empire the tribute it had paid
Dharma’s. In return, Dhrupad
would finally get the one
thing that had been denied
him all these years: His son,
the heir to the Panchala
throne, would train under
Acharya Dron.
Dhrstyadymn had found
the conciliation unacceptable
for more reasons than he
could count, the fact that they
had been compelled to
forsake Panchali not the least
among them.
It was Shikandin who had
pacified him. ‘Do you know
why our father asks that you
be trained by Dron? Because,
like every other ruler in
Aryavarta, he is now going to
build his armies and his
forges, both. Like every other
monarch, he will be driven by
ambition and the need to
survive, to be stronger and
mightier than his neighbour.
To avoid war, we will all
have to begin to prepare for
it, every day and every
moment. And for the same
reasons that men like our
father once gave when they
hunted down each and every
Firewright during the Great
Scourge, we will now
squabble and conspire to get
our hands on every piece of
Firewright weaponry that
may, somehow, have been
left behind. We were fools,
all of us…’ Reluctantly, he
added, ‘Perhaps Govinda
too.’
 The admission had
mollified Dhrstyadymn a
little, but not completely,
given his concealed
misgivings about his brother.
‘What about Panchali?’
‘Trust me, the best way to
keep her safe is to do what is
required of us. Syoddhan has
no reason to bother with her
or that spineless bastard
Dharma unless we give him
cause to. Panchala’s
assurance of loyalty is
essential, not only for our
kingdom’s safety but also
Panchali’s. That’s why I…’
‘You counselled this? You
agreed to this shameful,
despicable peace?’
‘Yes. Not directly,
though… You know our
father would rather stab
himself in the eye than ever
listen to my suggestions. I
had his advisors put it
forward in a way that he
would find palatable.’
Words had failed
Dhrstyadymn. He could only
ask, defeated, ‘What do you
want me to do?’
‘Go to Hastina. Train.
Train hard. Rudra knows
what lies ahead.’
‘And you?’
Shikandin had smiled.
‘Some of us have been
fighting this battle while you
were too busy being born. I’ll
look forward to reliving those
good old days.’
And now it had been more
than a decade since
Dhrstyadymn had seen his
brother or his sister – the two
people he loved the most in
all existence. In his first few
years as Dron’s student, he
had spent all his time at
acharya Dron’s training
hermitage on the outskirts of
Hastina, living as one of the
disciples, going through the
routine of menial chores and
lessons. All that had changed
the day a messenger had
come from his father,
requesting him to return at
once to Kampilya. He had
rushed home to a quiet and
brooding palace. An air of
melancholy hung in the air –
but not quite.
‘Shikandin’s dead,’
Dhrupad had informed him,
not appearing any the sadder
for it. Satrajit – commander
of Panchala’s armies and
Dhrupad’s son by a
concubine – had later
explained that nobody had
heard from Shikandin in a
little over two years, and that
had led Dhrupad to decide
that his inconvenient son was
dead. There had been no
mourning, no state funeral, no
loud wailing or sacred rites to
mark the elder prince’s
passing. It had been as though
Shikandin had simply ceased
to exist. The queen –
Dhrstyadymn’s mother and
Shikandin’s birth mother –
had refused to see her son or
speak to him.
Hurt and shaken, more by
what he suspected was
Shikandin’s continuing
treachery than Dhrupad’s lack
of emotion, Dhrstyadymn
had, for the first and last time
that he could recall, refused
to obey his father’s wishes.
He insisted that he would not
ascend the throne just as yet.
He did, however, take on
greater administrative and
ceremonial duties, as
Dhrupad ordered. In his heart,
he remained a shattered man,
torn between his life as
Dron’s student, his belief that
Shikandin was alive and his
constant worry for Panchali.
The thread that tied it all
together was a complicated
one that he dared not unravel
as yet, but every night, before
he slept, he thought of
Govinda Shauri, his failure
and his betrayal.
Dhrstyadymn tried his best
to understand it, but he could
not. And so he would wake to
yet another day of learning
every martial method, every
strategy and move that Dron
had to offer. He did not know
whether Govinda was friend
or foe, but if ever they met in
battle, he wanted to have
what it would take to kill him
if he had to. It was why he
continued to come back to the
hermitage whenever he could,
year after year, to learn more
than any student of Dron’s
ever had. It was, he also
knew, why Syoddhan
encouraged and welcomed
him, and made sure that
acharya Dron did the same.
To be fair, Dhrstyadymn
had found that Dron was a
true teacher, a man who
shared what he knew with
little distinction between
enemy and friend. A student
was a student, and remained
as such till he defeated Dron
himself in a sparring contest.
Of course, the students all
knew that none of them was
Dron’s match on a battlefield.
But here, on the training
ground, the acharya
occasionally let a student win.
It meant that he had deemed
the student ready. And
Dhrstyadymn was far from
ready.
During his training
sessions with Dron he
received more blows and cuts
than any of the other students,
grown men like him, who
sought to learn the most
advanced fighting skills or
even dedicate their life to
fighting as an art more than
an activity. Dron now also
took in princes from countries
that were much further away,
including Gandhara and
beyond, where the people had
fair hair and blue eyes.
Dhrstyadymn had once
casually wondered what the
women of those countries
looked like, but soon had
little time for such leisurely
thoughts. Every day, the
acharya urged him on,
cheered him, taunted him and
admonished him to do better,
but every time they duelled,
Dhrstyadymn remained
defeated and went home to a
disparaging father who was
only too happy to remind him
of the heavy burden he
carried. He regretted that he
would hear it all soon
enough, for Dron had
instructed him yet again to
return to Kampilya.
Rising from his mat,
Dhrstyadymn walked out of
the dormitory he shared with
nine other students. Standing
in the middle of the
courtyard, he let himself be
drenched by the torrential
downpour. Every raindrop
that touched him stung and
cooled him, stoking and
extinguishing the fury and
self-hatred that seethed
within. Arms outstretched,
eyes closed, head turned
upwards in eager welcome,
he gratefully received the
rain, willing it to wash away
his doubts and dismay. Under
the cover of the storm and
darkness, he let his tears fall,
mingling with the downpour.
He cried for his brother,
who stood in the shadows of
doorways in the very palace
he ought to have ruled, a
stranger peering inside his
own home from the
uncertainty of the threshold,
humiliated by his father and
hated by his son. Was that
why his brother had turned
into a traitor? He cried for his
sister, and the strange bond
between them – for neither he
nor she knew of their origins
or the life that may have once
been theirs. Foundlings both,
they had slowly grown to
become Dhrupad’s children.
At that thought, Dhrstyadymn
finally cried for himself, for
the life he had lost and the
destiny he had never been
able to find. He felt, at best,
like a ghost – always present
but incorporeal, there but of
no consequence. Through all
that had happened, he had
been nothing more than an
angry witness who neither
protected nor avenged.
Dhrstyadymn stood that
way till the rain stopped.
Only when the weight of his
being returned, dragging at
him like wet robes, did he
move and open his eyes. He
started, uncomfortable, as he
noticed the tall figure
watching him from the
sheltered awning of a hut. No
doubt, Asvattama had been
standing there for a good
while. Dhrstyadymn peered
through the night, trying to
read the man’s expression,
but his face was completely
hidden by shadows. He stood
with his arms crossed over his
chest, and all Dhrstyadymn
could see was that the skin of
his long, slender fingers was
ghostly pale in the moonlight.
Unsure of what to do next,
Dhrstyadymn settled for a
polite bow: Asvattama was as
much a teacher here as Dron
and deserved respect as such.
In response, Asvattama
crooked a finger and
beckoned him to approach.
As Dhrstyadymn walked
towards the hut, Asvattama lit
a small lamp and set it in a
stone alcove. Laying out two
reed mats, he sat down
comfortably on one and
gestured to the other.
Dhrstyadymn complied,
bearing the other man’s silent
scrutiny with patience.
Finally, Asvattama said, ‘I
don’t know if you’ve seen it
yet, but you have a gift, a rare
gift. Your mind…the way
you think… You can look
beyond the battle, you can see
the whole battlefield. Men
like that are rare, and those
that possess this ability make
the greatest commanders.
But…’
‘But?’
‘Your anger is your
strength. Right now it
controls you. You will have
to learn to control it.’
Dhrstyadymn looked at
Asvattama like he did not
quite care. He said as much.
‘Your father has instructed
me to go back. He said he
would send word when he is
ready to teach again. I have a
feeling it won’t be very
soon.’
‘And you’ll wait? You
didn’t strike me as a man who
could hold his curiosity and
vengeance for years.
Whatever happened to the
angry young prince you once
were? Or are you turning
your rage into motivation?
That’s not a bad idea, really,
but it could do with some
improvement.’
True to the first allegation,
Dhrstyadymn stood up at
once. ‘I don’t have to tell you
anything!’
‘Sit down, Dhrstyadymn,’
Asvattama commanded. ‘Till
such time as you leave this
place I am still your teacher
and you will do as I instruct!’
His eyes blazed defiance,
but Dhrstyadymn did as he
was told. Asvattama reached
out, letting a drop of
rainwater fall off the leafy
thatch and on to his palm.
Displaying the drop to
Dhrstyadymn, he asked, ‘Tell
me, what is this?’
‘Really?’
‘If you don’t want to
indulge me, then obey me.’
‘A raindrop.’
‘It looks like any old drop
of water to me. Where is the
rain?’
‘Mih! What the…’
Dhrstyadymn began to argue,
but stopped short as he
understood what the acharya
was saying.
‘Yes, you’re beginning to
see. Warriors are like
raindrops. Our meaning goes
beyond one command, one
act and one victory We fight
for something, Dhrstyadymn,
for a belief, a principle that
we stand for. When you do
that, it does not matter who is
killed or who kills.’
Asvattama twisted his palm
lightly, letting the raindrop
roll playfully over his palm.
He said, ‘When this drop fell,
it simply fell. It did not stop
to consider where it fell from
or where it would land. Its
true nature is falling and so it
fell. Its true nature is not
being a drop, it is being rain.
And that, young man, is also
why you find the rain so
captivating – because you
have much to learn from it.
Far more than my father or I
could teach you. If you ask
me, you’re done here.
Anything more you need to
know lies within you.’
‘Acharya…’
Asvattama stood up,
forcing Dhrstyadymn to
scramble to his feet out of
courtesy. ‘You may not like
me, Dhrstyadymn. But you
know what I’m saying makes
perfect sense. It makes sense
because you and I have an
important thing in common. It
is strange in itself, but
persuasive enough to bind us.
Both of us sit on thrones that
rightfully belong to your
brother. Both of us watched,
helpless and angry, as his
crowns were taken from him
and placed on our respective
heads… I can’t forgive
myself for letting it happen,
and I know that you can’t
either. But it is up to us
whether we will let it haunt
us forever, or choose to use
the chance, the power that has
been given to us, to do what
is good and just. Shikandin
made his sacrifices willingly.
It is up to us whether we will
honour them or not.’
‘But… I… He… How do
you know all this?’
‘We are old friends. As for
how that happened, this is not
the occasion for such tales.
Someday, we shall sit
together, the three of us, and
you shall hear two old men
talk of their youth. But now is
not the time. I suggest we get
what sleep we still can. Oh,
and for what it’s worth, in my
authority as a teacher I
declare your training at this
hermitage over. I don’t
suppose you mind missing
the ceremonial sword-giving
ritual and all that? The
children find it exciting, but
I’m hoping you won’t insist
on it.’
Dhrstyadymn smiled. It felt
new, as if he were doing it
after an immeasurably long
time. ‘I don’t mind at all,
Acharya. But you will still
bless me, won’t you?’
‘If I do, you will owe me
guru-dakshina – the payment
due to me as teacher. Are you
sure you can afford it?’
‘Anything you say,
Acharya,’ Dhrstyadymn was
sincere, as he bowed low.
Asvattama placed a warm
hand on his head and spoke a
blessing over him. He said,
‘In that case, here is what I
claim of you in my right as
your teacher. Trust your
brother, Dhrstyadymn.
Shikandin is one of the
strongest men I know, but
even the strength of the
greatest man can fail if he
loses hope. Your brother
needs you; he needs you to
believe that he is not a traitor
to his people.’
‘Shikandin is alive?’
‘Don’t you know in your
heart that he is?’ Asvattama
sneered, far more like his
usual self than the warm
teacher of moments ago.
‘He’s alive. I don’t agree with
what he is doing, but I don’t
want him or his friends to die
for it. Head east, you’ll find
him soon enough. Move fast.
He has trouble headed his
way, though he doesn’t know
it…yet.’
Dhrstyadymn nodded.
‘Thank you, Acharya.’
Asvattama waved his hand,
dismissive, and turned his
attention to the skies as
though his exchange with
Dhrstyadymn had been
nothing more than an
intrusion. This time
Dhrstyadymn knew better
than to take it to heart.
 4
THE HEAT FROM THE FORGE
WAS OVERPOWERING, BUT
VASUSENA appeared not to
care. He was dressed in a
simple cotton lower robe, a
far cry from the royal
vestments he wore as a matter
of entitlement. Yet, as his
wife was fond of telling him,
he looked powerful and regal
in such simplicity. He often
snapped at her when she said
so – not because he disagreed
with her but because he
agreed. Given a choice,
Vasusena would have gladly
remained the simple son of a
charioteer in the Kuru army
and his loving wife. Such a
life would have been devoid
of the best joys he had ever
known, though being king
was not one of them. He was,
however, grateful for many
other things: his fame and
honour as a warrior, his
doting wife, a princess of the
Kashi kingdom he had
married for love and not
politics, and his friendship
with Syoddhan of the Kurus.
The last to him was the most
precious treasure of them all.
Over time kingship too had
become less irksome but he
had made it a point not to let
it overwhelm his inner
simplicity. He was known
among his people as a just
and generous king, a
reputation that he had earned
by never denying his humble
origins. Yet, in the dark
silence of the night, as he lay
under silken sheets on a gem-
studded bed of gold and
wood, he admitted to himself
that he hung on to his
confused sense of identity,
the contradictions, for a
reason – neither was the truth.
He was, by birth, neither the
king of Anga nor the son of a
charioteer. He was more. Far
more.
In the aftermath of Dharma
Yudhisthir’s fall Vasusena
had become a less tormented
man. His wife had declared
him positively congenial to
live with, and for the first
time in past years he found
himself forming a strong
bond with his son,
Vrishasena. He did not want
to admit it, but he felt that he
resented the world around
him less now that Syoddhan
held the reins of power. He
was a man Vasusena
respected, loved as a brother
and was proud to serve.
Dharma had deserved none of
those affections.
And Panchali?
Vasusena had never quite
forgotten his humiliation at
Panchali’s wedding contest
decades ago, not even despite
the explanations and evidence
Syoddhan had subsequently
offered to suggest that they
had both been drugged and so
compelled to fail. Since that
day, he had let his hatred and
disgust for Dharma and his
brothers flow over to
Panchali. She had become, in
his mind, the symbol of all
that had been wrongfully
taken from him and handed to
an undeserving, incompetent
man like Dharma. If she had
married Partha, or even a
good man like Bhim,
Vasusena would have made
his peace with it. But no. It
was Dharma who was
recognized as Pandu’s eldest
son, declared as heir to the
Kuru throne, married to
Panchali and finally elevated
to the role of Emperor. A man
who had probably never held
a sword the way it was meant
to be held, who knew nothing
of consecrating its sacred
blade with the blood of his
enemies. Dharma was
nothing. What had happened
to him was well deserved and
Vasusena coaxed himself into
feeling proud of his role in
seeing the man fall.
With a muted growl, he
spit on the sandy floor of the
forge, earning him a
disapproving look from the
young man who was working
on a sword under Devala’s
critical eye.
‘Show me that,’ he
commanded the youth. With a
glance at his master, who
nodded, the apprentice
complied.
Vasusena took the tongs
the apprentice held out, the
red-hot blade in its embrace.
He held the blade up at eye
level and looked it over
before returning it to the
youth. ‘You’re striking it on
the wrong edge. If you keep
hammering at it here,’ he
pointed, ‘you won’t make it
keener. You will only cause
more stress down the centre.’
The apprentice regarded
him, sceptical, not convinced
that the king knew what he
was talking about. He
snapped to attention as
Devala shot him an angry
look. ‘He’s right, you idiot. I
shall make sure that when
war comes, that blade finds
its way to you. Then, when it
breaks on the battlefield, you
might learn the meaning of
respect.’
Vasusena chuckled and
moved away. Devala
followed him. The two men
made their way out of the
large, bustling forge and
emerged into the sunlight. An
attendant came up bearing a
large silver basin filled with
rosewater for Vasusena to
refresh himself.
Devala watched him with
open curiosity as he wiped off
the sweat from his brow and
chest with a cloth dipped in
the rosewater. ‘You know
your blades.’
 ‘As does every good
warrior. You can’t quite use a
sword unless you know how
it is made, how it is meant to
kill.’
‘I think it’s more than that,
Vasusena. There’s a rumour
back at Hastina that you were
trained by the Jamadagnis,
the best of the Firewrights. Is
that true?’
‘You mean the best of your
kind, Devala?’ Vasusena
retorted.
Devala hesitated, but
Vasusena went on. ‘Did you
expect me to believe that
anyone else was capable of
setting up a forge such as this
one, and the many more like
it throughout the Anga-Kashi-
Kosala regions?’
Devala laughed. ‘All right
then, let us speak as men
should. You trained under
Bhargava Rama, didn’t you? I
must point out that that would
explain how Anga became
what you just referred to as
the rather expansive Anga-
Kashi-Kosala region.’
‘I did. It seemed a good
idea at that time.’
‘To conquer the east?’
‘To train under the
Firewrights. I was a very
young man when it happened.
I’m older now, if not simply
old, and hopefully the wiser
for it.’
‘You regret it?’ Devala
asked.
‘Not, not regret. But…let’s
just say that I went to him for
the wrong reasons – rage,
ambition, a need to prove
who I was. Or, to be more
precise, to prove to myself
that I was indeed worthy of
the truth.’
‘And the truth was?’
‘None of your concern,’
Vasusena snapped. He added,
‘No offence.’
Devala held up his hands.
‘None taken.’ In a bid to
change the topic, he said, ‘We
need more guards around the
forges, Vasusena.’
Vasusena frowned. ‘I
thought the whole point of
placing the forges in the
middle of these godforsaken
woods was that no one would
know of their existence. Still,
I suppose it doesn’t hurt to be
careful. I’ll ask my
commander to send out more
contingents as soon as we get
back. They should be here by
tomorrow evening.’
‘Good. I, too, plan to leave
right away, but I think the
men we have will do till the
reinforcements get here.’
‘You’re not coming back
to the palace?’
‘No. I need to go to the
other forge to oversee those
new arrowheads. The last
batch was not etched deep
enough to hold sufficient
poison.’
Vasusena mulled over the
observation. ‘You really think
there will be a war, Devala,
like you told that young one
back there? I’d say Dharma is
getting quite used to a life of
idle retirement. Why still talk
of war?’
 ‘With all due respect,
Vasusena, I said nothing
about a war against Dharma.
It took us more than five
years to set up these forges
and a few more to train the
men who work in them. But
since that has happened, your
domains have grown nearly
twice in size, have they not?
You are next only to your
dearest friend Syoddhan in
stature and might. Even
Jayadrath, I hear, is often
referred to as the Vasusena of
the west. Surely, it is too
early for us to get
complacent. I don’t expect
effusive gratitude, but…’
‘It is deserved. Once again,
I’m sorry if I offended you.’
With a polite nod, Vasusena
climbed into the waiting
carriage. He waved as it set
off in a gentle trundle and
then settled back against the
cushions, enjoying the cool
breeze.
Devala wondered
abstractedly how such a
genial person could turn into
a self-obsessed, arrogant man
the instant he set foot in
Hastina. Deciding that it was
none of his concern, he let his
thoughts wander to other
things as he continued to
watch the small contingent
till it was out of sight. After
that, Devala made his way
back into the forge.

5
SHIKANDIN LET THE TENDER
BRANCH FALL BACK INTO
PLACE without a sound and
stepped further back into the
thicket in which he had
concealed himself. He stayed
within earshot of the forge as
he planned his next step,
trying to decide between
attacking at once and waiting
until Devala had left. The
primal temptation to avenge
himself against Devala had
only grown stronger with
every passing day of these
last years. Still, Shikandin
had the patience of a tree. He
decided on the second option.
Much as he would have liked
to kill and gut Devala right
there, it made more sense to
let him go and then track him
to the other forge he had
mentioned. That way
Shikandin would save
valuable time in finding the
other workshop and razing it
to the ground.
His decision made,
Shikandin retreated deeper
into the forest till he found a
tree with low, overhanging
branches. He settled himself
under their cover, intending
to rest till moonrise. A new
weariness had crept into his
being, and Shikandin did not
understand if it was the
natural effect of age or the
more subtle but dangerous
frustration of fighting what
felt like a never-ending battle
on his own.
It had been easier in the
initial years since Dharma’s
exile. Devala had begun,
quite logically, by trying to
rebuild the old forges that had
been left in the outer reaches
of the Kashi kingdoms, the
main ones having been
destroyed by Shikandin and
Govinda during the imperial
conquest. The old forges that
remained were already weak
and in many cases, not easily
usable and it had been a fairly
easy task for Shikandin to
create problems for Devala
without attracting attention to
himself. The newer
constructions, such as the one
not too far away, required
more careful planning. It was
not that Shikandin was afraid
of injury or death. But, if he
were caught alive, or if other
evidence were presented to
link him to these acts, it
would not bode well for his
father and his siblings.
Syoddhan’s cronies would
insist that this was treachery,
a crime that was not only
punishable with the traitor’s
execution but was also
adequate justification for
annexing the said traitor’s
territory. That was not a risk
Shikandin could take. On
pain of death, he would have
to keep his involvement in the
destruction of these forges,
and the other sundry attacks
on Devala’s men and
materials, a secret.
It was a slow, tedious
effort. But then so was
building forges and
workshops. In all, it had
settled into a languorous
rhythm of creation and
destruction that Shikandin
had got used to. Feeling
reassured, he turned his mind
to more trivial thoughts,
stirring only when the smell
of the forest told him that it
was night.

The guard, a capable Anga

soldier, neither heard nor saw
the attack. In fact, the man
died swiftly, his last
sentiment one of surprise that
a wild animal possessed the
ability to strike in such
precise strokes to sever a
man’s neck.
Shikandin rolled the
soldier’s body under some
bushes and went on to his
next target. The guards were
stationed in a circle around
the forge, with an additional
sentry constantly on the
move, making impeccably
timed rounds. It was,
Shikandin noted, far too
predictable to be effective,
and it did not take him very
long to bring down the eight
guards and the sentry. Within
the forge, he had observed,
there was just one guard
stationed by the door. Still,
there remained the possibility
that the men working within
might offer resistance as well.
Shikandin had already spent
half the day trying to choose
between warning the workers,
who were innocent, even
unwilling participants, and
treating them as the enemy,
undoubtedly the safer option.
Finally, he made up his mind.
Propping the dead sentry
up by the eyehole in the door,
Shikandin knocked hard on it.
The guard within looked out,
exclaimed loudly and made
the mistake of releasing the
locking mechanism. Before
he could realize his mistake,
Shikandin had him in an arm-
lock and held a dagger to his
throat for added effect. The
guard offered no resistance as
they went down the stairs into
the underground cavern that
formed the main area of the
forge.
The structure had been dug
out of the earth and the mud
walls had the fragrant
moisture of fertile earth, that
could still yield verdure if
allowed to. Shikandin
supposed he could get the
cavern to collapse in on
itself… But then how would
he get out? He had much
more to do, and dying here
was hardly a worthy sacrifice.
First things first, he reminded
himself, as he walked into the
heart of the forge.
‘If you don’t want this man
hurt, get out now!’ he ordered
the astounded workers within.
They did not look very
sympathetic toward the
guard, which made Shikandin
all the more glad of his
decision to let them escape.
But before he could say
another word, the workers
were talking animatedly in
their own, accented dialect,
gesturing to Shikandin and to
their own necks. Only then
did he realize that the white
metal beads he wore blazed
with a life of their own by the
light of the forge.
One of the workmen
stepped forward. ‘What do
you want with this forge?’
‘That’s none of your
concern. Get out. Now.’
The man moved, as if to
comply, but stopped and
looked around at his
companions. ‘We can destroy
this for you. We can make
sure it will never be of any
use to anyone, again.’
Something in his eyes
made Shikandin believe him.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘but
quietly. No explosions.’
‘We are not fools. We
know a true Firewright when
we see one. Unlike that liar
Devala…’
Shikandin started to protest
at the declaration, but then
decided it would be best to
say nothing at all. He nodded,
and began to back out
through the doorway.
‘Wait!’ the man
commanded. ‘Leave the
guard behind. He has been
especially good to us. We
would like to repay the
favour.’
At this, the guard began to
scream and struggle, leaving
no doubt about the nature of
his kindness towards the
workers. Still, he could not
extricate himself from
Shikandin’s grip. ‘Please…
Please don’t… Please take
me with you…or kill me.
Please, I beg you.’
In response, Shikandin
shoved him roughly to the
floor and made his way up
the stairs, into the clean air of
the night.
He stayed hidden in the
forest till well past daybreak
and then went back to the site
of the forge. All that
remained was scattered debris
and a small but deep pond
that had not been there
before. The workmen had
used the underwater source
that had served to cool and
power the forge to submerge
it. Shikandin saw their tracks
leading away from the place,
the footprints telling him that
their departure had been slow
and celebratory. He picked up
a fallen branch and used it to
muddle up the signs they had
left behind so that they would
not be followed. Then he set
out for home.

As tired as Shikandin was, he

could not help but smile as he
led his horse out of the dark
thicket and into the large
glade that ran all the way up
to the banks of a gushing
stream. Right at the river’s
edge was the place he had
called home for the last many
years. Truly, it was home to
him more than Kampilya had
ever been. The village
consisted of a simple cluster
of hutments, a stone-lined
pond that was constantly
replenished with fresh water
from the river and a small
patch of cultivated land. In
itself the settlement meant
nothing and if ever one asked
its inhabitants where they
lived, they would name their
tribe as their home. No matter
how many times they moved,
Shikandin found that its
essence always remained the
same. It was home, and he
belonged there.
A distant shout went up as
the children of the village
noticed him. They stopped
their play and ran up to greet
him. Shikandin let his grin
widen at the sight of the
bedraggled bunch. For all his
pain and weariness, he had
not forgotten to pick fruits
and berries for them. The
youngest of the crowd, a girl,
squealed as he picked her up,
swung her around and placed
her in the saddle. Others, too,
began clamouring for a ride
and he obliged, lifting two
more of the smallest ones on
to his horse’s back. The older
children ran around him,
asking questions and telling
him news of the village in the
scattered and unpredictable
way that he found so
delightful. As a group, they
made their way towards the
village.
Shikandin had hardly
stepped through the gate in
the low reed fence that ran
around the landward side of
the village when a young man
came up to him. They
exchanged no words, but
Shikandin felt better just
looking at the strapping
young fellow. He let the
youth take the reins of his
horse and then reached out to
pull a bundle off the saddle.
‘Here. As promised.’ He
handed the bundle of berries
to the eagerly waiting
children before making his
way deeper into the village.
Men and women called out
to him as he passed by. A few
enquired casually whether he
had had a successful
expedition, his activities as
natural to them as any other
task he might have been on.
He answered them in brief
but gave no details.
The hut that was in a sense
his was situated close to the
river. It was one in a cluster
of four, each with its main
doorway facing in a different
direction. This not only
ensured privacy but also
made it easier for the
inhabitants to gather to the
settlement’s defence when
attacked. For all their rustic
simplicity, Shikandin knew
these forest dwellers to be
brave warriors and clever
craftsmen. He found the
meticulous organization of
the settlement no less
impressive than any of
Aryavarta’s greatest cities.
Every detail had been thought
through and arranged for,
from stone hearths that let the
smoke quickly billow out of
every hut to well-placed
washing areas that allowed
waste water to drain into the
ground instead of flowing
directly back into the river.
What made it all the more
becoming to him was the
complete humility with which
these men and women held
their knowledge, believing it
was a sacred trust they were
honoured to keep.
Shikandin peered into the
empty hut and let out a tired
sigh. He began pulling off his
armour, grunting softly at the
mix of pain and relief that
coursed through his limbs. He
was not hurt, but every
muscle in his body felt sore.
‘You’re getting too old for
this.’
He did not turn at the
familiar voice but drew in a
deep breath instead, relishing
the smell of jasmine that had
been hers right from his
youth.
‘I’d show you exactly what
this old man is capable of,’ he
teased, ‘except…’
‘Except?’ The woman set
down the pot of water that
she had been carrying and
came to stand facing
Shikandin.
‘Where’s
Kshatradharman?’ Shikandin
asked.
‘Playing. That’s what
children his age do. Didn’t
you see him on your way in?
In that case, he’s probably
wandered off into the
forest… He’s started doing
that a lot these days.’
‘He’s growing up.’
‘But you don’t grow old,
do you?’
In response, Shikandin
reached out to cup her face in
one of his dirt- and blood-
stained hands. She did not
flinch, but leant into his
touch. It made him feel
healed and clean.
‘Guhyaka…’ he said her
name softly and pulled her
close. Not all aging was bad,
he noted, enjoying how her
body had changed since he
had first met her. He had been
barely seventeen and she
around the same. She had
altered his life in ways he had
not understood for a long
time, yet, when he had come
back to her after so many
years he had found her no
different. The hard life of a
forest-dweller meant that she
was still slender and her
limbs taut. But her hair now
held much grey and her body
had been agreeably rounded
by childbirth. At that thought
Shikandin placed a hand on
her waist, letting it slide
down to her wide hips.
She giggled, childlike, and
stepped back into the
darkness of the hut, pulling
Shikandin in with her. He
drew the heavy hemp curtain
over the door as he stepped
in.

Shikandin woke up with a

start. He could not remember
what he had been dreaming
about, but it had not been
pleasant. He reached out for
Guhyaka’s familiar body next
to him. She was not there. He
sat up on the reed mat that
was their bed and listened in
the darkness.
‘Should we wake him up?
He’ll want to go.’
Shikandin recognized the
young man’s voice. He got
up, wrapped on his lower
robe and stepped out of the
inner room of the hutment
into a small living space. ‘Go
where?’
The young man turned. ‘To
the shrine. It’s a full moon
tonight.’
‘What…has the sun set?’
‘It will shortly.’
‘Then I’d better have a
bath, and quick.’
Guhyaka stepped up to
help Shikandin unbraid his
long, matted hair.
‘I’ll go see to the hot
water,’ the young man said as
he left the hut.
Shikandin said, ‘It’s time
we find him a wife, since he
can’t seem to manage that
task on his own.’
‘Which is hardly a shock,
considering he is your son…
He doesn’t realize that most
of the young girls in the ten
tribes around us have their
hearts set on him and that
he’s been consistent in
breaking them all.’
‘Can you ever forgive me,
Guhyaka?’
‘For what?’
‘For breaking your heart,
my love. I should never have
left you.’
‘You didn’t have a choice,
Shikandin. Besides, it was a
long time ago. I know why
you left. I know why you
came back. I have no
complaints against either
decision. You did what you
had to. I understand that. He
understands that.’
It had been a bittersweet
moment for Shikandin to
come back to Guhyaka after
many years to find that she
had a child. He had not asked
her, even once, whether
Uttamaujas was his or not. He
simply had not cared.
Guhyaka was his. In his heart,
he knew she had always been
his, and he hers, though
neither a rite nor a word had
bound them together. In the
same vein, as far as he was
concerned, he was the boy’s
father. As Uttamaujas had
grown into youth, his
resemblance to Shikandin had
become more apparent. Now,
the young man – barely a
couple of years younger than
Yudhamanyu – stood as tall
as his father and shared his
green-brown eyes.
Uttamaujas wore his hair
shorter and it tended to curl a
little, like Guhyaka’s. If ever
he grew it enough to wear it
in braids, as Shikandin did,
age would be the only factor
telling the two men apart at
first glance. By contrast,
Kshatradharman, who was
barely nine, took after his
mother, though the entire
village proudly declared that
he had his father’s brave
heart, as did his brother.
Guhyaka said, ‘He wants to
go with you, you know… On
your…expeditions.’
Shikandin shook his head.
‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘You trained him,
Shikandin. Uttamaujas is a
good fighter.’
‘He is. But I can’t risk it,
Guhyaka. If anything were to
happen to him or
Kshatradharman…or to
you…’
‘It would break your
heart…as it would break
mine if anything were to
happen to you,’ Guhyaka
pointed out. ‘Yet, this is what
we must do, Shikandin. You
know that. Come now, it will
be moonrise soon.’
Shikandin sighed and made
his way out of the hut and to
the bathing area behind it. He
did not fail to notice that
Uttamaujas had already
cleaned his cast-off armour
and polished it till the metal
shone.

Moonrise brought the forest

alive in a medley of light,
shadow, sound and smell.
Shikandin walked barefoot on
the mossy ground, Guhyaka
on one side of him,
Uttamaujas and
Kshatradharman on the other.
Around them, other villagers
walked in silence or in
hushed conversation with
their own families, cherishing
the companionship of loved
ones. Shikandin felt one
amongst them in many ways.
In fact, he had traded his
usual robes for the knee-
length sheath that the men of
the tribe wore on such
occasions, and he had
allowed Guhyaka to wrap
many strings of beads around
his wrists, each one with a
prayer for his life and well-
being. He turned to her to
find that she was looking at
him with unrestrained
affection. On impulse, she
reached up to run her fingers
along the wrinkles around his
eyes and trace the line of his
strong, firm jaw.
Shikandin bit lightly at her
finger and she pulled it back
with an embarrassed look at
Uttamaujas, who pretended
he hadn’t noticed.
The moment filled
Shikandin with peace and
guilt. A part of him was glad
to be here, away from the
larger world, from the
wounded realm that was
Aryavarta, and his own,
scarred life as a prince. Yet,
he felt guilty that he could
find peace and happiness
when Panchali was suffering
as she was, that he could
think of beginning a new life
when so many old bonds and
duties remained to be
fulfilled. But how could he
turn away from Guhyaka,
who had accepted him as he
was, without question; from
Uttamaujas, who had treated
him with the love and respect
that Yudhamanyu had never
shown; and from
Kshtradharman, who had
given him a glimpse of the
innocence and childhood he’d
never known.
Shikandin pushed all such
thoughts out of his mind as
ahead of them a small stone
shrine gleamed in the
moonlight. His hand went, in
an instinctive move, to the
Wright-metal beads around
his neck. He felt that every
man, woman and child in the
village was looking at him,
but he knew it was just
imagination. With an effort,
he brought his hand down,
forcing it to fall at his side.
One by one the villagers
went down on their knees
before the stone shrine, their
eyes closed and heads bowed
to the ground in prayer. All
except Shikandin. He knelt
down with the others, but his
eyes remained on the single
pillar. Its surface still bore the
dark scars of fire. Uttamaujas
had been right, Shikandin had
not wanted to miss this
gathering. It was the only
time he could stand in front
of the shrine without wanting
to break into tears, without
hearing the screams of pain
from the past. It was the only
time he dared look upon the
spirit within the stone and ask
for forgiveness for all that
had happened and all that he
had failed to do.
It began to rain. One by
one, the villagers made their
way back to the settlement,
those most content with their
lives the first ones to leave
and seek the dry sanctuary of
their hutments. Shikandin and
his family were the last to
leave, but it was not for lack
of happiness. They walked
back in silence, uncaring of
the rain. Shikandin hoisted a
sleepy Kshatradharman on to
his shoulders and wrapped an
arm each around Guhyaka
and Uttamaujas, who gave
him an indulgent smile, as
though he knew he were old
enough to protest against the
excessively paternal gesture
but cared for his father
enough to allow the
transgression.
That night, Shikandin slept
with the contentment of a
man who had everything to
lose and knew it. His last
waking thought was of his
sister.

6
‘AAH! I HATE IT WHEN THAT
HAPPENS,’ PARTHA SAID,
SPITTING vehemently on the
mossy forest floor.
Bhim snorted, partly
amused and partly in derision,
and continued to skin the
dead deer with relative ease.
‘The greatest archer in all
Aryavarta, they call you, and
you can’t skin your kill
without getting blood and bile
in your mouth. Stop pulling at
the hide, muhira, you need to
let it slide off!’
‘I’m an archer, not a
butcher, Bhim. I don’t care
how long I do this, I’ll never
get used to it.’
The statement brought on
an unintended silence as both
brothers thought of a
conversation that had begun
on many occasions, but had
not yet been concluded. They
worked together in silence
until where there had been a
deer there was now meat,
ready to be cooked. They
took a bath in the pond
nearby before sitting down
under the shade of a tree, far
enough from the smell of raw
flesh.
Partha spoke first, ‘He
must have a plan.’
‘What makes you say so?’
‘Govinda Shauri always
has a plan!’
 ‘Doesn’t the fact that he
has made no move tell you
that he has no plan...that he
has failed? It’s over, Partha!’
Partha smiled. ‘What is
faith, Bhim?’
‘You tell me.’
‘It is believing in a man
who has lost faith in himself.
I know that even if I were to
ever lose my will, my
courage, Govinda would
never lose faith in me – his
faith in anyone, in humanity.
That faith has kept him going,
and it keeps him alive still.
But he has lost faith in
himself and so he can do
nothing. He doesn’t trust
himself, so he refuses to act.
There is no plan. This is what
it is, what it has been for
years now. He is our ruler.’
‘Syoddhan?’
‘Why not? You have to
admit he is doing an
admirable task of running the
empire, even though he has
not taken on the title of
Emperor. He can’t even
impose edicts, but he still gets
the other vassals to do what is
needed by sheer force of
reason and diplomacy. Of
course, the price he pays for
that is allowing the
militarization of all of
Aryavarta, but frankly I don’t
see a problem in that. We are
safer than before. We are
more prosperous than before.
And no one knows that better
than us – common people as
we now are. He’s good. He’s
really very good.’
‘Maybe that’s why
Govinda has done nothing.
He knows this is best.’
‘Hah! For all your doubts,
you too want to believe this is
yet another of Govinda
Shauri’s complicated plans,
don’t you?’
‘You have your way of
keeping faith in him; I have
mine.’
Partha did not argue the
point. Bhim, he knew, was
right. This was a matter of
faith and there was no single
way to keep it. Just as there
was no right way. For all they
knew, Govinda was gone,
truly gone.
Yet again, Bhim broke the
contemplative silence. ‘Did…
did you ever think of him as a
brother, Partha?’
‘Govinda?’
‘Syoddhan.’
‘Not really. I wonder
why… He’s older than the
both of us and it should have
been natural, I suppose, to
treat him the way we’ve
always treated Dharma. I
don’t know why we never
did. You were with him at
Kashi, Bhim. You trained
under Balabadra at the same
time as he did. Surely you’d
know him better.’
Bhim hesitated. ‘Can I be
honest? I’m not sure I’ve
quite admitted this even to
myself, but I found Syoddhan
easy to get along with. I guess
the only thing I didn’t like is
that whenever there were
others around, especially one
of his brothers, he used to
pretend that this so-called
rivalry between us was a big
thing. But I’ve spent enough
time in relative solitude with
him to know he’s not like that
at all. I’m not saying I like
him – his behaviour is, in my
estimation, hypocrisy. I think
I’ve just learned to dislike
him less since…since I’ve
realized that I may not have
been too different. Everything
I thought and felt about
Syoddhan and his brothers
was what I had learnt to
believe, as Dharma’s brother
and Pandu Kauravya’s son.
Never did I question why
things were that way, and
whether it was right.’
‘I think that’s a mistake all
of us have made, but…’
Partha trailed off and waved a
hand in welcome as Nakul
and Sadev walked out
through the foliage on the far
side of the pond and made
their way to where Partha and
Bhim were seated.
‘Fruit?’ Nakul asked. He
tossed a red-orange mango to
each of them before biting
with relish into the juicy pulp
of a third.
‘I thought you were
supposed to be shooting
down jungle fowl,’ Partha
said, frowning at the twins
with all the authority of an
elder brother.
‘Nah!’ Nakul said. ‘We
found this particularly
inviting mango tree. And we
had to pick the herbs Bhim
wanted to flavour the meat
with. Don’t worry…I’m sure
Panchali will shoot down
enough fowl for you.’
Bhim laughed. ‘You make
me feel like we haven’t aged
a day, Nakul. You still act
like a teenager.’
 ‘I didn’t know there was a
particularly grown-up way of
eating fruit, brother.’
‘There he goes again with
that sharp tongue of his. I tell
you, some things never
change.’
‘It’s in our blood. Grand-
uncle Bhisma has looked
exactly the same for the last
forty-odd years that I’ve seen
him. Unless he’s changed in
these past eleven…no,
twelve, is it not…years?’
‘I doubt it!’ Partha said, a
dash of acrimony creeping
into his voice. He found it
impossible to think of Bhisma
without thinking of the dice
game and all that had been
said and done.
‘Twelve years… We say
that like it’s nothing.’
‘It was nothing when we
built the empire. That took us
nearly twelve years too, if
you remember. Days, months
and years, moving forward,
fighting, negotiating,
planning and executing. Yet
we didn’t begrudge a single
day or a single muhurtta of
that time. I did not see my
son for those years, nor did
most of you see your
children. It didn’t hurt then,
but it does now. I wonder
why.’
‘Fighting and conquest are
easier,’ Sadev said, speaking
for the first time. ‘What we
are doing now, this is the
difficult part.’
‘Why do you say that,
Sadev?’
‘Because we don’t know
what it is we are really doing,
brothers. Or do you? Tell me,
is this waiting? If so, whom
are we waiting for? Is this
hiding? Who are we hiding
from? Or is this is our way of
living, and I certainly hope it
isn’t because I’m beginning
to think death is better than
this meaningless existence.
Ten years? Twelve? At times,
it feels like just ten days have
passed, I find myself
inexplicably happy, and a part
of me wishes against all
reason that life could be this
way forever. But there are
other times when the pain and
rage make me want to…
Never mind!’ He passed the
back of his hand over his
eyes, wiping the dark thought
away. ‘We want a meaning to
it, Partha. If you’d died
during the campaign, would
you have regretted it?’
Partha shook his head,
resolute. ‘Never! I’d have
been proud to die in a greater
cause.’
‘And what cause was that?’
‘Why, the empire. Our
brother’s empire.’ No sooner
had the words left his mouth
than he came to terms with
what he had known all along.
Partha sighed and let his head
fall back to rest against the
rough bark of the tree behind
him. He closed his eyes and
tried to empty his mind, but
found it difficult to do so.
Things had changed, and he
hated that they had changed.
Bhim said, ‘Maybe it’s not
just an empire or a kingdom,
or even our honour we’ve
lost. We’ve lost faith; we’ve
lost our belief in the one thing
that made us who we were.
We’ve lost faith in Dharma
Yudhisthir. Now it seems
there’s nothing left to fight
for.’
‘It wasn’t just Dharma we
fought for then,’ Partha
argued. ‘We fought because
we believed in the dream of a
united empire, and that dream
was not Dharma’s. It was
Govinda’s.’
Nakul countered, ‘And
where is he now? At the end
of it all it turns out that he
was the least powerful and
the least principled. Where
has he gone? If he believed in
that dream so much, why
didn’t he stand up to Dharma
and say, “Well you good-for-
nothing Emperor, you’ve
pretty much thrown away
everything I gave you so why
don’t you just sit in this
hermitage and play with your
silly notions of morality
while I go ahead and be the
man you should have
been…” I’m sorry…’ he
added, noticing his brothers’
stunned expressions. ‘I’m
sorry. But really, I wish
someone had said that to
Dharma. I wish I had said
it… It’s taken me so long to
even put it into words.’
Throwing the pip he held in
his hand into the lake with as
much vehemence as he could
muster, Nakul began striding
around the clearing, trying to
work off his ire. His brothers
watched, pensive.
It was Sadev who said,
‘Did you ever wonder what
she fought for…and fights for
still?’ He had no need to use
her name. They all knew
whom he spoke of.
‘Every single day,’ Bhim
replied even as Partha
nodded.
‘Perhaps it’s time we
fought for the same reason,
brothers. Perhaps it’s time we
fought for ourselves, for what
we know to be right.’
‘The drama is all very fine,
Sadev,’ Nakul interjected.
‘But what can we do? And
how does one decide what is
right?’
Sadev did not reply, but
held up a cautionary hand,
squinting his eyes at the
thicket behind him.
‘Someone’s coming.’
The four brothers ceased
conversation at once and
listened. The sound came
again, unmistakeable – the
irreverent rustle of leaves that
suggested that not only was
someone approaching fast,
but also that he or she did not
care to hide it. Sadev’s hand
moved towards his sword, as
did Nakul’s. Partha and Bhim
continued to remain seated,
but their stance grew more
alert as the rustling drew
nearer. When their would-be
aggressor burst through the
foliage, it was difficult for all
four of them not to break into
laughter.
 A small boy, hardly six
years of age, his ochre robes
and shaved head still bearing
the sheen of newness,
charged into the clearing at a
run. The four brothers
recognized him as the
youngest and most recent
induction into the group of
acolytes at Vyasa Markand’s
hermitage.
The boy came to a stop,
and doubled over, gasping,
‘Horses… men…forest…’
Then he ran off even faster
than he had come, partly
because he was too overawed
to stay in the presence of the
four warriors, but mostly
because he wanted to boast to
his fellow students about
being just feet away from
their distinguished
neighbours and, yes, they
were every bit as imposing as
they had appeared from a
distance. His excitement
lightened the air for a short
while and Bhim chuckled out
loud while his brothers
smiled. But the moment
passed.
‘The Vyasa’s guests? Or
have they come to see us?’
Sadev said.
Partha stood and reached
down to give Bhim a hand.
‘Only one way to find out.
Let’s head to the hermitage.
The last I saw, Dharma was
there, deep in discussion with
the Vyasa.’
It was Nakul who said,
innocuously enough,
‘Where’s Panchali?’

7
PANCHALI FROZE AS SHE
WAS – ON TIPTOE, FINGERS
STILL RESTING gently on the
fruit that hung from a branch
overhead. She had been about
to pluck it when the sensation
hit her; the feeling that her
skin was crawling, but on the
inside, as though her flesh
had come to life and sought
to break free of her body,
which was strangling it from
within. Only once before had
she felt this way, the
discomfort acutely different
from the cold instinct of
being watched or hunted that
her brothers had taught her to
recognize and trust. This was
disgust, the sense of being
made of all that was repulsive
and unclean. This was how
she had felt at Hastina, on the
day of the dice game.
Letting go of the fruit,
Panchali dropped to her
haunches, the need to conceal
herself taking over
completely. She forced
herself to breathe, inhaling
deeply to calm herself, to find
the part of her that had been
taught to remain unafraid and
strong, even in the face of
death. But she could not. For
it was not death that she
feared. From the day she and
the five brothers had been on
what Dharma proudly
referred to as their exile, she
had been unable to sleep
without nightmares, terrifying
visions that ended in her
waking up screaming. She
never remembered them and
could not understand why
they continued, even though
she was safe. Dharma’s
brothers had taken to staying
awake by turns at night,
outside the hut she and the
former emperor shared.
Dharma himself had nothing
for her but blame. All that
had happened was her fault.
She had refused to heed his
advice. She had refused to
beg for mercy. She should
have, Dharma insisted,
known better.
Finally, lonely, weary and
at her wits’ end, Panchali had
confessed her feelings to
Shikandin. ‘I am not a child,
and I do not remember what I
believed when I was one. But
there are times when I feel
like… like the darkness of the
earth and of Patala – the
underworld – have become
one, and there are demons
crawling out of that forsaken
pit. They are coming for me,
Shikandin. Those demons are
hunting me down.’
Her brother had understood
only too well. ‘It’s not just
because of what happened,
Panchali. It’s because of what
has changed.’
 ‘What has changed?’
‘Your world. Your view of
it. Your belief in it. The
things you had to endure –
you knew them as things that
happened to other people,
things that you heard of, felt
horrified about and moved on
from. The fact that it could
not happen to you was the
only thing that justified life as
you knew it; justified the way
the world was. But not
anymore, Panchali. Not
anymore. Nothing about this
world feels right anymore and
that, my dearest, is the most
frightening thought of all.’
Despite her own terrified
realizations, she had said,
‘Have you ever known such
fear, Shikandin?’
He didn’t reply
immediately, but played with
the blade of grass in his hand.
After a while he said, ‘Once
you’ve seen the darkness
inside human beings, once
you’ve seen what we…those
around us, those we may have
known for years, become
capable of in a moment of
bleakness, it is impossible not
to be afraid. It’s not just
women who are hurt that
way. Worse things have
happened in Panchala’s
dungeons than blinding or
starvation.’ After a brief
pause, he had added, ‘I once
knew a woman who used
similar words as you,
Panchali. She too spoke of
demons from Patala, who
crawl out of their pit when
darkness falls. She said what
frightened her the most was
not that the creatures would
feed on her flesh, but that
they would ravage her soul,
mark her and scar her forever
because to do so was to
shame and scar all those who
loved her, and so constantly
remind them who was more
powerful.’
‘Who was she?’
To that question, Shikandin
had not replied. And he had
not come to see her ever
since. Rumours of his death
came in from Kampilya, as
did one last message from
Dhrstyadymn, who
apologized for not being with
her in her need. And then she
had been left alone, in this
world that was no longer her
own, to fear a fate worse than
death.
Panchali focused her
thoughts on her brothers, on
their smiling faces, and tried
to will courage back into her
body. Slowly, she reached for
the sword she wore on her
back only to realize she was
trembling so badly that she
could not draw the weapon.
Her breath came in ragged
gasps, and she was crying,
whimpering like a child, for
the only emotion that now
stayed was the one she had
learnt over these past years:
Shame. Shame that she was a
woman, a weak and frail
object that needed protecting
and so served as a man’s
weakness, a thing, an object –
a plaything in fact. She
should have known better.
‘Tsk, tsk….’ A man
stepped out from behind the
trees, followed by another
and then many more.
Panchali did not dare look
up or meet their gaze. She
flinched when the man bent
down and cupped her face in
his fingers but was far too
terrified to scream.
‘A beautiful woman like
you should never have to cry
this way, Panchali. You
should never have to suffer
like this. You deserve to lie
naked on the finest silk sheets
and have fragrant oils rubbed
into your lovely skin and be
pleasured by the best of men.
Instead, you live here, in the
forests, with five… Well, I
don’t suppose I can call them
men now, can I?’
At that comment the entire
group burst out laughing.
Panchali wished only to curl
herself up to mimic the safety
of the womb, but the man
would not let her. Instead, he
forced his palm underneath
her chin and lifted it upwards
to get her to her feet. ‘Oh, I
can imagine, Panchali, how
unsatisfied you must be…
But if you came with me,
you’d be a queen in my
bed… The great Jayadrath’s
queen. And you would not
need to settle for me alone,
you know. My sons are
young, strong men, and
they’d be happy to give you
more… after I’m done with
you…every day. Isn’t that so
boys?’
Something in his voice
made Panchali look up for the
first time. She saw that it was
indeed Jayadrath, whom she
recognized from his many
visits to Hastina at the time
she had lived there, as well as
his sons, who were now
grown men. At least two of
them were still young enough
to be her children, yet the
look in their eyes was hardly
filial. She saw the same look
on the faces of the rest –
sundry courtiers, guards and
soldiers.
Demons. Shame. Primal
instinct coursed through
Panchali. Before Jayadrath or
any of the others could react,
she stepped away with a jerk
and set off at a run.
‘Get her!’ Jayadrath
commanded, at which his
soldiers went after her on
foot. He and his sons
remained as they were,
laughing, exchanging lewd
comments about how exciting
it was to watch a woman run.
The words rang in
Panchali’s ears as she raced
through the undergrowth,
trying to will her senses back
into order to craft an escape
route. When the women ran.
Demons from Patala.
Had she not known? Was
this how it always was?
During the imperial conquest,
had Partha and Bhim laughed
while their soldiers had
ravaged women and
brutalized men? Had Nakul
and Sadev raped women old
enough to be their mothers
and young enough to be their
daughters? And her brothers?
And Govinda? If that was the
reality of the world around
them, then how had she not
seen, not known all these
years?
Images rushed through her
head as her feet pounded on
with increasing force. The
days she had ridden through
fields and forests, believing
that men and women bowed
their heads out of love and
adoration for the princess of
Panchala? Was that which
she had taken for respect,
merely fear; was it merely
what was left when self-
esteem was brutally
removed? Is that all we were
as the rulers of this land?
Darkness pressed in from all
sides, and the world shrank,
shrivelled into nothingness
even in the full light of day,
because it knew it could no
longer exist. Jayadrath’s
soldiers closed in from
behind.
A loud whinny and a
crashing sound came through
the undergrowth. Panchali
slowed down, startled, and it
was just as well. A war
chariot drew up ahead,
effectively cutting off her
escape. She stumbled, and the
soldiers were on her.
‘Hold her down!’ Jayadrath
instructed as he leapt off his
chariot. His eldest son,
Suratha, was with him; the
others soon arrived riding
horses of their own. ‘I said,
hold her down. Oh, one fiery
bitch you are, aren’t you,
Panchali?’
Panchali struggled and
kicked, but to no avail. One
of the soldiers held her arms
down over her head, while
two others pinned down a leg
each. Jayadrath laughed and
knelt down by her head,
while Suratha began stripping
off his armour, piece by
piece, and handed it to
another man nearby.
‘Don’t take too long now,’
one of his brothers cautioned.
‘Leave time for us to take our
turn. And then we need to
find Dharma and kill him.
Who knew we’d come upon
such an amusing distraction
in the forest?’
‘Oh no, my son!’ Jayadrath
said. ‘This is not just a
distraction. This is important.
We will kill Dharma
Yudhisthir, yes, but it is what
we will do to the lovely
Empress here that will strike
terror in the hearts of men
and women, king and
commoner, everyone,
everywhere. Her screams will
ring loud and long in their
ears and each time someone
thinks to challenge us, our
might, this memory of what
we did to her shall change
their minds. Death is only so
powerful, my boy. If you
want to be a ruler, you must
know how to make them fear,
really fear you. Isn’t that
right, Panchali… Empress of
Aryavarta?’
 Panchali stiffened at his
words and began to struggle
again as a hand fell on her
robes. It was the prince, now
naked of his armour and
clothing. The leer on his face
sent rage coursing though her
and she found a little bit of
the courage that had failed
her all the while. As the
prince began to lower himself
on to her, she wrested her
right leg free of the guards
grip, brought her knee up and
drove it hard into Suratha’s
groin. He doubled over in
agony.
‘Hah!’ Panchali let out a
cry of satisfaction, but it was
in vain.
‘Bitch!’ Suratha slapped
her, over and over, the force
of his strokes knocking her
head from side to side. Huge
bruises formed on each of her
cheeks and she began to bleed
from the mouth. Still not
satisfied, the prince stood,
cursing against his pain, and
began to kick her in the
stomach and on her head.
Panchali let out a gluttural
scream as the back of her
head struck the rocky ground.
She stopped struggling as her
vision blurred and spun in
eddies of colour, before
turning to black oblivion.
 8
‘EMPTY YOURSELF. SEE
THAT YOUR MIND IS NOT
YOU, THAT THIS body is not
you…’
Dharma Yudhisthir drew in
a deep breath, and complied
as best as he could. Vyasa
Markand was a patient, pious
man, and Dharma was happy
to be under his instruction,
but having Dhaumya around
unnerved him.
‘Let go of judgement…’
Let go of judgement, his
mind countered. Then how
will one know right from
wrong? And if one cannot,
then would there be any
meaning left to life?
‘…of what you think of
others, and of what they think
of you…’
Then how can one decide
the greater good? How can
one define what was
righteous and just?
Dharma opened his eyes.
‘Acharya…’
Markand, a moderately
plump, good-natured old
man, with a round face, was
all attention. ‘Yes, my son?’
‘Acharya, I do not
understand. Is it not right and
wrong that define who we
are? How can we embrace
righteousness if there is no
higher morality, a divine law
against which we judge all
our actions?’
Dhaumya interrupted,
unusually scathing, ‘I thought
you believe morality to be
relative? Why then this
search for absolutes, my
prince?’
Dharma frowned. He was
used to Dhaumya’s regression
to his old, and hence less
alienable title, but the tone in
his voice was new. ‘It is not
my place to believe, Acharya.
It is my place to follow what
the gods prescribe. I ask the
question in all sincerity.’
Unaware of the tension
between the two, Markand
continued, in his genial way,
‘And a good question it is,
particularly for one whose
name is Dharma:
righteousness. And it arises
because you contemplate a
situation where morality and
Divine Order are against each
other…else, by rational
argument, that which is
natural law must always be
moral, isn’t it?’
‘Such a situation cannot
exist?’
‘Alas, such situations do
come to pass, particularly
when the forces of evil are at
play. But then, when the
world as we know it is
suspect, it is no longer a
matter for us men but a
matter for the gods. It is for
them to descend – to destroy
evil and restore Divine Order,
and make law and morality
the same.’
‘And if it should be time
for morality to change?’ The
query came from Dhaumya.
‘Then the gods will change
it. They will recreate Divine
Order as is appropriate, as
they have done in each age.
Barely one yuga ago,
morality required that we
speak the truth and that it
must be the whole truth. In
this age truth simply means
the absence of falsehood. It is
neither complete nor
unambiguous.’
Dharma said, ‘And so
morality is both subjective
and absolute! Grandsire
Bhisma was right.’
 Markand nodded. ‘The
Grandsire is a wise man. As
are you, Dharma Yudhisthir.’
The compliment pleased
Dharma and he was about to
break into a wide grin, but
instead set his face into an
expression of placid
composure as his brothers
approached.
Bhim began the
conversation without prelude.
‘Have you seen Panchali?’
 Dharma replied, ‘She was
hunting, was she not? Why,
what happened?’
‘One of the disciples
reported horses and men, in
the forests.’ Bhim turned to
Markand, ‘Do you have
visitors, Acharya?’
‘No, and I am expecting
none. This is most strange.’
‘We have to find her,’
Dhaumya rose to his feet at
once. ‘I’ll come with you.’
 Bhim nodded. The others
looked eager to begin the
search. Dharma, however,
remained seated. ‘Come back
here with her, when you find
her,’ he casually instructed. ‘I
would love for her to hear the
Acharya’s explanations on
morality and its imperative.
She will surely find it
fascinating.’
Bhim thought he heard
Sadev mutter under his
breath, but was not sure. It
could have been, he reasoned,
just the wind.
Nevertheless, Dharma said,
‘On second thoughts, I’ll
come with you.’

In retrospect, Dharma could

see that it was destiny. He
was meant to go in search of
Panchali. He was meant to be
there when Nakul, who was
gone ahead as a scout, came
back filled with rage and
incoherent ramblings about
Panchali and what Jayadrath
and his men were doing to
her. He had been needed, to
stop his brothers from
running headlong into danger,
instead, suggesting kindly but
imperiously that an ambush
was better – a fact which
Sadev grudgingly admitted
and Partha endorsed. And
now Dharma knew that he
had been destined to what lay
ahead, the ultimate test of
who he was, as a man, a
righteous man. But first there
was Panchali.
‘That’s it. They’re in
position. Come on,’ Partha
whispered, as the call of a
jungle fowl came through the
air. ‘Nakul said there are
about twenty of them. Taking
them down should be no
problem if we have the
element of surprise to our
advantage, but we need to
make sure they don’t have
time to react and hurt
Panchali or hold her hostage.
So get to her, and get her out
of there, Agraja. Get your
wife out of there.’
It struck Dharma that he
ought to find it offensive that
his brother was commanding
him, but he reminded himself
to make allowances for the
stressful nature of the
situation, and Partha’s
genuine zeal to rescue
Panchali. ‘All right, Partha,’
he said.
Another bird cry came
through the air. ‘Go!’ Partha
urged and set off at a run, an
arrow notched to his
bowstring.
Dharma drew his sword
and followed close behind,
moving to his left so as to
circle in better on their
quarry. He stumbled out from
behind a small thicket into a
clearing that was just as
Nakul had described it.
Already, Partha had brought
down four men, including the
naked man hovering over the
prone figure that Dharma
realized, with a shock, was
Panchali. More men fell,
caught in the arrow-fire from
all directions as Bhim, Sadev
and Nakul closed in.
Just as Partha had warned,
Jayadrath went for Panchali.
He tried to swing her inert
form over his shoulder and
retreat, but before either he or
Dharma could do anything
further, a wide-eyed figure
clad in the ochre robes of a
scholar jumped out of the
foliage with a bloodcurdling
yell that was completely
uncharacteristic of his kind.
‘Let her go!’ Dhaumya
commanded. ‘Let her go
before I curse you and seven
generations of your ancestors.
Let her go!’
The declaration failed to
have the desired impact in
full, but the unexpected move
served its own purpose.
Jayadrath stood as he was
long enough for Dharma to
reach him.
‘Now, Jayadrath! Let her
go!’ Dharma pointed his
sword at the king for
emphasis.
Jayadrath took a look
around him. One of his sons
was dead. About fifteen of his
soldiers and courtiers were
down. The others were
nowhere to be seen. With a
frown, Jayadrath lowered
Panchali and let her fall to the
forest floor with a thud. The
impact seemed to bring her to
her senses, for she moaned
and her closed eyes twitched.
Immediately, Dhaumya was
at her side.
‘You bastard! You
animal!’ An enraged Bhim
advanced on Jayadrath, who
responded by pulling his
sword out of its scabbard.
‘No, Bhim!’ the injunction
came from Dharma. ‘Don’t!
He is, after all, Dussala’s
husband, and she’s our sister.
Just because he does not
know the meaning of nobility
and respect, we should not
forget who we are.’
‘She’s Syoddhan’s sister,
not ours!’
‘Bhim!’
‘But, Agraja…’ Partha
stepped forward.
Dharma ignored him and
turned to Jayadrath. ‘I will let
you leave here alive,
Jayadrath, so that you may
reflect on how sinful, how
depraved your activities have
been. If a lesser man had
committed these heinous acts,
then by morality and law he
would be dead. But you are a
kinsman and a king, you are
Arya… I trust that you will
see the error of your ways.
Go now, and remember
forever that you owe your
life, not to me but to the
principles of righteousness
and Divine Order, our Arya
way of life that compels me
to show you mercy. Go!’
No one was more surprised
by the sudden declaration
than Jayadrath. He still did
not sheath his drawn sword,
but began edging towards one
of the horses, tethered to a
shrub. The five brothers kept
their eyes on him till he was
gone. They turned around to
find Panchali, revived,
watching in silence.
‘How could you let him
go?’ Bhim was beyond
himself. ‘We should have
gutted him alive. And that
son of his, the one who…’ He
glanced at Panchali, not
daring to ask the question
whether they had been in
time, or not. Her eyes
answered, telling him that it
did not make any difference,
for something inside her had
been destroyed anyway, that
it was but part of an ongoing
horror that had begun many,
many years ago.
Out loud she said, ‘Dharma
did the right thing, Bhim.
Killing Jayadrath would have
put us in a difficult position.
All of Aryavarta would have
held us accountable for his
death. By leaving him alive,
the problem is now his. He
cannot speak of what
happened here without
explaining what he was doing
here in the first place, and
that he cannot disclose.
Dharma did the right thing…
though not for reasons I find
right.’
Dharma beamed. His eyes
held unfettered affection for
Panchali, but it was to
Dhaumya he addressed his
words. ‘See, Acharya.
Morality is indeed a subtle
thing, both subjective and
absolute at the same time. But
what is important is that we
never act against it.’
No one cared to counter his
statement, and Dharma took
their silence for enlightened
acceptance. He stepped
forward. ‘Come, Panchali, let
me carry you back.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s
all right. I’m fine. I can
walk.’
 Dharma shrugged his
shoulders as if to say ‘as you
wish’, and began making his
way back towards the
hermitage. His brothers fell in
behind him, Bhim the last to
follow.
Dhaumya helped Panchali
to her feet, trying hard to
keep the many things he
wanted to say and ask within
him. Finally, he settled on a
topic that he hoped was trivial
enough to be neutral. ‘The
brothers said one of the
disciples told them about
Jayadrath and his men. How
would a child know…?’
‘Because I’ve taught them
to be on the lookout,
Acharya. I teach the youngest
and newest ones every year.’
‘For how long have you
been doing this?’
‘Ever since we’ve been
here.’
 ‘What are they watching
out for, Panchali? Who was it
you were expecting? Enemies
such as these…? Or are you
waiting for a friend? Because
if you are…’ Dhaumya
faltered. ‘My dear child, if
you are waiting for him to
come, he won’t. He won’t.
Don’t you see? He has lost all
hope. It is useless to wait for
him.’
Panchali looked up into
Dhaumya’s face. It looked
familiar through the blur of
her tears, not as the face of
one she had seen all these
years but a memory she had
almost forgotten. She thought
she had heard him tell her
stories that had made her
laugh but had also made her
ask questions. There had been
one tale, in particular, about a
princess in a desert, and a
vulture. No, that story had
been told by an older man, a
much older man she could not
identify, though his image
flickered in her mind’s eye.
She tried to remember, but it
only brought the darkness
spinning down again to hit
her hard, and she gave up.
‘Panchali?’
‘It doesn’t matter,
Acharya…Govinda Shauri is
hope.’
 9
‘GOVINDA!’ THE NAME
ESCAPED HER LIPS IN A
GASP, HER BODY taut with
ecstasy, fingers digging into a
strong, sweat-stained back.
Govinda Shauri smiled, but
it was merely a curve of his
lips. His eyes remained as
they had been for twelve
years now, like a mighty fort
gone to ruin: haunted when
empty, pitiable when filled.
‘Govinda!’ the woman
cried out again, clutching at
his shoulders as if by doing
so she could bring their naked
forms any closer. Govinda
closed his eyes and let his
body surrender to pleasure,
finding relief not in his
being’s release but in the
sharp ache it left behind in his
heart. All joy was torment, all
desire was punishment and all
pain was penance. Yet, he felt
no closer to forgiveness.
Sitting up as the whirl of
sensations faded, leaving
behind nothing but the dull
throb of reality, Govinda
looked out of the window at
his beloved city. Dwaraka,
the western jewel of
Aryavarta, shone with muted
grace by the light of the
moon. It was late. All lights
except those that burnt
incessant – flares that lit the
city gates and its roads, and
the huge torch that blazed at
the mouth of the port as a
warning to approaching ships
– had been put out for the
night as the city’s residents
slept. The fateful events that
had shaken their lives over a
decade ago were now a part
of a past that would not fade
with time, partly because the
people of Dwaraka had
changed since and partly
because the empire around
them had transformed. All
lights but Govinda’s own.
Darkness had always soothed
him and so he denied himself
of it. Now, lights always
shone in the tallest turret of
Dwaraka, which had been
home to Govinda Shauri
since the day the city had
been built.
That he was still allowed to
live in it was an act of
kindness and residual
gratitude. In truth, it was a
luxurious imprisonment,
partly determined by the
Council of Representatives
that governed the Federation
of Yadu Nations, and partly
assumed by Govinda himself.
No nation in Aryavarta could
have a Firewright for its
Commander, or even as one
of its leaders, and after
Dharma Yudhisthir’s public
denouncement that was what
Govinda undoubtedly was
and unequivocally identified
as.
In a perverse way, Govinda
felt relieved. He finally had
an identity, an allegiance. He
had not bothered to counter or
question the assertion, facing
without demur the trial that
the council had put him
through.
 Yes, he was a Firewright.
No, he had not trained any
others.
No, his children did not
know.
No, his brother had not
known either, but had
suspected as much and
counselled him to keep his
loyalties where they ought to
lie.
When asked whether
Dwaraka had been built by
Firewrights, Govinda had
simply said, ‘No.’ His
inquisitors had, very wisely,
refrained from asking
whether any Firewrights had
been involved in designing,
planning and overseeing the
building of the city. No doubt
they had been all the more
glad of it in the decade since
as the many nations of
Aryavarta raced to build their
arsenals and armies.
 Thus satisfied, the Council
had concluded the trial by
asking Govinda whether he
intended to act as a
Firewright in times to come.
He had replied, ‘I do not
intend to.’ With that the
Council had divested him of
his post as Commander of
Dwaraka’s forces and left
him to his own devices,
though he knew his every
move would be supervised.
 Govinda had since lost
track of when his
imprisonment had been
handed down as a sentence.
To him, it was self-imposed;
a punishment he deserved. He
stayed in his chambers,
drinking, reading and writing.
If he emerged from his
rooms, it was to visit his
horses. Occasionally, he
would ride along the
seashore, always staying
within sight of Dwaraka’s
watch tower, so that he could
be spared the ignominy of an
escort, and he refused even
the company of his closest
relatives.
In the initial years of his
seclusion, Balabadra and
Yuyudhana, and even
Pradymna and Samva, had
tried to draw Govinda out of
his dark melancholy. His
sister, Subadra, had been
persistent in her efforts to
restore normalcy to
Govinda’s life. He, on the
other, hated the sight of her as
much as he loved her, for he
could hardly look at her
without thinking of Partha, of
Panchali, and of all that had
happened. At first he had
accepted her company
because to be reminded of his
failure was a punishment he
forced himself to endure. But
her kindness and love
threatened to be a balm for
his wounds and he roughly
told her never to see him
again. Not her, and not the
one person who could still
make him want to look for
hope within – her son
Abhimanyu, the boy he
thought of as his own.
Subadra’s tearful exit had
finally brought Balabadra and
Pradymna back to his
doorstep, this time
commanding and cautioning
him where they had earlier
cajoled.
‘What’s the point?’
Govinda had protested at
first.
It had taken them a long
time to understand his
complete withdrawal, and the
moment of realization came
only after a hysterical
Pradymna had shouted at his
father asking him when
exactly he was planning to
get around to doing
something about Panchali’s
plight, the state of affairs of
Dwaraka and his own
increasing despondence.
‘There is nothing to be
done,’ Govinda had declared.
His response had infuriated
his son further. ‘Nothing to be
done? I suppose not, given
that you hardly have time to
spare, what with all the
women who are in and out of
this place. Really, Father,
does blood even flow to your
brain anymore, or…?’
‘Pradymna!’ Yuyudhana
said, reprimanding. ‘Is that
how a man speaks to his
father?’
‘Is this how a father
behaves? He’s bedded more
women in these past two
years than a whore entertains
customers. What does that
make him?’
Govinda had sighed,
running a hand through his
silver-gray hair. The rest of
his appearance remained as it
had always been, except for
his eyes. They had lost all
their light. To look into his
eyes now was to see darkness
so plain, so hollow, that it felt
like the end. Not the
cataclysmic end of all things
but a hopeless, meaningless,
finite end as though to cease
living with the promise of
death removed. To see his
father this way was more than
Pradymna could bear.
‘Why?’ he shouted. ‘Why
in the name of every god
have you become like this?
Dwaraka is not what it once
was, Father. Your beautiful
dream, your democratic
island on the sea is crumbling
and turning once again into a
rubble ruled by a bunch of
squabbling princes. We need
you, we need you to set
things right. How can you
ignore us now? How can you
be so cruel?’
Pradymna’s outburst had
drawn a quiet response.
‘Don’t you see?’ Govinda
had said, ‘This time, I don’t
have a plan.’
The simple declaration
sealed in his own acceptance
as much as everyone else’s.
Govinda Shauri had failed.
Govinda Shauri was defeated.
All that was left for him to do
was to spend his life flitting
from pleasure to meaningless
pleasure, never quite
forgetting his pain. He was
useless, a spent force, a lamp
that burnt dim. Yet, in his
mind, the flame of guilt and
self-loathing blazed with a
fury. Govinda spent the next
ten years as he had the first
two. Day and night he
grappled with the regret and
the pain of what he had done,
and the terrible consequences
of his actions that she had
faced. But he would not allow
himself the simple joy of
saying her name, not even in
a secret whisper.

‘Who is she?’ The woman

next to him asked, pushing
her touseled golden-red hair
off her forehead.
Govinda frowned,
wondering if he had spoken
out loud without meaning to.
He said, ‘What makes you
think there’s another woman,
Philista?’
‘I know there are many
other women. As does all of
Dwaraka. And frankly, I
don’t care. But this woman,
she is different. She is
special. You don’t think of
her with desire or lust…even
affection is too worldly a
word to use for what I see in
your eyes, Govinda. Whoever
she is, this woman is as much
an idea as she is a person.’
In response, Govinda
turned to rest his head in the
crook of Philista’s neck. She
shifted, taking his weight on
her shoulders so that he was
comfortable. He trailed his
fingers on her bare skin, but
his eyes looked into the
distance. At length, he said,
‘Yes, she is special.’
Philista laughed. ‘That
much was obvious from the
beginning. But what is
bothering you? Is she in
trouble?’
‘She has been a homeless
exile for the past twelve
years, because of me.’
 ‘You give yourself too
much importance!’
‘It’s true. It’s as the
philosophers in your Yavana
agora always say: guilt is a
rather conceited indulgence.’
Philista knew better than to
argue or affirm. Instead, she
took simple delight in
studying the man in her arms.
Glancing at Govinda again,
she realized that he was still
staring into the distance,
completely unaware of her
ruminations. She frowned and
ran her hands through his hair
in silent reassurance. He
stirred, smiling up at her.
‘Why did you leave her?
What if she’s in trouble?’
Govinda sighed. ‘I could
say I had no choice but the
truth is, I did. And the choice
I made was to leave her. As
for why… It’s because I
failed her. She trusted me and
I failed her. I used her time
and again, claiming it was all
for a greater cause that was
far more important than one
individual, even her. But I did
not achieve what I’d hoped
to…’
‘And what do you hope to
achieve?’
‘Peace. Glory. Stability.
Not for me, Philista. For my
homeland. For Aryavarta.
And then beyond, for peace
and glory grow when shared.’
‘How can a realm be
peaceful or glorious if it can
hurt those you care for so
much?’
‘Believe me, I’ve asked
myself that question many,
many times.’
‘And the answer?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps that is what you
search for among the stars.
I’ve seen you, you know,
staring endlessly at the night
sky, looking for something.’
‘Perhaps. But some
answers must be found
elsewhere. I knew a bunch of
old men once, like your uncle
and your teacher. They used
to say that infinity lies not in
the skies, but within.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘I’m a man of knowledge,
not of faith. I prefer to know
things and arrive at
conclusions through reason.
Faith – that is not for me.’
‘All right. What do you
know? What drove you here,
away from her, when she
needed you to be with her?’
Govinda cleared his throat
as he settled back against the
pillows, his hands tucked
under his head. ‘I know that if
there is change, if the system
– or the “State” as your
people call it – can be turned
into an instrument of justice
and equality, if it can do right
by those who come after us,
then it is worth giving up
those we care about for the
cause.’
‘But if wrong was done to
her…if she was harmed…’
‘Do you know why our
ancestors – yours and mine –
invoked the gods for
everything? Why both our
lands have a rather large and
admittedly temperamental
pantheon of divinities which
is a part of every aspect of
our lives? It was because
those wise old men wanted a
way of life, a system, based
on forgiveness and
benevolence. Perfect gods
don’t teach patience, kindness
or the other virtues we need
as human beings.
‘Before you ask me what
that has to do with this
situation, let me explain: The
State or system is the best and
possibly the most benevolent
aspect of what is, admittedly,
a flawed design. It is meant to
defend and protect, but also
to be defended and protected.
If, however, the system
begins to place its own
existence, its own defence
and protection, over that of its
people – those it is meant to
defend and protect – then it
has failed. That is what I
know. But it doesn’t help me
to understand how an edifice
can come to this; how it can
hurt the very people it is
supposed to protect.’
‘And so, you have given
up? Because you cannot
understand the world as it is?
Because you cannot
understand why you failed?’
‘How can I fight that which
I do not understand? I have
tried. My efforts have brought
nothing but pain to those I
care about. Either what I fight
for is not worth it, which is
something that I cannot bring
myself to accept, or…’
‘Hmm?’
‘Or, I am not the right
person for this. The greatest
folly of the fool is that he
does not know the limits of
his folly. And that makes him
a dangerous man. Dio, as
your uncle would say, this
system is flawed, or I am.
Either is reason enough to…’
‘To…?’
‘To give up. Which…you
never do. Must I complete
every sentence?’
Philista said, ‘Yes, if you
wish me to continue thinking
of you as a rational man.’
‘Can fools ever be
rational?’
‘I don’t think you are a
fool, Govinda. But there is, as
you say, a flaw. But not so
much in the system as in your
reasoning.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember, you once
explained to me the notion of
kala, or time, in Aryavarta.
You told me that the
manifested world was
cyclical in nature, with
interregnum of dissolution or
inexistence between every
cycle of creation or
destruction?’
‘So I did… Go on.’
‘In that case you would
also remember how I
explained to you the uncanny
parallels between our
concepts of time – Kronos
and his consort, the serpent
Ananke, hold in their circular
embrace the primordial egg
that was the origin of the
cosmos and all creation. Not
unlike what your people call
Hiranya-garbha – the
primordial womb with a
golden egg within.’
‘My, you’ve been paying
attention,’ Govinda teased.
She gently swatted at him.
‘What did you think I was, a
dumb Yavana girl with half a
brain whom you could charm
with your sweet talk?
Anyway, you’re getting me
off the point. I meant to say;
we also have another concept
of time. I don’t know its
equivalence in your pantheon
or scripture, but we call it
Kairos and it holds a sense of
many things: opportunity,
potential, crisis. Essentially, it
thinks of time not as a
temporal unit but as linked to
the context and the events
within which it is placed. The
gods’ concept of time, some
call it, but…’ she stopped as
next to her she felt Govinda
stiffen and then relax.
‘We call it Pralaya. The
beginning of the end, of
dissolution. It happens when
Vasudeva Narayana, he who
sleeps on the Eternal Ocean,
wakes.’
Philista turned on her side.
She placed her hand on
Govinda’s bare chest,
enjoying the way it rose and
fell with each breath. Her
fingers traced one of the scars
that ran across his body
before gently threading into
the smattering of fine hair.
‘Then it might be time he
woke.’
‘It’s not a flippant event.
The world as we know it is
destroyed when he wakes.’
‘And what is wrong with
that, Govinda? If the world
has shown me nothing but
despair and pain, I would
much rather it were
destroyed, if only in the hope
that it might be a better…as
you say…more benevolent
place when it is made again.
It is what I would want if I…
if I were she… Ask yourself
what she would say to the
gods… or the State or system.
When the State can no longer
protect the weakest and the
most powerless, it is time for
change. Even if that change is
Pralaya.’
Govinda did not answer,
nor did she press the issue.
They lay there for a long
time, the smell of their
mingled sweat forming a
pleasant cocoon in the still
night air. Time and space
blurred in thoughtlessness, or
as close to it as Govinda had
ever been in years, when a
loud knock, insistent and
impatient, came at the outer
door.
Govinda slid out of bed
and put on his clothes. He
walked out of the
bedchamber and into the
adjoining sitting area, pausing
at the doorway. ‘There is one
more meaning to Pralaya,
Philista. It also means
revolution. And I have no
stomach for that, not
anymore. It’s time for you to
go back to Elis. Tell Pyrrho
that there is nothing more I
can do. Once, my dreams of
glory and progress had been
not just for Aryavarta, but the
whole world. I’d thought he
and I, we could help each
other…that our nations could
work together…but when I
can’t even protect those I
love, what talk of dreams and
glory?’
‘But…’ Philista began.
Govinda did not react as he
stepped out of the door, his
tread heavy and resigned.
Philista stared at the space
where he had been, then
threw herself back against the
cushions and closed her eyes.
Fighting the instinctive jab of
pain she felt at the thought of
what might follow, she made
up her mind.

Not once in the past years had

Govinda ever locked the door
to his rooms from the inside –
it would not, after all, be
incarceration if the prisoner
could keep his holders out.
Balabadra would have been
well within his rights to have
had the bolts removed or,
even now, to enter the room
as though he owned the
premises, which, in fact, he
did. But he waited for his
brother to let him in and wave
him towards a seat, which he
declined. Finally, not
knowing how else to delay
the inevitable, he related, in
as few words as possible, the
news of Jayadrath’s attack on
Panchali.
In the silence that
followed, Govinda crumpled,
falling to his knees. His head
bent to the floor, and every
line in his shoulders was taut
with the effort of restrained
emotion. His fingers clawed
into cold stone, the veins on
his hands bulging, threatening
to burst.
Balabadra could not tell
whether the emotion was fury
or pain, for he could not see
his brother’s face behind the
veil of curly silver-grey hair.
He decided it was best to
leave him alone, and turned
away. Govinda called out,
‘Agraja…’
‘Yes, Govinda?’
 Still on his knees, eyes
gazing at the stone floor,
Govinda said, ‘There is one
place they can hide. It’s
probably the most dangerous
place in all of Aryavarta for
them, but that ironically
might be what makes it safe.
No one will think of looking
for them there. Please, for
Panchali’s sake, not mine, get
word to Dharma…even
Dhaumya… Please…’
 Balabadra considered the
request. ‘I can speak to Vidur.
That’s all. Will that do?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you want me to
tell him? Where should
Dharma and the others go?’
‘Home. Vidur will
understand.Tell him to take
them home.’
 10
THERE WAS NOTHING ABOVE
THEM BUT THE BLINDING,
BLAZING sun, shining down
with a vengeance on the dry,
hard stone path under
Dharma’s feet. Once, he had
heard, these lands – the land
of his ancestors, of the great
queen Satya – had been the
heart of a great empire,
verdant beyond measure and
prosperous beyond envy.
Now they lay barren and
ignored by all but the most
desperate of people, who
sought refuge here. And in
the aftermath of Jayadrath’s
attack that was exactly what
Dharma and his brothers had
been – desperate. Dhaumya
had seen the event as an
unambiguous sign that
Syoddhan had finally tired of
their being alive, which
meant they were now in great
danger. It had been a worried
Vidur who had sought them
out and counselled them on
their only option. Dharma had
eventually agreed, with a
reluctant obedience, to go
into hiding to the one place
that was part of Aryavarta,
yet not. Matsya.
The rest of Aryavarta
considered Matsya a lawless
land, for the rules it followed
were its own. Even during the
imperial campaign, Dharma’s
armies had not set foot in
Matsya, nor had its people
bothered with the events
around them. The nation
acknowledged no emperor
and paid no tribute, but traded
the precious gemstones found
within its harsh earth with
foreign nations through
Trigarta – the north-western
neighbour that was both its
greatest enemy and biggest
ally. Matsya depended on
Trigarta for access to the
outside world, just as Trigarta
depended on Matsya for the
levies it paid for such access.
For the rest, Matsya relied on
itself. Its people were as
hardy as the dry scrub desert
that surrounded them.
Equally robust and even more
impressive were the huge
herds of resilient cows that
survived in the harshness of
the desert, providing
sustenance and wealth to the
many nomadic tribes that
wandered the lands beyond
its capital, Upaplavya.
Matsya was rich, yet it was
poor. Matsya had nothing, yet
it was everything that
Dharma needed it to be at this
point in time – the perfect
hiding place.
Matsya had once been the
seat of emperors, the imperial
capital of Aryavarta, till the
Wrights of old and its leaders
had turned the land into a
desert. In the aftermath of
Matsya’s fall, the Firstborn
had finally stepped forward to
cleanse Aryavarta of the
Firewrights, and the Great
Scourge had followed.
Dharma was filled with pride
at the outcome. His
ancestress, Satya, had played
an important part in that
cleansing. Her womb had
borne Krishna Dwaipayana,
the greatest Vyasa of all time,
the man who had finally rid
the realm of Firewrights. And
for its transgressions Matsya
still paid the price, serving as
an example to all Aryavarta,
its isolation reminding them
that the Divine Order was its
own keeper. Today the nation
existed only in name. It was
the Virat Confederacy, named
after the man who was now
its Chief – a city-state formed
around an oasis set in the
middle of a harsh, impassable
desert that served to both
isolate and protect. Matsya
was an island of uncivilized
brutes amidst Aryavarta’s
great nobility.
At that thought, Dharma
felt emptied of all pride. No
matter how dramatic the story
of Matsya and its princess, it
did not make him feel any
better about why he was here.
Vidur had explained to him at
length.’ My son, only ashes
can hide a spark. We’ve
always looked down on
Matsya, called its people
uncouth and ignoble. Where
better to hide the Emperor
and his family?’
‘But is that justified?’ he
had asked. ‘Matsya is what it
is; they place no faith in the
precepts of righteousness and
Divine Order that guide all of
Aryavarta. Isn’t that why the
Firstborn have never
sanctified its rulers – who
remain merely chiefs and
never become kings?’
‘And the chiefs of Matsya
accept this practice. Does that
not mean they accept our
larger notions of
righteousness? Besides, the
rulers of Matsya were once
emperors of Aryavarta. Those
now in power relegated
themselves to being simple
chieftains because they hold
the throne in trust for those
who actually have the right to
rule. Or such is the story, for
times have changed, and the
true heirs are no longer
welcome in Matysa. And that,
my son, is why it is the
perfect hiding place for you.
But under no circumstance
must anyone know who you
are. That would be most
dangerous. You see…’
By the time Vidur had
finished with his explanation,
Dharma had not known what
to say or do. ‘Trust me,’
Vidur had reassured him yet
again, ‘it’s the best place for
you to hide yourselves in the
guise of commoners.’
Now, as they neared the
unprotected borders of the
desert, Dharma realized that
they were not the only ones
crossing the barren lands in
search of refuge. They fell in
as part of the long, straight
line of people trudging along
an unseen trail. Women, men,
entire families, ostracized
because they did not fit into
Aryavarta’s conception of
Divine Order and hierarchy
and so thrown out of the
realm, now sought refuge in
the one place that would still
have them, that still found use
for them, no matter what their
faults.
As the six of them mingled
with the other refugees,
becoming yet another
indistinct, grime-streaked,
forlorn huddle in that mass,
Dharma prayed for the
strength to accept what fate
had brought him. The shame
of their situation hit him all
the more when, walking next
to him, Panchali said, ‘What
sort of an empire could turn
its backs on so many people –
on the elderly and on
children? Perhaps it was an
empire worth losing.’
Dharma was about to
reprimand her when Sadev,
who was a few steps behind
them, gently said, ‘Let it go,
Panchali. We have enough
problems of our own. We’re
still in great danger, more so
than we have been all these
years.’
He was right. No sooner
had they entered Upaplavya,
the main settlement of the
Matsya nation, than they
attracted attention. Despite
their unkempt appearance, the
guard on duty, who was
responsible for admitting
refugees into the city and
guiding them on where to go
next, jested with his fellow
soldiers and other passers-by:
‘Five men and a woman… If
I didn’t know better, I’d say
you were that mockery of an
emperor, Dharma Yudhisthir,
and his brothers. And that
would make this lovely lady
here wife to you all, I
suppose?’ He punctuated the
implications of the statement
with a hand on Panchali’s
arm, which she swatted away.
The action prompted a hiss
of disapproval, which
provoked Bhim to lunge
forward aggressively. The
soldier’s companions drew
their weapons, and Nakul and
Sadev too stepped forward. A
horrified Dharma looked
from them to the soldiers,
unable to find the words he
needed to intervene and settle
tempers. He turned to look at
Panchali only to realize that
she had stiffened, and was
holding her breath. Bhim, too,
noticed and he stepped in
front of her protectively.
Panchali did not protest, but
gave Bhim a glance of
gratitude.
A crowd was beginning to
gather at the sign of trouble,
and just when Dharma had
helplessly resigned himself to
the terrible consequences of
being recognized, Partha
stepped forward. ‘Are you
calling me a man?’ he
challenged the guard in voice
unlike his own, though not
completely lacking the deep
tone of his gender. ‘You must
be blind, calling this skinny
thing lovely when I am
standing right here in front of
you!’
The brothers exchanged
looks as the crowd around
them broke out in guffaws,
and the situation turned in an
instant from tense to light-
hearted. The soldier grinned
and said, ‘You? Well, then,
why is…err…a lady such as
yourself dressed like a man?’
Partha said, ‘For my own
safety, of course! Hai! With
men like you around, is a
pretty young woman safe? I
won’t sleep in peace till I am
in the care of a household and
well-employed!’
The guard laughed again.
‘Don’t worry, my dear. You
are safe among us. As for
employment, make your way
to the palace kitchens. Take
this skinny friend of yours
with you. They can always do
with more eunuchs and
serving women in Queen
Sudeshna’s rooms.’
Flashing the guards a
brilliant smile, Partha took
Panchali’s hand in his and
began walking away with an
alluring sway of his hips.
‘And you?’ the soldier’s
attention turned to Dharma,
as Bhim stepped back to let
Panchali pass. ‘What is your
trade?’
‘I’m a scholar,’ Dharma
proudly declared. ‘A learned
man and wise counsellor. I
once served in the imperial
palace at Indr-prastha.’
 ‘Palace. Follow the
eunuch. Tell the chief
attendant that I sent you. He
said our chief needed a jester
or entertainer. Tell you what
– you get yourself the
position, I’ll buy you a drink.
The chief attendant will owe
me for finding him the right
man… Move on, and now
let’s get to this hot-tempered
fellow here and see what use
he will be.’ The soldier
turned to Bhim.
‘But…’ Dharma began to
protest at what he considered
a demeaning assignation, but
the crowd behind him was
swelling and the soldier
merely pushed him through.

Over the course of a painful

year Dharma, or Kanka as he
was known, had managed,
with a shrewd display of
political acumen and
emotional reticence, to rise
from the position of being an
entertainer to one of Chief
Virat’s advisors. Despite his
new found status, the Chief
often called on Dharma to
fulfil the original duty to
which he had been appointed
to play dice with the ruler. To
Dharma, it was like sheer
mockery, not only to be
reduced to such a task but
also because Virat hardly
played as a monarch ought to.
He was only too happy if
Dharma won the game,
provided it had been played
with skill on both sides.
Dharma did not know what
tormented him more about
Matsya – the heathen absence
of hierarchy, or the fact that
he and his companions were a
part of it. He learnt to deal
with his discomfort in the
only way he could. He
ignored it. He ignored Nakul
and Sadev, who had taken the
names of Granthika and
Tantripala, clad like servants
in short, dirty antariyas,
rubbing down horses and
tending to cows. He tried not
to notice how their fair skin
had been scorched dark by
the sun, their cracked lips and
the soles of their feet that
were always blistered and
bleeding. He ignored Bhim,
now known as Vallabha,
bruised all over from
wrestling man and beast alike
for Chief Virat’s pleasure and
perpetually soot-stained from
cooking in the palace’s dreary
kitchens. He ignored Partha,
who was still pretending to be
a eunuch named Brihannala
and doing a fine job of it.
And there was Panchali, now
Malini the handmaiden.
Dharma felt crippling
anguish every time he saw
her, though it was not
because he regretted
Panchali’s suffering. He
understood her loneliness –
the result of her assumed
identity – but there was little
that could be done about it in
the initial months. She had
little reason and hardly any
occasion to meet Nakul and
Sadev. Indeed, in the first
couple of months of their stay
in Matsya, she had seen none
of the five brothers save for
Partha and, on occasion,
Bhim. Even Dharma had been
unapproachable in his earlier
function of a courtier and
entertainer, but as he grew to
become Virat’s advisor it
became less suspicious for
the two of them to be seen in
conversation.
Even so, Dharma found
that he no longer enjoyed
Panchali’s company as he
once used to. Her refusal to
see the truth about their
situation made him feel more
distant from her than ever
before. He believed that pain
was a sign of penitence, of
sacrifice, of adherence to the
purest morality – provided
one accepted the pain, bent
down to the greater forces
that wove one’s life into a
tapestry of sorrow, and
understood that it was a part
of the Divine Order. He knew
that Panchali believed that
her pain was undeserved, a
sentiment he found
completely self-centred. He
could not fathom how anyone
could fault the forces of
destiny and insist on one’s
own innocence. Nothing
happened that was not part of
something greater and it
made sense that each
individual merely suffered the
consequences of their actions.
That, and the fact that he
alone carried the burden of
Vidur’s words, the great irony
of what could be and what
was.
As a result, he was not
taken aback in the least when
Sadev’s proclamation came
true and trouble finally did
find them.
 11
‘WHO IS THAT MAN?’ IT WAS
A QUESTION OF NO REAL
SIGNIFICANCE, mere
curiosity, in fact.
Panchali was using the
excuse of admiring the horses
on the exercise grounds to
speak to Granthika and
Tantripala for the first time in
the many months since they
had all come to Matsya.
 Nakul-Granthika said,
‘That is the General.’
‘The General?’
‘His name is Keechak, but
no one calls him that. He’s
the head of Matsya’s armies
and also Queen Sudeshna’s
brother. Of course, if you
hear the rumours going
around you’d think he’s the
ruler of all Matsya. He was
away these past months,
though I’m not sure where.’
 ‘You have to admire his
discipline,’ Sadev-Tantripala,
added. ‘Hardly half a day off
the travel trail, and he is at his
post checking on the war
horses.’
The two brothers snapped
to attention as the General
approached. Panchali bowed,
her face carefully set into the
unsmiling yet not unfriendly
ambivalence that gave the
impression of aloofness
without being offensive, and
stepped away from the
horses. Keechak gave her a
curious look and a small
smile before falling into
conversation with Granthika
and Tantripala about the
horses and other livestock.
Panchali discreetly slipped
away, and thought no more
about the encounter till
Queen Sudeshna sent for her
the same evening.
 Panchali entered the room
to find Sudeshna in
conversation with the
General. She felt a little wary
at running into him again, so
soon, but reasoned that it was
not unusual given that he was
the queen’s brother.
‘Malini, come,’ Sudeshna
beckoned her closer and
gestured to the usual seat
Malini was accustomed to
take. Panchali glanced at it
and then at the General,
wondering if it would be
appropriate for her to sit in
his presence. Sudeshna
noticed and laughed. She
turned to Keechak and said,
‘She has been here for ages
now, but still isn’t used to the
way things are done.’
The General laughed. Then
he stood up. ‘A person’s
worth is not judged by their
station, Malini. But if it
makes you more comfortable,
please remaining standing. I
take it you like horses? Do
you ride well?’
The abrupt change in the
line of conversation caught
Panchali off guard, but she
managed to answer that and
the rest of Keechak’s
questions in a matter-of-fact
way. After a while the
General excused himself,
saying he had a task to attend
to.
‘Sit, Malini,’ Sudeshna
commanded. This time,
Panchali complied. Sudeshna
said, ‘My brother likes you,
Malini. He would like to see
you again. May I arrange it?’
Panchali was astonished at
the nature of the request, as
well as the mild way in which
it was conveyed. She declined
in equally polite terms.
‘Forgive me, Mahamatra. But
I fear it would be
inappropriate. Please excuse
my inability to agree to this
suggestion.’
Sudeshna was taken aback
by the response but said
nothing, letting Panchali go
without any show of rancour.
As Panchali discovered in
the women’s quarters in the
next few days, her refusal had
come as a shock to most. The
General was disgusting
neither in form nor in
behaviour, and a different
woman in a different situation
would have not been averse
to the attentions of a man
who was as powerful as he
was pleasant. But Panchali
was not such a woman, and
she persisted in her
objections, no matter how
many times Keechak or his
sister presented his case.
Soon, it became common
knowledge that the war-
hardened General was,
simply put, besotted with
Malini the handmaiden.
The General’s proclaimed
interest served one advantage.
It quelled the rumours that
filled the palace about the
passionate desire Malini and
Vallabha the cook, who had
come into service at the same
time, had for each other. It
also put an end to Queen
Sudeshna’s comments in the
privacy of the women’s
chambers, where she often
teased Panchali with bawdy
descriptions of the rumoured
mutual seductions – gossip
that only brought Panchali
dislike from her fellow
handmaidens, many of whom
openly professed their
attraction for Vallabha.
Keechak’s confessed
attraction also helped to
deflect interest from Bhim-
Vallabha’s rising popularity
with Chief Virat and the
soldiers of Matsya. Over the
months, Bhim had progressed
from being a mere wrestler
and martial sportsman, to
training many of Matsya’s
captains in advance fighting
techniques. In Keechak’s
absence, particularly, Virat
had come to rely heavily on
Bhim – a development, which
Dharma had been happy to
encourage in his position as
counsellor. Upon the
General’s return, Bhim had
astutely avoided attracting
attention by relegating
himself to his kitchen duties
alone. The rumour that
Vallabha was no longer in
Malini’s favour – if so he had
ever been – served to let him
resume his training duties and
avoid offending Keechak.
 Barring these advantages,
the General’s undiminished
interest in Panchali was, to
her, an inconvenience. As his
persistence and proclaimed
passion moved rapidly
towards a dangerous
situation, Panchali confessed
her fears to Partha.
‘Be patient, Panchali,’
Partha-Brihannala advised.
‘We are safer than we have
been in all these years.
Dharma’s influence, Bhim’s
strength…all these have made
Matsya a comfortable, if not
amiable home for us.’
‘And you wish me to add
my body to that list?’
Panchali retorted.
‘You’re not the only one
making sacrifices here,
Panchali. Look at me! Neither
man, nor woman…’
‘But still a human being!
Which is more than what I
feel like. I can’t Partha.
Besides, there won’t be much
favour left if the General
forces himself on me and
satisfies his wishes. And if I
give in to him willingly, there
won’t be any safety left us
either. Rumours will spread
beyond Matsya, and
Syoddhan will find us. Is that
what you want?’
Faced with the dilemma,
Partha alternately considered
asking Bhim and approaching
Dharma for advice. Panchali
understood his vacillation.
There was a part of Partha
that still looked obediently to
his eldest brother for
instructions and advice.
Another part of him knew it
would be futile to bring the
problem to Dharma’s
attention.
Finally, Panchali directly
approached Dharma. Dharma
said, ‘He’s made it obvious
that he likes you, but has the
General sent for you? I
mean…has he ordered you to
his bed?’
Panchali shook her head.
‘No. But you know he will.
Dharma, please… I can’t take
this anymore!’
‘Ah, my dear! If only that
were excuse enough! This sad
destiny is ours to suffer! We
can’t afford to do anything,
Panchali. Anything that is out
of the ordinary, even to the
least extent, must be avoided.
If Syoddhan finds us… I’m
sure you understand.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her
voice held a trace of
sharpness.
Dharma winced at her tone.
Nevertheless, he patiently
explained, ‘Today, we’re
little more than commoners.
If fate has it that we live as
the servile, we can’t fight it.’
‘And? Doesn’t it once
strike you that the
commoners, this servile class
that you’ve been relegated to,
deserve better? Aren’t some
things just wrong, whether
they are suffered by peasant
or king? What sort of
Emperor…’
‘Don’t you dare speak to
me in such a tone, Panchali.
Unlike you, my principles are
immutable. Divine Order is
paramount. I don’t spit on the
system the moment it ceases
to go in my favour. I remain
faithful to it – whether as
slave or as king! Where was
all your anger and concern
when you ruled these lands as
the Empress?’
‘True,’ Panchali admitted.
‘I deserve it. Everything we
took for granted, everything
we assumed was permanent,
has been taken from us. You,
an emperor, must serve as the
chief’s fool, advise him on
his pursuit of duty and
righteousness. Partha has
been rendered impotent,
Bhim’s might is now a source
of entertainment for others,
and Nakul and Sadev must
tend to herds that are not
theirs. Just like commoners.
By Rudra, we all deserve it.
You’re right, I’m no longer
an empress and…’
‘No, you are not an
empress,’ Dharma said
through gritted teeth,
desperately trying to keep his
temper. ‘You once were, but
you are not one today. This is
the life destined for you, and
you had best make your peace
with it as we all have.’
‘And if the General…?’
‘Then I suggest you satisfy
his needs, as would every
other handmaiden in this
palace.’
Panchali stared at him for a
while, and then spun on her
heel and walked away.

Furious as she was with

Dharma, Panchali did not see
where she was going until it
was too late. The impact
made her lose her balance,
but she felt an arm go
immediately around her in
support. She tried to push it
away, but in vain. The
General was a big, strong
man. With a cry of protest,
she tried to twist out of his
grip. He only held on tighter.
Panchali squirmed as he
pushed her against the wall
and held her there with his
body. He was genuinely
confused by her reluctance.
‘What now, Malini? We’re
alone. Why do you still
pretend to resist me? Stop
being such a temptress.’
‘Please…’ Panchali
pleaded as the General placed
his hand on the bare skin of
her waist. ‘Please listen to
me.’
He showed no signs of
letting her go. ‘Ah, my sweet
love,’ he cajoled. ‘A fine
woman like you could have
her heart’s fill of riches and
jewels, I know. But I can
offer you much more… I can
offer you that which a
woman’s heart truly desires.’
Panchali turned her face
away, even as the General
placed his lips to her ear and
whispered, ‘I can please you
in ways that you’ve never
imagined, my dear.’
‘You’ll die for ever
speaking those words to me!’
Panchali snapped, her rage
filling her with strength. She
pushed hard at the man.
Keechak yielded and took
a step back. He said, ‘Really,
Malini, you’re the finest of
them all. You could be a man
for the iron will you nurse in
your shapely body. I suppose
I was right. You’re not just an
ordinary handmaiden. You’re
a special woman, a woman fit
to be queen… My queen.
Marry me, Malini. Let us do
this the honourable way.’
 Panchali closed her eyes,
squeezing them tight against
the tears that threatened. A
mix of fear, fatigue, and the
sheer incongruity of a
situation where a man she did
not care for seemed to value
her sentiments more than the
man she was married to,
overcame her. She could hear
Dharma’s words in her head.
Just a commoner. It was not
the appellation that had hurt,
but the insinuation that she
meant nothing and was worth
nothing. The feeling turned
into words, and the vague
hope that it may well be a
way out of her predicament.
‘Please, General,’ she said,
‘I’m hardly worthy of a man
of your stature. I’m nobody, a
servant, a handmaiden. Please
just let me be…’
Keechak frowned. ‘Since
when is a handmaiden
nobody, Malini?’
‘General…’
‘Where are you from?’
‘I…’
‘Where are you from?
You’re not from Matsya. You
came in months ago seeking
shelter and employment, that
I know. Which part of
Aryavarta do you come
from?’
‘I…the Central lands,’
Panchali said.
 ‘That explains it. Well,
Malini. These are not the
Central lands. Come with
me.’
‘But General…’
‘Yes, yes! I know, I know.
Come!’ Keechak took
Panchali’s wrist in a firm grip
and began leading the way.
She went along silently,
her suspicions growing by the
moment as he strode across
the palace grounds, to a
windowless structure at the
far end. She had often
wondered what purpose the
building served but no one
had been able to tell her. No
one, not even the
groundskeeper, was allowed
near it. Rumour had it that
this was the General’s private
dungeon, where he fulfilled
his depraved needs for
pleasure.
The guards on duty at the
large metal doorway saluted
their General, but failed to
hide their surprise on seeing
Panchali in tow. She was
equally astonished by their
reaction. If this isn’t where he
takes his women…then? She
had no time to think further
on it, for as she stepped
through the door it was pulled
shut behind them. It was pitch
dark inside the building,
except for a brazier on the far
wall. Without warning, the
General pulled Panchali back
and into his arms. She began
to flail about, but, as her eyes
adjusted to the light, she
realized that she had been
standing precariously on the
edge of a narrow flight of
stairs.
‘Careful.’
Panchali nodded and,
extricating herself from his
grip, began climbing down.
The stairs levelled out into a
small corridor, which led to a
long, cavernous room. Unlike
the one above, this room was
well lit, not just with braziers,
but with the light of three
huge furnaces. Men working
at the furnaces saluted the
General and quickly returned
to their tasks. Panchali was
bewildered. Never had she
imagined that a forge of such
huge proportions remained in
existence in Aryavarta, for
the only one she had seen, an
old forge hidden in the forests
of Panchala, was just a fifth
part of this one. Like the
other, however, it was made
of cold, dark stone, with the
main chamber set within the
earth. Despite the fires, the air
felt cool, and a light breeze
was blowing through the
cavern. She wondered how it
was that the forge was cooled
in the absence of running
water or an obvious air vent,
but knew better than to ask.
She turned to the General.
‘Why have you brought me
here?’
‘To tell you that you are
wrong. To show you that
there is another way of
thinking, a way that allows
you and me to be together if
we wish it, for no reason
other than we wish it.’
 ‘I don’t understand.’
The General said, ‘Malini,
what you believe is what
most of Aryavarta believes:
that birth and gender and
position are what decide our
lives. It is the philosophy that
the Firstborn have instilled
deep into the core of
Aryavarta, and they have
done so at a terrible price.
You see, they believed that
destiny and duty sanctified all
things. To them, inequality
was not necessarily injustice.
Things were determined by a
greater law, a Divine Order,
and as long as that balance
was kept, all other things,
including hierarchy,
inequality and the unfettered
power of those who ruled,
were justified. But here you
see a man who would be
considered a suta as
commander of this nation’s
forces. His sister, as much a
suta as he is, is queen. How?
Because here, in Matsya,
lived those who believed
otherwise…’
‘The Firewrights,’ Panchali
said before she could stop
herself.
Keechak looked pleased.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the
Firewrights. The Wrights
liked to pretend that they
believed in equality. For what
it’s worth, they once did.
Their belief was that all other
inequalities – be they of
social standing, wealth,
servitude – came from a
fundamental inequality in
power. And their way of
achieving equality was
through knowledge.’
‘Because knowledge would
result in the dispersion of
power from the few to the
many. So, over time,
inequalities would vanish.’
‘Precisely. Yet you wonder
why I admire you! You really
are a clever woman, Malini.
And so it was that till the
Great Scourge began, Matsya
was by far the most powerful
kingdom in all Aryavarta.
Once, our kings were
emperors of the entire realm.
Now we hardly dare to call
them kings.’
Panchali did not look
convinced. She said, ‘But do
you see the problem there?
Knowledge itself becomes a
cause of inequality, a source
of power. Matsya rose by the
might of the Firewrights.
Matsya fell, condemned by its
own ascent.’
Keechak’s face clouded
with anger. With visible
effort, he willed his
expression into neutrality and
said, ‘There’s a saying I’ve
heard: “Every poison is
defined by its antidote.” It is
something my greatest enemy
used to say.’
Panchali felt her heart
begin to race, but she willed
herself to reveal no emotion.
Oblivious, the General
continued, ‘He believed that
inequality was inevitable, that
its existence is immutable.
The only thing that can
change is its form. He
claimed that the search for
equality was what defined
humanity… I would have
listened more closely to him
had he not betrayed me and
my people. But no. No one
ever came to our aid, Malini.
They used us – Firewright,
Firstborn… all of them used
us and cast us aside. They
took our life-giving river, the
Saraswati, and hid her
underground. And then cast
us out of their lives and
minds forever, exiling us in
our own home. But in their
folly, their blind selfishness,
our transgressors did not see
what a terrible decision that
was. Take a look at this.’
Keechak held out a sword,
impeccably crafted, but heavy
and made of dark iron. As she
took it from him, it reminded
Panchali of Naga weapons,
except that, she realized, this
sword was not beaten and
forged, but rather cast from a
mould and polished to a shine
and keenness that Naga iron
could not rival. It was lighter
too, far lighter, and very well
balanced. Panchali resisted
the instinct to point the sword
and look down its blade for a
precise assessment.
The General said,
confirming her suspicions,
‘Of all the things that the
Firewrights created, nothing
was more important or
powerful than what was
called Wright-metal. It was
easy to pour and malleable
beyond imagination. But it
was also strong and supple
and light. And so, the Wrights
began casting weapons out of
these stone moulds…’ he
gestured with his hands.
‘So you use iron in their
old moulds? Is that it?’
 ‘Mih! If you do that, you’ll
only get the heavy, ugly
things that the Nagas use.’
‘Then how…?’
‘We found a way to temper
iron.’
‘You what?’
‘Don’t be so surprised, my
dear. What other choice did
we have? Cut off from
everyone and everything,
isolated from the rest of the
world, we had to make do
with the materials we found
here, within our own borders.
There was little to farm and
much to mine, and we had
time, Malini. We had all the
time in the world. While the
rest of Aryavarta has been
playing dice, we have been
working hard to find a way to
temper iron with other metals
to make it lighter, more
malleable. We’ve designed
new moulds to suit our needs,
and those needs are far more
important than swords and
arrows.’
His voice hoarse with long-
contained rage, Keechak said,
‘The river dried up, and there
was no rain. Matsya had been
cursed by the gods. Many lost
their lives, before we
managed to build a new home
for ourselves here again. And
we have, by our sweat and
blood, and with this metal!
Not for war, but for survival.’
Panchali could not contain
herself. ‘What…what do you
mean?’
‘We have found newer
uses for this tempered metal.
We use it for just about
everything. It’s all we have.
Haven’t you ever wondered
how it is that you can bring
me a full cauldron of hot
water using those slender
arms of yours? Or did you
think yourself so strong? No,
Malini,’ he laughed. ‘It is this
metal – Kali. Iron but not
quite, though one would
never be able tell just by
looking. And these workmen
of mine can make more than
pots and pans. In case you
haven’t noticed, we hardly
have any lumber here in the
desert. What do you think
holds up our walls and roofs?
We pack the mud and stone
around bars made of this
metal. Even an elephant
couldn’t break though the
palace’s walls.’
‘But…’ She stopped
herself from asking the
question, but the Keechak
understood.
‘Why then do we live as
outcasts, suffer in this
forsaken desert, while the rest
of Aryavarta spits on us and
calls us uncivilized brutes?
We wait, we prepare, Malini.
Our solitude has allowed us
to deflect attention while we
have built arsenals greater
than the might of many
kingdoms combined. Where
the Wrights made one sword
in months, I can now cast
them in hundreds, in less than
a week. No army in
Aryavarta has the weapons
that mine does. Those who
betrayed us should not have
made the mistake of leaving
us alone and alive.’
Despite the cold feeling in
the pit of her stomach,
Panchali brought herself to
look the General in the eye.
‘I’m sorry for your suffering
and that of your people,’ she
told him. ‘And I see that you
truly are a brave man and an
honourable one. But that
doesn’t change my position –
please understand…’
 ‘Shh. Come here, Malini.’
The General led her to the
end of the chamber, where a
small door was set into one
corner. Panchali noticed it for
the first time. Despite its
unimpressive size, the door
was made of heavy, black
iron, and protected with
chains and locks of the same
metals.
Keechak removed a small
bunch of keys from a chain
around his neck and inserted
them into the many locks in a
specific sequence. The door
gave way with a groan. He
stepped in, bending down to
accommodate his bulk into
the tiny space, and gestured
for Panchali to follow. The
room was commensurately
small, no more than a large
cupboard. It had no light of
its own, but the glow from the
furnaces outside was enough
to see by. On the walls were
stacked bottles and
receptacles of many shapes
and sizes. Many were empty,
others little more than broken
shards.
‘These are not of our
making. They are things left
behind by the Firewrights –
their poisons and
hallucinogens…’ the General
said. He walked over to a
high shelf, where a few
unbroken, dusty bottles were
innocently clustered together.
These, Panchali noticed, were
not empty.
The General picked up two
identical vials. ‘You give me
hope. Not just for me, but for
all Aryavarta. If only you
would see beyond these webs
that Firstborn and Firewright
have woven around us… I
trust you, Malini. I want you
to know what you mean to
me. And that is why I share
with you this, my biggest
secret. Do you have any idea
what this is? No, of course
not…’ Laughing loudly, he
went on to explain.
All Panchali could do was
listen, her eyes widening
further with every word.

12
BHIM HELD HIS BREATH AND
SHRUNK BACK INTO THE
SHADOW of a pillar as he
heard the sound of footsteps
punctuated by the melody of
anklets. He relaxed as the
figure that emerged through
the darkness turned out to be
taller and broader than the
one he sought to hide from.
‘Well? What’s so
important? Why all this
secrecy?’ The individual
demanded in a voice that was
completely appropriate to his
feminine attire though
incongruous with his person.
‘Shh!’ Bhim cautioned,
pulling Partha into the
darkness. ‘Panchali is
meeting the General here.’
‘You’re out of your mind,
Bhim! How could you even
think to say such a thing
about her! She’d die
before…’
 ‘How many times can she
die, Partha? She’s afraid,
she’s tired. Three nights ago,
I saw her and the General
walking across the grounds to
that private palace or
dungeon or whatever it is that
he has. Today I overheard
him talk of their plans to meet
here, in the dancing hall. I
know the fire Panchali is
made of, but there is only so
much anyone can take,
especially when…when her
own family can do nothing to
protect her.’
Partha frowned. ‘I don’t
believe you. You, the cook,
know things that I, the palace
attendant, don’t?’
Bhim sighed, annoyed at
having to explain. ‘The
General was posturing in
front of me. I was there to
serve him a special dish, on
his sister’s orders. He took
the opportunity to flaunt his
conquest.’
Partha shrugged. ‘I still
don’t believe you. But this
much is certain: if the
General comes here, if he as
much as tries to touch
Panchali…’
‘And if she is willing? If
she comes to him of her own
free will? What would be so
horrible, so wrong, if a
woman left a man who cannot
care for her, for one who truly
does? How does that make
her a bad person?’
‘Vathu, Bhim!’ Partha
snapped, without regard that
the other was older. ‘Or has
the kitchen soot finally
clouded your brain? You’ve
been listening to too much
gossip.’
‘Oh, shut up, Partha,’ Bhim
replied. ‘You’re just jealous
that for once it’s me the
women want, not you!’
The accusation calmed
Partha down. He turned
pensive. ‘Jealous?’ he said.
‘Yes, maybe. I don’t know if
I’m the most fortunate man in
the world or the most
frustrated. Just yesterday, one
of the handmaidens asked me
to bring her more bathwater –
and while she was still in her
bath. Whatever you may or
may not be doing as Vallabha
the cook, your little act is
nothing compared to what
I’ve got going on here…’ he
gestured to his feminine
clothes, the vestments of
Brihannala the eunuch.’ With
a sigh, he added, ‘There are
times when I don’t know who
I am any more. Not because I
have been emasculated.
Haven’t we all, in some way?
What bothers me is that I
don’t know why I do what I
do…’
Partha fell silent as his
sharp ears picked up the
rustle of clothing and the
jangling of bangles. He
shrunk back into the shadows
next to Bhim, who pointed
silently first to Panchali and
then to the large shadow that
approached from another
entrance. ‘He’s here, too.’
The dark outline of the
General came into
prominence as he lit a lamp
and placed it on a pedestal
nearby. He greeted Panchali
with a warm smile. ‘Malini…
Tell me you are going to say
yes.’
Panchali set her face into
studied neutrality, her stance
more confident and
commanding than she had
allowed herself to assume
since she took on the identity
of Malini the handmaiden.
‘You’re a good man,
General.’
‘But…?’
‘No buts. We have other
matters to discuss. You took a
great leap of faith the other
day, when you trusted me
with your biggest secrets.
Now it is my turn. I ask for
your patience to hear me out,
for these are things that I
myself did not understand till
you told me what you did. I
need you to trust me as you
did before and listen to what I
have to say before you make
your decision.’
‘Of course. What is it you
want to tell me, Malini?
You’ve always been
mysterious, but I’ve never
seen you this serious.’
Panchali took a deep breath
and chose her next words
with care. ‘You said I gave
you hope. You are not the
first man to say that to me.
Just as you are not the first
person to hear what you said
were your enemy’s words:
“Every poison is defined by
its antidote.” He… the man
you consider your enemy…
once said those words to me.’
Keechak started despite his
assurances of patience. ‘You
know him?’
‘I do,’ Panchali said. ‘I
know him. But it was not till
you spoke of him, not till you
showed me what you did, that
I understood what it was that
he has done. He is not your
foe, General. He never
betrayed you. He truly
believed that neither
Firewright nor Firstborn had
the complete solution. He
believes in dualities, in the
power of opposites. When he
bound all of Aryavarta into an
empire, he left Matsya an
island. Why? Because where
the empire would grow by
having everything, Matsya
would prosper, as it has,
because it had nothing. Your
skills with metal are
unparalleled today, perhaps
even in the world. He knew
you would grow, and grow to
become a society that valued
all that he believed was good
and just – equality, self-
reliance, compassion… I
shall be honest. I, too, once
thought Matsya was a land of
impoverished heathens. But I
now see…’
‘Stop the flattery, Malini.
What is it you are trying to
say?’
The General’s sharp tone
stirred the first traces of fear
in Panchali. She wondered if
she had been hasty. Brushing
the thought aside, she willed
all the conviction she felt to
show through in her words.
‘He never meant for Matsya
to fall. He would never betray
you. Your isolation was
necessary, so that unlike the
rest of Aryavarta you would
turn your skills to the things
that mattered rather than to
making weapons. And you’ve
done exactly that, don’t you
see! Soon, it will be time for
you to share your knowledge
with the rest of the realm, to
guide them to more peace and
prosperity than anyone ever
imagined. It is as you said:
Matsya will rise. Matsya is
meant to rise!’
‘And how would you
know?’
‘Because I know him. I
know what he thinks, what
his plans are. His ultimate
loyalty is neither to
Firewright nor Firstborn, but
to humanity. I too once
thought he served no interest
but his own, till…’ She gave
up, not finding the words to
convey her emotions. ‘Send
for him, General. Let him
explain. Govinda Shauri
always has a plan.’
Many things happened in
quick succession after that.
Bhim and Partha hardly had
the time to recover from what
Panchali had said and done
when Keechak, who had gone
unnaturally still, suddenly
threw himself at her. His
large hands were around
Panchali’s neck before she
could react.
‘Why?’ The General asked,
shouting now, his need for
comprehension alone keeping
him from snapping Panchali’s
neck in two. ‘Who are you?
Why did you do this? Did he
send you here? Did that
traitor send you here?’
 Panchali tried her best to
keep calm. ‘Yes,’ she gasped.
‘I mean… I think so. He
wanted me safe. Just as he
wanted Matsya safe. You
must believe me…’
‘There is nothing to
believe.’ The General
tightened his grasp.
Panchali felt darkness
sweep down on her as her
breath tightened in her chest.
A burning sensation shot
from her throat to her
stomach and she felt her
knees buckle. Yet, for all her
discomfort and the memory
of all that had happened over
the last years, she felt
unafraid. She knew. She
understood. There was still
hope. There was still
Govinda. She closed her eyes
and readied herself to die.
Hardly was she aware of the
presence of someone behind
her than she felt the pressure
around her neck give. She fell
to the ground, coughing hard
‘Panchali! Are you all
right?’ She heard Partha’s
voice, and felt his hands, with
familiar calluses from his
once-life as an archer and
marked by the more recent
fragrance of turmeric and
rose water, on her face. She
opened her eyes, to a sight
that ought to have terrified
her, but did not. The General
was on his knees, his red,
contorted face held tight in
the crook of Bhim’s arm. His
eyes were bulging out, blood
pooled in them as tears
otherwise would have, and
more blood flowed from his
ears, while drool dripped
from his slack jaw as he
struggled, ineffectively, to
breathe. He tried to kick
down Bhim, claw at him, but
to no avail. The General was
the stronger man, yes, but
Bhim was impelled by his
cold rage, the cumulative
resentment and anger that he
had suppressed for years.
Panchali had never seen
Bhim like this: silent and
contained, even during a
fight. It frightened her to see
this side of a man she thought
she knew well. ‘No, Bhim!’
she called out. Her eyes
sought out Keechak.
‘General, please! All I ask
for is a chance to explain.’
In response, Keechak
mustered the last of his
strength and spat at her.
Panchali considered him for a
moment longer, and then
looked at Bhim. She nodded
her head once. The two men
remained frozen for what felt
like a long time, though
Keechak’s eyes showed his
desperate – and ineffective –
struggle to escape Bhim’s
grip. Finally, Bhim moved,
letting go, and the General
slid to the floor, lifeless.
Slowly, Panchali got to her
feet. Her eyes held certainty.
‘Thank you, Bhim. And you
too, Partha.’
‘What…what is going on
Panchali?’ Partha said.
‘I’ll explain tomorrow. It’s
a long story.’
 ‘Does it have something to
do with the General’s private
palace?’
‘It’s not a palace. It’s a
workshop.’
‘And it has something to
do with Govinda?’
‘Yes. He sent us here, I’m
sure of it. Matsya was part of
his plan, it always was. He
sent us here only because we
were in too much danger,
outside.. That being the case,
the General’s death…’ She
shook her head. ‘Tomorrow.
We will speak tomorrow.
Now, get rid of the body.’
Bhim said, ‘We’ll need to
find an excuse, an
explanation…’
‘We’ll find nothing, Bhim.
We know nothing and so
have absolutely nothing to
say. Let the General’s
disappearance be discovered
in due course and let rumours
spread, as they will. If we try
to intervene or misdirect, we
will only attract attention to
ourselves.’
‘Still,’ Bhim countered,
‘we should at least tell
Dharma before we do
anything at all.’
‘We tell no one,’ Panchali
snapped. Softening, she
added, ‘Dharma does what he
believes right from his point
of view, just as the General
did what he believed right.
And in the same way I can
only do what is right. Your
brother…his is a difficult
path. He tries to remain truly
committed to an ideal that is
no longer relevant. Ten
generations ago, he would
have been the best of us all.
Now, while he remains the
same, the world around him
has changed. It’s not easy for
him to live with that. More
tomorrow. I need to think, I
need to unravel this
complicated web before we
decide on our next step,
otherwise….’ She trailed off,
her brow furrowed in thought.
‘Never mind that, I’d better
get going before someone
notices both Malini and
Brihannala are missing from
the Queen’s palace. Bury the
body and get some sleep,
both of you.’ She did not wait
for a reply, but left the
dancing hall.
Bhim and Partha
exchanged a glance before
stepping forward to dispose
of the General’s bloody,
lifeless body. None of them
noticed the figure in one of
the dark corridors
overlooking the chamber,
standing still and silent
against the wall, intent on
their every word and action.
 13
‘IT’S A SIMPLE ENOUGH
CALCULATION, SYODDHAN,’
SHAKUNI WAS saying. ‘These
disparate incidents – the
attacks on Vasusena’s forges,
General Keechak’s death in
Matsya – may not mean
much. But taken together,
they cannot be dismissed.’
Syoddhan pressed down on
each of his fingers one by one
as he paced the room, letting
his knuckles crack loudly.
The sound rang through the
near-empty chamber like
sneers, as if the pristine
marble was mocking him,
flaunting its unblemished
whiteness as a reminder of
the momentous events that
had played out in this very
hall. He put the past out of his
mind and turned his attention
to the issues at hand. The
news of the strange events in
Matsya had finally found
their way to Hastina, where
the announcement of the
General’s death, in particular,
had been received with mixed
emotions. To add to that,
Devala and Vasusena had
arrived bearing their own
tidings, this time
unambiguously disastrous.
Many of the forges they had
set up in Anga had been
attacked and destroyed
completely. Syoddhan had
known better than to ignore
these incidents and had called
his advisors together to get
their views. As always, the
session was presided over in
name by his father, King
Dhritarastra – the man, he
noted with a private smile,
with the greatest ambitions of
them all.
Aware that everyone’s eyes
were on him, Syoddhan
stopped mid-stride and spun
around to face the group. He
said, ‘I agree with you,
Uncle. But I also think that
seeing conspiracy where none
exists is counterproductive.
Dharma Yudhisthir indulged
in such guile and political
conniving. Where did it lead
him? Men who build towers
of sand cannot hope to live in
them for long.’ He looked at
Devala as he spoke. It did not
go unnoticed.
The Firewright said, ‘I
agree. And that is precisely
why we must act. You see,
the situation now is…shall
we say…more comparative
than competitive. It doesn’t
matter what your military
strength is in absolute terms.
Rather, it matters how much
stronger you are, compared to
potential challengers.’
 ‘And who might such
potential challengers be?’
‘Anyone in Aryavarta,
really,’ Shakuni said. ‘Any
king or vassal prince who can
craft the right alliances with
the right people. Ambition is
a vice in those who lack the
power to act in its
furtherance. In a warrior,
however, it is the ultimate
virtue. Which is why you
must choose, you must decide
what you will do, and do it
quickly. You may think that
the events in the east have
nothing to do with the
General’s death. I agree they
may not be related in cause,
but the consequences are
linked. The loss of the forges
in Anga makes you weaker.
Not considerably weaker, but
weak enough that it may
tempt another ruler… Say, for
example, Susarman of
Trigarta, may consider
annexing Matsya.
Admittedly, Susarman is
hardly a match for you and
your allies today, but that
would change the moment he
holds Matsya – enough for
many of your vassals to go
over to his side. You cannot
afford to ignore the
inevitable. Now that the
General is dead, every man of
some means in Aryavarta will
think, at least briefly, of
conquering Matsya. There are
few who can do it, but the
point is why should you not
be the one?’
Syoddhan sighed, still not
convinced. ‘Why is Matsya
so important? We don’t even
know what is there!’
It was Sanjaya who said,
‘Neither does anyone else.
Matsya may mean nothing, or
it may be everything. No one
knows, and it was our
common ignorance,
combined with caution, that
had led all of Aryavarta to
stay away from Matsya. But
the empire…it is like a pack
of wild dogs, Your Highness.
They wait, wary of each
other, but as soon as one of
them makes a move towards
the meat, they will all throw
themselves at it. And besides,
you might be willing to trust
in the loyalty of your vassals,
but there are others to
consider…’
Indifferent to Bhisma and
Dron’s presence and eager to
show it, Vasusena let out a
crude swear. ‘Yabha! Who in
the name of an elephant’s
backside are you talking
about?’
Devala said, ‘What about
Dharma Yudhisthir? And
what about Govinda Shauri?’
 ‘Listen to me carefully,
Syoddhan,’ Dron began in the
tone of instruction that had
now become a habit. ‘You’re
now the strongest of warriors
in all of Aryavarta and, by the
values we hold sacrosanct,
the only one fit to lead.
Lawfully and morally either
you or your father ought to
become the Emperor of
Aryavarta. But the fact
remains that Dharma is your
brother. He and the other four
are Kaurava as much as you
are, and as for Govinda…’
Syoddhan favoured the
teacher with a doubtful look.
It bordered on insolence, but
right then he felt little respect
for his father’s counsellors.
‘Vathu!’ he snapped.
‘Enough! Govinda! Govinda!
What’s this constant
obsession with Govinda?
Why does everyone elevate
him, as if he remains above
these sordid affairs? All over
Aryavarta, men long for
power and title – scholar and
warrior alike. Govinda is just
one of those men. A clever
man no doubt, but he’s no
different from the rest! None
of us is! But, I no longer care
to pass judgement on
Govinda Shauri, or my cousin
Dharma, or anyone else for
that matter.
 ‘Consider me a fool if you
like, but I believe that we
must live by the principles
that we seek to embed in the
fabric of society. This isn’t
just a moral stand, but a
practical one. If we forsake
principles to send a message,
then that message itself is
lost. We can’t fight
manipulation with more
manipulation and intrigue;
nor can we change a
tyrannical system by resorting
to coercion. Still…’ He took
a deep breath and added, ‘I
won’t risk civil war for this.
Announce to the vassals that
there will be a joint
expedition to Matsya. We
will begin by laying siege to
the city-state and see if we
can negotiate a surrender.
Above all, I want Susarman’s
cooperation in this. If it is to
happen, let it happen that
way.’
Bhisma intervened,
‘Consider the alternative too,
Syoddhan. What if we refuse
to invade Matsya? If we
refuse to be yet another
kingdom harnessed into
submission by the
Firewrights?’
It was Devala who
answered, though he
addressed Syoddhan. ‘Then
you risk being harnessed into
submission by Govinda
Shauri. Or, really, any man
who is willing to seize the
might that is Matsya. You
cannot confuse the future of
the Kuru kingdom, why even
all of Aryavarta, with your
affections for your kinsmen.
Who in Aryavarta can
exercise the restraint you and
your grand-nephew here have
shown? Really, would you
trust anyone else? I have
named Dharma and Govinda
as your obvious contenders,
but surely you can see that
there are others too?’ he
glanced, discreet but
meaningful, at Dussasan.
Bhisma followed the
Firewrights’s gaze. He began
to speak, ostensibly in
continuation of his earlier
argument, but decided against
it. Syoddhan looked at the
two of them and then at his
brother. The very sight of
Dussasan, insolently sprawled
out, languid and half-drunk,
made Syoddhan feel strangely
repulsed, and the thought of
that drunken pig on any
throne only increased his
resolve to keep a firm hold
over the empire. He drew his
breath in with a hiss as he
realized how the many
threads came together. ‘All
right.’
 ‘But what about Govinda?’
Dussasan drawled.
Syoddhan ignored the
drool that rolled down his
brother’s drink-slackened jaw
and looked to Vasusena.
‘Take care of it. Quietly.
Don’t involve any of the
Yadus. I don’t want
Govinda’s death laid at our
doorstep. And take care of
that problem in Anga, too.
You said you suspected a
rebellion by the forest-folk,
isn’t it? Well, deal with them
in a way that affirms our
control over the situation. I
want you to bring your troops
here to join in the attack
against Matsya. Make an
example of those foresters so
that no one will think of
giving us trouble while our
attention is on the west.’
Vidur stepped in. ‘This is
both unnecessary and
misguided, Syoddhan,’ he
said. ‘I must protest.
Dharma…’
‘And I must insist,’
Syoddhan said. ‘You’re
notoriously transparent,
Kshatta. You’ve always had a
soft corner for Dharma, but
now you are allowing your
partiality to interfere with
your duty as the royal
advisor. It seems to me that
all your counsel is designedly
contrary to my interests. It
certainly doesn’t become a
man of your reputation to
manipulate me this way!’
‘The task of a counsellor is
to provide advice,
irrespective of whether it
draws fame or disfavour. I
realize that my words are no
longer pleasing, nor welcome
to you. But, forgive me, it’s
my duty to say what I must.
Nothing is ever gained by
forsaking compassion and
virtue. My advice cannot
change to please your tastes.
If you order me to leave, I’ll
obey without hesitation. But,
if I speak, my counsel
remains the same.’
‘Then, Kshatta, you’ll no
doubt understand if I choose,
as a simple policy, to never
heed a word you say.
Particularly when my teacher
and my grandfather both
agree that my chosen course
of action is the one I’m duty-
bound to follow – whether it
brings desirable outcomes or
not.’
‘As you wish.’ Vidur
inclined his head politely.
Syoddhan nodded and
strode out of the room. All
the others followed him,
except for Vidur.
‘Your Highness,’ Vidur
began, as soon as he was
alone with the king. ‘You
know Syoddhan will listen to
you. If you forbid him…’
‘Ah, brother! I know your
advice to be for the best but,
alas, I’m at the mercy of my
tempestuous son and his
noble ambitions. He is every
bit a warrior and believes in
the virtue of conquest. At
times, he may appear over-
eager, but like you he always
has our nation’s glory at
heart.’ Dhritarastra sighed
again, for added effect.
‘You’re lucky, dear Vidur.
You don’t know what a father
must suffer for the love he
bears his son.’
Vidur said nothing. He
knew Dhritarastra’s comment
could not be further from the
truth.
 14
SANJAYA GAVALGANI
SMILED IN HARD-WON
SATISFACTION. AFTER all
these years, things were now
in place, just where he had
meant for them to be. One
last detail remained, one last
man to be settled into
submission. But there was no
room for mistakes. He had to
let the man make the first
move. So, Sanjaya waited
patiently till Vidur sent for
him. He then made his way to
the older courtier’s study
briskly enough to show
respect yet in a leisurely
enough manner to show
confidence. As he strode
down the corridors, Sanjaya
found himself thinking of his
childhood, here in this very
palace at Hastina. It seemed
appropriate to indulge in a
little reminiscence, for today
would be a very big day.
Sanjaya had known neither
his father nor his mother. He
had been brought up with the
Kuru princes, as one of them
– at least for a while. But a
suta could be treated as a
prince for only so long. He
was merely the son of
Gavalgana, King
Vichitravirya’s charioteer. Or
so they had told him.
 As a young man, Sanjaya
had once searched through
the palace’s old
administrative records.
Nowhere did he find as much
as a salary payment to
Gavalgana noted nor any
mention of where and how
the charioteer had died.
Sanjaya had often thought it a
joke that the name Gavalgani
literally meant ‘king of bulls’.
It was ironic. The bull, the
sacred emblem of Rudra
himself, was also the insignia
of the Firstborn.
He waited at Vidur’s door
for the attendant to announce
him. Entering, he greeted the
older man with a silent bow.
‘Sanjaya!’ Vidur welcomed
him with warmth. His cheer
faded as he noticed the aura
of cold composure that
Sanjaya exuded. ‘Well,
you’ve been expecting this
encounter, haven’t you? In
that case, you also know what
it is I plan to say…’
‘Yes. I have expected it,
and I do know what you’ll
say. But, I doubt if you’ve
expected what I’m going to
tell you…or ask you…’
Vidur looked perplexed,
but said nothing. He gestured
for Sanjaya to sit, but
remained standing himself.
‘Why?’ Sanjaya asked,
after a while.
As Vidur remained silent,
Sanjaya chuckled
sardonically and said, ‘I know
everything. I just want to hear
your feeble explanations,
before I tell you how you’ve
destroyed everything with
your folly. Now tell me –
why?’
‘Because…’ Vidur tried,
but could not speak further.
Anger flashed across
Sanjaya’s face and he strode
over to where the older man
stood. In a low, sad tone, he
asked, ‘Is it because you
wanted the fame of giving up
your own flesh and blood? I
can understand why
Grandfather did what he did,
but how could you? And now
look at how they treat you,
trample all over you, call you
“Kshatta” and “Dasi-putra”!
How can you bear it, when
those who should be scraping
at your feet treat you as their
slave? Shame on you!’
Vidur felt a twinge of
disappointment, but forced
himself to ignore it. ‘Because
I’m not ashamed of who I am,
Sanjaya. I am a dasi-putra.
Whatever else I could have
been, I’m happy to be Vidur,
the kshatta. That is who I
believed I was for many
years, just as you’ve believed
yourself to be Sanjaya
Gavalgani.’
Breathing out hard,
Sanjaya subsided, touched by
the other’s man’s simple
confidence. ‘It’s not you I’m
angry with, really,’ he
ventured.
‘I know,’ Vidur replied,
‘but I must also confess that I
don’t see what it is you really
want.’
‘I want justice. Is that so
difficult to understand?’
Sanjaya felt tired, impossibly
tired. On impulse, he went
down on his knees in front of
Vidur.
‘Father…’ he tentatively
said, the longing visible in his
eyes.
Vidur stiffened, and then,
with a nod, he yielded. He
helped the kneeling man to
his feet and embraced him as
he had longed to for many
years now.
‘Ah, Sanjaya! This has
been the most painful secret
of them all to keep. How
many times I’ve longed to
call you my son, to embrace
you with pride, but…’
‘But…?’ Sanjaya asked, as
he stepped back from his
father’s embrace.
‘My father, your
grandfather…Dwaipayana…
feared that it would condemn
your generation, as it had
condemned mine. Already,
the strife between Pandu and
Dhritarastra had been passed
on to their sons. To
acknowledge you – it would
have led not just every
Kaurava, but also all of
Aryavarta into civil war.
Surely, you of all people
know enough politics to see
that?’
‘And you let him convince
you?’ Sanjaya rhetorically
questioned. With a groan of
resignation, he sat down on a
cushioned stool and buried
his face in his hands. ‘What
madness is this!’ he finally
remarked. ‘I can’t understand
what shred of dignity remains
for us, with all these lies and
the deceit. A man knows
neither father nor brother,
leave alone his lineage or
right.’
 ‘Dignity lies in doing what
is right and good in the time
that we hold, my son,’ Vidur
said. ‘Today we see the
tangled web that has been
woven over three, perhaps
more, generations. But you
must remember that our
forebears took decisions as
best they could, without the
benefit of hindsight.’
‘And so you’d have me
accept my lot in life, to call it
my fate and submit
unquestioningly?’
‘No, Sanjaya. Your fate is
what you make of it.’
‘And if I refuse to accept
Dharma, or even Syoddhan,
as my Emperor? If I question
their right to rule?’
‘Then you will certainly
cause war.’
‘It’s been caused already.’
‘What do you really want,
Sanjaya?’
 Sanjaya looked up at Vidur
in earnest, his eyes tearful
and pleading. ‘If ever you’ve
loved me as a son, I beg you,
tell me the truth… Did you
not think of claiming your
right? Not even once?’
Vidur smiled at his son and
squeezed his shoulder in
reassurance, before sitting
down next to him. ‘Yes,’ he
replied, ‘yes, I did once. Not
as long as my brother Pandu
lived and ruled, not even
when he died. But, for a
while, just before Dharma
was declared Crown Prince, I
did think of claiming my
right, as you call it. I toyed
with the idea… with many
ideas.’
‘Why didn’t you…?’
‘Because I met Govinda
Shauri, Prince of Mathura,’
Vidur said.
Sanjaya tried to conceal his
mixed emotions, but failed.
‘Govinda!’ he spat out before
he could stop himself.
Vidur continued, ‘I dare
say many people have that
reaction to his name. The
version that you’ve probably
heard, the story that is most
often told, is that of a prince
hidden away at childhood,
who finally discovered his
true identity and saved his
people. But the man I met
was no prince, despite his
crown and his silks and
jewellery. He was a common
gwala, a man true to the hard
earth he’d tilled and tough as
stone. And he was proud of it.
That’s when I decided,
Sanjaya. I didn’t want to be
the kshatta who discovered
his identity as something
more. I didn’t want that for
you, either, all these years.’
‘What else could anyone
want?’ Sanjaya was terse.
‘A world where there is no
shame in being who you are. I
don’t want to be raised out of
my lowly creed, my son. I
want to be respected for who
I am. Do you understand?’
A silence fell over the two
men, and they sat that way for
a long time. Eventually, as
the sun’s blood-red rays
faded and darkness crept into
the room, Vidur stirred. He
went over to the door and
opened it. An attendant had
left a small wick lamp on the
doorstep. Vidur picked it up
and walked around, lighting
the large earthen lamps that
hung around the room.
Sanjaya followed his
father’s actions with his eyes,
realizing for the first time the
stark simplicity, the poverty
almost, that Vidur lived in.
There were many, he knew,
who were less close to the
king, but had received much
greater rewards over the
years.
Was this nobility? Or was
it merely a stubborn refusal
to come to terms with reality?
Dwaipayana had chosen a
different kind of power, but
he was no less a ruler of men
than any king in Aryavarta.
But Vidur had chosen to
remain the son of a slave,
condemning himself and his
progeny. Few knew the name
of his acknowledged son – a
minor clerk in an
administrative function, or
that of his daughter, a girl
married away into
comfortable obscurity.
Vidur’s children, for all
practical purposes, barely
existed. No! Sanjaya noted.
Not all his children.
He stood up, causing Vidur
to turn and look at him.
‘I don’t believe you,’
Sanjaya said. ‘I don’t believe
it was principle alone that
stopped you all these years. It
was shame. You were
ashamed, as your father has
been! And that shame is what
has led the rest of Aryavarta
to trample on us for years.
You are as responsible for
what happened to us as any
Firstborn bastard!’
 ‘And what would I be so
ashamed of, Sanjaya? Or my
father?’
‘That which you pretend to
be ignorant of even now,
even here. You know as well
as I do who your grandmother
was, Father. You were young
and I was just a child, but I
remember the things she said
as she lay dying, even if it
took me decades to
understand. She was proud of
who she was. But you, and
her son… It doesn’t matter. I
am proud of being of her
blood. I am proud of what she
was. And I shall say it
without shame: Your
grandmother, my great-
grandmother, Queen Satya,
from whom all of us of the
Kaurava clan have
descended, was a Firewright.’
 15
IF VIDUR WAS STUNNED, HE
DID NOT SHOW IT. LIKE THE
PATIENT advisor he was, he
tried to meet Sanjaya’s
passionate rhetoric with
reason. ‘Don’t make this
personal, Sanjaya. All that
matters is the good of the
people. You have unleashed
an animal you cannot tame.
Already, the kings and
warriors of the realm have
begun to compete with each
other, they begin to fear and
loathe each other as they
struggle for supremacy. If
you were to let Syoddhan
attack Matsya, then it is the
beginning of the end. Not
only will you allow war to
break out in Aryavarta, but it
will be war of unimaginable
proportions. Matsya…’
‘…is the last bastion of the
Firewrights. It is what I need
to rule.’
‘Sanjaya, please. It doesn’t
have to be this way. You
must think of the people, of
the larger good. Dharma’s
reinstatement as Emperor can
make the people believe in
themselves, in benevolence
and goodness, and that is why
I plead with Syoddhan to
share his throne. You can’t
make a man dream of the
stars if he refuses to look up.
The people must believe that
they deserve their prosperity
and happiness and shrug off
their shackles of fatalistic
subservience. Dharma is what
Aryavarta needs. And now,
with you by his side…’
Sanjaya laughed. ‘Dharma?
As Emperor? Surely that
particular bird fled its roost a
long time ago. I cannot
believe that you are still
hoping…no, dreaming… But
then, you always did show
exceptional affection for
Dharma. Should I start
wondering why?’ His tone,
however, made it clear that he
knew too much to truly have
to speculate.
Vidur did not appear to be
affected by the possibilities of
what Sanjaya did or did not
think. ‘What more will you
do just to be rid of Dharma?
Sanjaya, I admit it, as does
everyone concerned: You are
the most powerful man in
Aryavarta. You control our
destiny. Syoddhan and his
allies are at your command.
And so it is that I urge you to
use your power wisely. You
can guide us all to peace, if
you will. Please…’
Sanjaya sighed, sounding
tired. ‘You still don’t
understand, Father. If I had
been born a Suta, I wouldn’t
have regretted it. It’s the fate
that the gods would have
ordained for me, as I
deserved. And my pride, my
honour, would lie in loyally
serving my masters, not in
seeking to be their equal. But
that is not how it is. Time and
again my right was stolen
from me – by Dwaipayana,
when he relegated you to
nothingness; by you, when
you submitted without
protest; and by Govinda
Shauri, when he destroyed
those I consider my true
family. It is my duty to
reclaim that which is
rightfully mine.’
‘And in doing so, you’ll
destroy your own.’
Sanjaya nodded. Vidur did
indeed have a flair for the
dramatic and much as it could
sway Dhritarastra and
Bhisma, it had little effect on
him. Snidely he replied, ‘You
and your father have done
that already…’
‘Sanjaya…’
‘Enough. I came here,
Father, with the faint hope
that you’d understand what I
am about to do and why. But
you will remain the shame-
tainted bastard son of a slave
you consider yourself to be,
living in your make-believe
world and pretending to be
wise and noble. I, however,
am Arya: a nobleman and a
warrior. And I won’t rest till I
win, or die! Whether you like
it or not, I must say this: Tell
that old fool Dwaipayana to
spend his time in prayer and,
if he feels so inclined,
contemplation of how his
twisted ideas of morality and
virtue have led us here. If he
tries to interfere, to stop the
attack on Matsya, I will bring
him down in a way he’s never
imagined.’
‘Stop being a fool,
Sanjaya…’
‘I’m no fool! No, not at all.
You see, Dwaipayana himself
taught me that every man has
his secrets, dangerous secrets
that the wise can use to
control and even to destroy.
What he forgot, in his pride,
was that he too is a man and
that his secret is the most
terrible of them all. The day
all Aryavarta comes to know
that Krishna Dwaipayana, the
greatest Vyasa of the
Firstborn, was born of the
womb of a Firewright…
Well, that will be the end of
him and his precious order. If
he wants my silence, he will
have it. But in return I want
Matsya. As for your precious
Dharma… As always, he is a
regrettable inconvenience,
and I honestly would be
relieved if he died and spared
me the trouble of going
around him all the time. Oh,
don’t look so shocked! I will
leave him alive unless he gets
in my way. And the same
goes for your dear father, too.
Otherwise, I assure you, three
generations will pay the
price.’ With a stiff bow,
Sanjaya walked out.
 Vidur sat as he was, lost in
thought. He stirred only as he
felt the weight of another on
the seat next to him. ‘What
now?’ he asked the man next
to him.
He had never seen
Dwaipayana looking so
forlorn in all his life. ‘He was
always the cleverest of the
lot. He knows what he’s
doing. Three generations, he
says. You and I are lost for
sure, but so are Dharma,
Syoddhan and Suka… Hai!
Varuna save us! Nothing can
stop Sanjaya now.’
Slowly, Vidur began,
‘There may be hope…’
‘Hope…? Where on earth
can we find that?’
‘You and I haven’t seen
eye to eye on many things,
Father, and I know what I’m
about to propose now may be
unpalatable to you. Reach out
to Govinda Shauri.’
‘And destroy in an instant
the only legacy I may have
left? He has already eroded
our legitimacy and power. If
he fails again it will condemn
us forever.’
‘But he need not fail.
Govinda…’
‘Stop! Don’t even say it!
Don’t mention that cowherd
by name!’
‘But there’s no other way.
You willingly relied on him
once…’
‘And he betrayed me, just
as he betrayed the
Firewrights. I can’t trust that
man, Vidur! We can’t. We
can’t trust Govinda any more
than we can trust Sanjaya.’
‘Trust yourself then. Trust
your upbringing, if not your
blood.’
Dwaipayana felt the sense
of being old and feeble wash
over him once again. It had
become his constant state
now. He had come to think it
was who he really was – an
old fool. ‘Everything,
everything that I have worked
so hard for will be taken from
me. Was I so selfish, Vidur?
You know I’ve wanted
nothing more than a righteous
realm, a realm that mirrored
the Divine Order on earth.
And, yes, I’ve been human
enough to want to leave that
righteous realm as an
enduring legacy to my son. I
wanted him to remain
untainted by my past, by the
blood and politics that has
brought us to our glory. Is
that too much to ask for?’
‘Perhaps it is, Father,’
Vidur said. ‘Perhaps, this is
the ultimate sacrifice that you
must make.’
‘You mean…?’
 ‘Yes. Send for Suka. Tell
him the truth. Let him decide
what must now be done. He is
the future Vyasa. Leave
Aryavarta in his care. To ally
with the Firewrights or not.
To defy Sanjaya or not. To
trust Govinda or not. They
are his decisions to make, and
he will do what is right. Suka
is a good man. Trust in that.’
Dwaipayana thought for a
few moments, each instant an
effort of will to persist and
not give up completely. At
length, he said, ‘You’re right,
Vidur. If only I’d found the
courage to do it earlier,
Sanjaya would never have
had such a hold over me nor
would the Firstborn stand in
such danger. Now, I don’t
know of what use it is to tell
Suka who I am, who he really
is… But I can no longer carry
this burden on my own. Let
my son bear it for me
henceforth. Even so…’
‘Yes, Father?’
Dwaipayana’s eyes held
uncharacteristic agony. ‘I fear
it may already be too late.’

16
DWARAKA SPARKLED LIKE A
PEARL WITHIN AN OYSTER,
HELD IN a seamless embrace
between the dark sea and the
night sky. Viewed this way,
from a peak atop the Raivata
range, it seemed illusory, an
island floating in nothingness,
a city of angels and celestials.
Philista knew that her
fondness for the city was in
many ways the result of her
fondness for the man she
always thought of as the soul
of Dwaraka: Govinda Shauri.
She wondered what he was
doing even as her eyes sought
out the tallest cluster of
turrets, her gaze misting over
as it settled on a familiar
tower. But she had to do what
she had to, no matter how
much it hurt. She sighed,
impatient, as she turned away
and looked for signs of the
man who was to meet her
here. But the woods were
dark and quiet. Dark, like
Govinda’s eyes.
Philista sighed yet again.
She had proclaimed on more
than one occasion that she
would never tire of looking
into those large eyes, or at the
sharp, strong angles of his
cheeks and, of course, those
perfect lips: neither too full
nor too thin. She remembered
how, the first time Govinda
had visited her native city of
Elis, men and women alike
had stared at him in
admiration, citing his dark
skin as a curiosity. Her
inquisitiveness had been more
philosophical; she had found
his ideas and knowledge
fascinating.
Indeed, that was why he
had come to the Yavana
lands, seeking out their
philosophers and scholars –
her own teacher Pyrrho in
particular – to debate, discuss
and share, though the first of
those debates had been more
of a personal argument.
Philista had walked in on the
two men to find Pyrrho
uncharacteristically enraged.
‘Leave!’ he was shouting at
Govinda. ‘My family has
done enough for you and your
kind. I owe Aryavarta
nothing. I owe Ghora
Angirasa nothing.’
‘Acharya, please, listen to
me…’ Govinda had persisted.
Philista remembered the
septuagenarian Pyrrho rising
in wrath on hearing the word
with which Govinda
addressed him – in what she
supposed was Aryavarta’s
native tongue. He had turned
to Philista. ‘Ask this man to
leave, Philista. Or else I don’t
know what I will do next.’
Govinda had not said
another word, but began
walking out of the room.
Philista had escorted him out.
Torn by curiosity, she had
asked him who he was. His
accent had been strong, but
he replied in her tongue, ‘My
name is Govinda Shauri. I
belong to an order of scholars
known as Angirasa.’ Sensing
that she did not completely
understand, he explained, ‘It
means Firewright.’ It had not
taken her long to see the
connection. ‘Pyrrho’, in her
tongue, meant ‘of fire’.
When she had gently
pressed her teacher for the
entire tale, he had told her
how he and his family had,
many decades ago, escaped
from the bloody scourge that
had torn apart all of
Aryavarta. Over the years,
they had become people of
Yavana in heart and soul, but
memories of their past, of the
injustices and horrors they
and their kin had faced,
remained alive.
‘What did that man – this
Govinda Shauri – want?’ she
had asked at the end of the
narration.
‘He says he has a plan. He
wants the world to be united
by knowledge, by the light of
reason and learning. He aims
to do what we have been
doing here in Elis – sharing
knowledge, spreading it – and
asks for my help so that both
our realms may prosper.’
‘Hah! Another idealist who
dreams of changing the
world. His plan, can it even
work?’
Pyrrho had drawn a deep
breath. ‘I do not know. This
much I will admit – I have
never seen a man so rational
and immaculate in his
thought as he. If anyone can
change the world, he can. But
whether it will work I do not
know. The question he left
me with is this: Would I be
able to live with not trying?’
‘I wouldn’t,’ Philista had
said. ‘But that is because I
would never be able to look
my teacher in the eye if I
didn’t.’
To that, Pyrrho had
laughed and said, ‘All right.
Send for Govinda Shauri. No,
wait. Not immediately.
Tomorrow. Do it tomorrow.
Let him fester for a day, and
then we shall send for him
and hear him out completely.’
And so began a long
association – part friendship,
part collegial affinity and part
desire.
Philista wished, with a
little regret, that her reasons
for seeking him out over the
seas after nearly twenty years
had not been different. But it
was not attraction, whether
physical or otherwise, that
had brought her to Aryavarta.
Her fellow scholars – the
Firewrights of Elis, as
Govinda had jestingly
referred to them – had placed
much of their faith in
Govinda’s proposed plan, in
what he had averred would be
beneficial to both Yavana and
Aryavarta, and perhaps even
beyond. Pyrrho, however, had
not shirked from pointing out
the risks, over and over again.
‘If all goes as you say,
Govinda, both our lands will
prosper. Craft and knowledge
shall drive both our
civilizations to great heights.
If, however, things do not
progress as you promise, it
will without doubt lead our
nations towards war. History
teaches us that where power
fails to lead to prosperity and
peace, it inevitably engenders
envy, fear and conflict.’
‘Trust in the goodness of
men and women, Acharya,’
Govinda had said. ‘Trust in
yourself.’
In spite of herself, it broke
Philista to admit that it was
this trust, this faith in
humanity, that Govinda had
now lost. His plan had fallen
apart, and there was nothing
he could do to set things
right. Worse, he was not even
willing to try. Already,
Aryavarta stood splintered by
fear and distrust, and its many
nations were competing to
build their armies and
arsenals. And Govinda no
longer cared where it would
lead them. He was broken,
just as his realm was broken,
the remains of a dream gone
horribly wrong. It was,
Philista knew, the beginning
of the end, of the inevitable
erosion of a way of life. And
nowhere was it more obvious
than in Dwaraka.
The city-state that Govinda
and Balabadra had built with
love and devotion, was now a
shadow of its former self. In
appearance, Dwaraka lacked
nothing of its former glory,
but Philista could see the
changes, the political
conspiracies and skewed
views of equality, goodness
and justice. The Council was
no longer the democratic and
representative body it had
once averred to be.
Kritavarman, Bhurisravas and
the other Yadu princes who
had given up their
sovereignty as vassal princes
to join the Confederation of
Yadu Nations had taken the
opportunity to reassert their
dominance, rebuild their
personal armies and replenish
their personal coffers.
Dwaraka was perhaps on the
verge of descending into civil
war, and that, Philista knew,
would be the spark that would
light the huge blaze in which
Aryavarta would burn as
would the Yavana lands, the
lands she called home.
There is nothing left to do
but act. Thus resolved,
Philista turned yet again to
glance at the forest behind
her. This time she saw the
dark outline of a horse and
rider. She did not move till
the man stepped out from the
cover of the trees and into the
moonlight.
The sight of Jayadrath,
king of Sindhu, filled Philista
with revulsion. She had
overheard, unseen,
Balabadra’s careful
recounting of the attack on
Panchali, and could never
forget the sight of Govinda on
his knees, broken and utterly
devastated. Finding a
modicum of satisfaction in
the fact that Jayadrath looked
a little bruised from his
encounter, she stepped
forward to greet him.
‘Mahamatra, thank you for
agreeing to meet with me. I
regret that I am not in a
position to offer you any
refreshment or other
hospitality. But such are our
circumstances.’
Philista found such
politeness from a man of
Jayadrath’s reputation
amusing, but she kept a
straight face and came to the
point. ‘What are the terms?
What do you want?’ she
asked curtly.
‘Govinda Shauri.’
 ‘And what do I get in
return?’
‘The promise of peace with
Aryavarta’s future Emperor.
He sends you a scroll. It is
written in your language so
you may share it with your…
superiors.’
Philista took the proferred
object and ran her eyes over
it. ‘It is neither in his hand,
nor does it bear his seal.’
‘Of course not. He’s not a
fool.’
‘But I am, to take him at
his word?’
Jayadrath frowned. ‘Surely
you’ve been here long
enough to know that to an
Arya truth is not a negotiable
quality.’
‘Negotiable, no. But it is
adaptable – that much I have
learnt.’
‘Hence he sends his terms
and assurances in writing.’
 Philista rolled up the scroll
and tapped it against her open
palm as she considered the
offer. She said, ‘Is he that
valuable to you? Govinda
Shauri? These are generous
terms to offer in exchange for
the life of one man.’
‘We need one other thing.
Information…of a particular
kind.’
‘And Govinda Shauri has
it?’
 ‘Yes.’
‘What is it?’
Jayadrath shook his head.
‘First, I need your word that
you will fulfil this task. Only
then can I tell you more. Now
tell me, can you do this?’
Philista gave him a
doubtful look. ‘You know it’s
not easy. If it were, you
wouldn’t have sought my
help.’
‘It is not impossible either.
But we would rather that our
involvement in this be kept a
secret – even from the Yadus
leader we are inclined to
think of as our allies.’
‘You mean Kritavarman
and Bhurisravas. What makes
you think I want them for
enemies?’
Jayadrath’s lips curved in a
leering smile. ‘It won’t make
a difference. Do this, and we
throw our support behind
you. You an your people will
have everything to gain.’
Philista said, ‘It can’t be
done in Dwaraka. We need to
get him out of there. He is
under guard on the Council’s
orders…’
‘If you invite him to your
ship… I mean, it is well
known that you…’
Jayadrath’s tone made
Philista’s head buzz with
anger. She was about to
protest against the
insinuations, but then decided
not to waste her time. ‘If I
invite him, the Council will
certainly not let him leave
Dwaraka. They don’t trust me
and might even suspect that I
am planning to help him
escape. On the other hand, if
you can get one of the traders
to ask for Govinda’s services
– say with a ship’s repairs or
such…make it about
money… The Council
doesn’t like to lose any. Let
me know which ship. I will
take care of the rest.’
‘Chop his body into pieces
and throw it into the sea. That
way it won’t wash ashore and
everyone will think he has
escaped. Particularly, if your
involvement is not known
and you stay at Dwaraka a
while to mourn him…’
The urge to hit Jayadrath
hard, to chop him into bits
and throw him off the cliff,
coursed through Philista. She
fought it back, breathing hard
from the effort, and managed
a single nod.
Jayadrath raised an
eyebrow at her reaction but
dismissed it. He continued,
‘All right. As for the
information we want…’
Philista felt her heart
thunder in her chest as
Jayadrath told her what it was
that he was looking for. She
had only to hear the
beginning of it before her
mind began speeding through
many horrible possibilities,
including the thought that
possessing such a powerful
weapon might tempt
Jayadrath to turn against his
own allies and his liege-lord.
Yet she felt grateful for the
cold, benumbing fear, for it
helped her pretend that her
guilt was assuaged. She had
no choice but to betray
Govinda.
When Jayadrath finally
left, she shut her eyes and
drew in a deep breath. One
man for my homeland…it is a
reasonable trade. She had
been with Govinda long
enough to know that if he had
been in her place he would
have done the same. It helped
Philista make her peace with
what would happen next.

17
THE DISCOVERY HAD BEEN
UNEXPECTED.
DHRSTYADYMN HAD ridden
east, as Asvattama had
directed, and begun scouring
the region without much
result. Shikandin was a hard
man to find if he did not wish
to be found. Dhrstyadymn
would have counted it his
good fortune but knew it was
a matter of patience and
persistence when he finally
heard a piece of gossip in a
small drinking-house about
arson and rebellion in the
Anga kingdom. The fact that
no one had ever seen the man,
or men, responsible for the
acts had been enough to
convince Dhrstyadymn that
he had found Shikandin.
Dhrstyadymn headed to
Anga, but instead of making
his way to the capital, he had
followed the rumours to a
corner of the kingdom that
adjoined the nation of Kashi.
It gave him an idea. He
crossed over into Kashi and
sought the help of the captain
of a small border garrison,
claiming that he was a
Panchala soldier in pursuit of
a wanted man. As he had
expected, the captain was
happy to assist, if only to
demonstrate how the warriors
of Kashi were more efficient
than that of Panchala. In the
same vein, the captain
arranged for all the
permissions needed to take
their search across the border
and into Anga.
 Three days later, they came
upon the tracks of a single
man, hardly muhurttas old.
They followed the trail to the
scene of a massacre in
progress. Dhrstyadymn had
no doubt, even from their
unobtrusive distance atop a
small hill, that it was
Shikandin. He watched as his
brother methodically
disposed of the guards around
the simple hut-like structure
and he wondered whether he
had been right to have come
looking for him, after all.
The Kashi captain
escorting him intruded on his
thoughts. ‘You see, this could
hardly be the fellow you’re
looking for. This man is a
rebel, a spy the Anga forces
have been trying to get their
hands on for ages now.
Finally, he walks into their
trap.’
 ‘Trap? Oh please. There
are hardly any men
positioned around. What sort
of a sorry trap is that?’
‘There are soldiers hiding
in the woods, on the other
side. Not many, because
nearly all of Anga’s troops
have been deployed
westwards. In any case, the
soldiers are not needed – they
intend to kill this rebel, not
capture him. You see, this
man follows a pattern. He
kills the guards and destroys
the workshop they protect.
This time he is in for a
shock… Anyway, make
yourself comfortable. The
Angas won’t want us to
interfere, not in this one. The
border commandant told me
to make sure we stayed out of
the way.’
One word in all of the
captain’s speech caught
Dhrstyadymn’s attention.
‘Workshop?’ he asked.
The captain was taken
aback. ‘Yes. Workshop…
forge. Oh, by Hara, you really
are a novice aren’t you? Else
you’d know…unless, you
Panchalas are such fools that
you’re the only nation in
Aryavarta that isn’t building
up its armouries…’ Before
the garrulous man could
finish, Dhrstyadymn drew a
dagger from his waist-sash
and plunged it directly into
the man’s heart. He put his
hand over the dying captain’s
mouth, in case he cried out,
but it was not necessary. The
man was dead in an instant.
Dhrstyadymn began
sprinting down the gentle
slope. He thought of calling
out, but decided against it,
since he might alert the other
waiting soldiers. He saw that
Shikandin was done with the
last of the guards around the
forge, and was making his
way towards the dark
doorway.
A blast of heat, like
thunder and lightning,
exploded out from the bowels
of the earth, and
Dhrstyadymn felt himself
thrown backwards and on to
the ground. He pulled himself
up, horrified to find that the
forge, if it was that, had been
reduced to burning rubble. By
the light of the fire, he saw
Shikandin’s still outline on
the ground, his limbs splayed
at an awkward angle. With a
yell that was part rage and
part fear, Dhrstyadymn ran to
his brother. He was just in
time, for more Anga soliders
poured out of the woods.
Dhrstyadymn counted nine
of them. He skidded to a halt
as he reached where
Shikandin lay, and took up a
position with his bow. He
knew he did not have much
time, but this was his only
chance to reduce the enemy’s
numbers as much as possible
before they got too close. He
let his arrows fly in quick
succession, moving without
hesitation from one target to
the next. He managed to
down seven men, one of them
taking two arrows to fall,
before the remaining two
were upon him. Letting his
bow fall, Dhrstyadymn drew
his sword and met them head-
on.
Metal rang against metal,
and birds stirred near and far,
taking to the air with chilling
shrieks. Dhrstyadymn added
a cry of his own as he felt a
burning pain run from his left
shoulder all the way down his
arm and back. His vision
blurred, but as he staggered
back he realized that two men
had come at him from the
side. Only then did he realize
what an odd number nine
was. Why hadn’t it occurred
to him earlier? A group of
ten, with the eleventh in
command, was a basic army
unit. His failure to see the
obvious sent panic coursing
through him. He pushed it out
of his mind. Four against
one. I can do this. But even as
he made the assertion, he felt
the heavy, cloying emptiness
of doubt spread through his
body, slow down his limbs.
He told himself it was
impossible, that no weapon,
nothing but his mind could
defeat his own will. But his
will was fast fading.
This is why. This is why
Dron did not think me
worthy. It does not matter
how many years I train, how
hard I try. I lack a warrior’s
spirit. I was willing to doubt
my own brother. I am not
worthy.
Blood trailed from his
hands, his wrists, down his
arms. From the corner of his
eye, he could see the drops
falling off his elbow and on
to the mossy earth, creating
dark, wet patches. He thought
of Panchali, of the dark stains
on her body and robe as she
was dragged through the halls
of Hastina. He thought he
heard a crowd far away,
cheering and screaming, but
all he felt was silence.
Silence, and then the small
voice that was always there,
telling him to let go, to lose,
because he would be defeated
anyway. He tried not to listen
to it but the voice, his voice,
grew louder and louder till it
was shouting in his ear. It
taunted him, broke him and
rent his very being till he
knew that giving up was all
he had to do, and he would
know relief, the lightness and
freedom he constantly longed
for. He would have let go at
that very instant, except that
one of the four men made the
mistake of turning away from
Dhrstyadymn to kick the
prone Shikandin hard in the
ribs out of sheer malice.
Dhrstyadymn’s heart
quailed as Shikandin neither
stirred nor made a sound.
With a yell of rage he threw
himself at the man who had
dared touch his brother.
Anger made him near-
invincible. He was aware of a
whiplike stinging again, this
time on the back of his thigh,
but he didn’t care, snarling in
satisfaction as the first soldier
went down with a dazed look
on his face and
Dhrstyadymn’s dagger in his
throat. Another burst of pain,
and Dhrstyadymn realized his
mistake. Intent on the first
soldier, he had nearly ignored
the other three.
Childish mistakes! Dron’s
harsh reprimands came to
mind. He always made
childish mistakes such as
these, errors that even a boy
smaller than a sword knew
not to make.
Your anger is your
strength. Right now it
controls you. You will have to
learn to control it.
‘Aaaaah!’ the cry was a
roar, not of physical pain but
a sensation far more
unbearable. Dhrstyadymn ran
his sword clean through the
first man, and then lashed out
at the second soldier, his back
turned completely to the
third. If the choice was
between anger and dismay, he
would gladly choose anger;
he would gladly go down
ablaze than live without hope.
In his fury, he had no clear
notion of what he was doing,
but a few moments later, the
second man lay at his feet,
dead. But he too had paid the
price. He knew he had been
slashed at least six times and
stabbed at least once. His
head throbbed and spun from
exertion. His stomach heaved,
threatening to bring up a few
inner parts along with the bile
in his chest and it was all he
could do to stand. His eyes
closed as he swayed from
side to side. He tried to hold
on, but felt his sword slide
out of his grasp. It seemed to
fall a long, long way, as
though the earth had opened
up to claim it deep inside her
core. Dhrstyadymn knew she
awaited him the same way.
The last man rushed at him
and slashed downwards, right
on target towards his neck.
Dhrstyadymn felt his knees
buckle but remained upright
and caught the sword with
both hands. It remained
inches away from his head.
All his training told him that
he ought to hold tight and try
to sidestep the man, whirl
around him, pull his arm into
a twist which could give him
the upper hand and then he
could try to fight on… He
forced himself to keep his
fingers curled around the
blade, ignoring the
unbearable pain as the soldier
tried his best to rip his sword
out from his grasp.
Give up! It will all be over!
You cannot do this anyway!
You are nothing!
Dhrstyadymn could feel his
strength ebbing away as his
blood fell, drop by leisurely
drop, each speck heavy and
rounded with its own weight,
each globe shimmering red
with life. The next few
moments lasted an eternity.
Time, he thought, had
decided to wait, while his
entire being turned into an
ocean of red, a cohesive
union of millions. Like rain.
Each drop complete in itself.
He closed his eyes. I am what
I am, he told himself, neither
the slayer nor the slain,
nothing more and nothing
less. Trusting in the instinct
that spoke to him without
words, he let go of the blade.
Before the soldier could
react, Dhrstyadymn turned
and stepped in close,
mimicking the soldier’s
stance like a live shadow.
Grabbing the man’s wrist
with his left hand, he added
his own strength to his swing.
He heard a scream. It
sounded like him, yet it was
not completely human. He
felt the soft resistance of
flesh, the iron tang of blood
as it filled his mouth, the
warmth of it satisfying in its
own way, as it drenched his
face and flew generously
down his chest. The blade
stopped inches from his own
neck, even as his right hand
came up and across in a
precautionary gesture, his
palm meeting the sharp edge
before it could touch him. He
let the headless torso fall to
the ground and stood as he
was, his chest heaving.
Slowly, the world stopped
spinning.
 ‘Shikandin!’ Dhrstyadymn
ran to where his brother lay
still. He placed his head on
the warrior’s heart, but he
could neither feel nor hear a
beat. ‘Shikandin! No!’ He
shook his brother, thumped
his chest and tried his best to
revive him, but it was of no
use.
Soon, dawn brought the
forest around them alive in a
melody of sound and activity
but still Shikandin did not
stir. As the sun forced its way
through the canopy,
Dhrstyadymn could hold on
no longer. He felt himself fall
over his brother’s torso. The
last thing he remembered was
the stinging in his eyes as the
tears broke through.

18
DHRSTYADYMN OPENED HIS
EYES TO FIND HIMSELF IN A
BOWER in the forest. Sunlight
and shadow fell in dappled
patterns of green and gold,
and the musical hum of
honeybees filled the air. Yet,
it was a gentle, familiar,
touch that sent life and joy
coursing back through him.
‘Shikandin!’ He sat up at
once, the action causing a
sharp pain to pierce through
his abdomen.
‘Easy…’ Shikandin
cautioned, helping his brother
up into a sitting position. He
looked tired and worn, but
otherwise unhurt.
‘How…? Where are we?’
‘We are, politically
speaking, in the Kashi
kingdom, but these forests
are…well, they are like our
Eastern Forests: a world unto
its own. As for the how – I
carried you here. I was
stunned by the explosion, but
have a faint recollection of
you dancing on my chest
before you fell over me. Still
it appears you managed to
revive me with that battering,
so I shall not complain about
it. Especially since you look
like you’ve tried to mate with
a crocodile.’
Dhrstyadymn looked down
at the profusion of cuts on his
body, most of them already
cleaned and bound. He knew
he should not have survived,
but was glad that he had.
Slowly, as he began to take
stock of himself and his
surroundings, he noticed that
his wounds had been treated
with a green unguent that had
an unfamiliar smell. He also
noticed two lithe, dark men
sitting on their haunches,
preparing what he supposed
was the same unguent by
chewing certain berries in
their mouth to a paste-like
consistency and then spitting
out the paste into a bowl
made of woven leaves.
Dhrstyadymn let out a sullen
curse at which the men
looked up, waved their
greetings and resumed their
chewing.
Shikandin laughed. ‘It’s a
mighty useful healing salve,
brother. Saliva activates the
healing power of the leaves –
even crushing them won’t
have the same effect. And if
you’re feeling well enough to
notice these things, I’d say
the medicine has served its
purpose. So I suppose you
can return the favour and tell
me how it is you came to be
at the forge last night.’
‘Asvattama sent me.’
‘Asvattama? That is a
surprise. But…’
Dhrstyadymn continued,
‘He said, “Shikandin is one of
the strongest men I know, but
even the strength of the
greatest man can fail if he
loses hope. Your brother
needs you; he needs you to
believe that he is not a traitor
to his people.” The rest of
that conversation was in his
usual, insolent style, so I
won’t bother with it, if you
don’t mind. But this seemed
important. It…it stayed in my
head.’
Shikandin smiled, deep
wrinkles fanning out from the
corners of his eyes as he did
so. ‘Some things never
change. Asvattama always
loved to prove that he was the
most intelligent man of the
three of us.’
‘Three of you?’
‘He, Govinda and me.
Asvattama was forever
berating me as impulsive and
reckless. Govinda was more
like him back then – he was a
serious man in many ways,
though to see him now…’
Shikandin trailed off as the
irony of the statement struck
him. ‘Anyway, if those were
Asvattama’s words, then he
was doing more than telling
you where to find me. He was
sending me a message: even
the strength of the greatest
man can fail if he loses hope.
And just as I needed you to
give me hope, brother,
Govinda now needs us to find
his own strength.’
‘Govinda? But why…?’
‘Yes indeed. Why?’
Shikandin frowned. ‘It can
only mean one of two things.
Either Aryavarta is in great
peril, and Asvattama believes
Govinda can help. Or…’
 ‘Or…’
Shikandin took a deep
breath and let it out. ‘Or
Panchali is in trouble.’
Dhrstyadymn’s heart
skipped a beat. ‘Asvattama
also said something about
you…and your friends…
being in danger. You don’t
suppose he meant..?’ He
nodded towards the two
swarthy men, who politely
ignored the brothers’
conversation.
Shikandin did not answer
the question. Instead, all he
said was, ‘Come on, it’s time
to go.’ With that, he got up
and signalled to the two men
to break camp. He set about
putting his own things
together.
Dhrstyadymn tried to stand
up, but felt his head spin.
‘Sthuna!’ Shikandin called
to one of the men for help.
 Immediately, Sthuna was
at Dhrstyadymn’s side,
holding him up. With his
other hand he pulled out a
container, which he opened to
reveal a dry powder inside.
‘Ashwagandha,’ Sthuna
explained, in an accent that
Dhrstyadymn found new but
not incomprehensible. ‘It will
make you immune to the
pain. Your heart will beat
faster and you will find some
energy. It won’t last long and
you will feel like a skinned
snake later, but for now…’
‘Thank you.’ Dhrstyadymn
took the proffered container
and poured the contents down
his throat in one go. Sthuna
passed him a skin of water
right after, which he
gratefully consumed. To his
surprise, Dhrstyadymn found
a fiery heat coursing through
his body. He could stand, no,
walk even, and his head felt
much clearer than it had. The
pain from his wounds, too,
seemed dimmer.
‘No wonder people think
these forest-dwellers are
magicians. Imagine how
useful that little box of magic
dust would be after a long
night with a concubine,’
Shikandin teased, falling in
next to his brother as they
began making their way
through the forest.
Dhrstyadymn said, ‘Who
are these people?’
‘They are the native
inhabitants of these forests.
People we pretend don’t exist
anymore. In many ways, they
don’t. Most of them have
given up their old lives to
become one more body in the
teeming mass of commoners
that we call our subjects.
Others remain here, living
reclusive lives. Our soldiers
are often ordered to hunt
them down as troublemakers
and thieves…or magicians.’
‘Magicians? You mean
these people are Firewrights?’
Shikandin laughed. ‘What
is a Firewright,
Dhrstyadymn?’ He waited,
letting his brother ponder
over the question. Eventually,
he said, ‘It took me a long
time to understand. Fire is
more than an object, it is an
element. The first Firewrights
were ordinary people –
probably children of the earth
like these forest dwellers.
Look what has become of
them now. Look what has
become of us all.’
Dhrstyadymn’s head ached
with the many questions that
he had, but Shikandin was in
no mood to continue the
discussion. The four trudged
on in silence for the rest of
the day.
A smile lit up Shikandin’s
face as a dim outline of huts
was seen on the far side of a
gurgling stream. It
disappeared as Sthuna let out
a pained yell.
Before Dhrstyadymn could
react, his three companions
ran forward, splashing
through the stream towards
the village. He followed as
fast as he could, feeling glad
that his strength had returned,
but the sight that greeted him
made him bend over and
retch. Ahead, stood the
village, quiet in the smoky
haze that hung over it. Right
at its entrance, set on stakes a
foot high from the ground,
were over thirty severed
heads.
After what felt like a long
time, Shikandin drew his
sword. ‘Sthuna, go round the
village and make sure it’s
clear. Give the signal.’
Sthuna appeared not to
have heard and stood, rigid.
His other companion was
already on his knees,
throwing up and crying at the
same time.
Shikandin reached out.
‘Sthuna…Sthuna? Did you
hear me?’
Finally, Sthuna stirred.
Pulling out a short spear from
the array of weapons on his
back, he set off around the
perimeter of the settlement,
his tread cautious, as though
he were hunting a wild
creature.
Shikandin took a deep
breath and began walking
towards the gate, and the
severed heads. He stopped
when he was closer and took
a count under his breath.
‘None of the children are
here,’ he noted, with relief.
‘But…we have six women
missing.’
‘Over here,’ Dhrstyadymn
said, from between the first
cluster of huts. ‘The
women…are here…’
Shikandin walked to his
side with the heavy tread of
one who knew what to
expect. The women lay dead,
their bloodied bodies and
naked forms leaving no doubt
as to what had happened to
them. Shikandin picked up
one of their discarded robes
from nearby, tore it in two,
and covered up two of them.
For three of the others, he
pulled off and used his upper
robe. As he walked over to
the last woman, Dhrstyadymn
held out his uttariya.
Shikandin took it, and
dropped to his knees next to
the dead woman. He wrapped
the robe around her with a
tenderness that Dhrstyadymn
had never seen in his brother
and kissed her dirt-stained
forehead.
By the time Sthuna
returned, having finished his
rounds of the area around the
village, Shikandin and
Dhrstyadymn had begun
digging a large grave.
‘The children?’ Sthuna
asked, a quiver in his voice.
Dhrstyadymn nodded to a
still-smouldering hut.
Sthuna took a few steps
towards it but as the smell of
burnt flesh hit him, he
stopped, not daring to go any
closer. He turned to
Shikandin. ‘Did you…?’
‘I did. About seven of the
children are missing. Six boys
and one girl. I think they must
have gone to the forest to
play or pick berries, and so
have escaped. Kshtradharman
and Uttamaujas are, I hope,
among them. Their bodies are
not here.’
‘And Guhyaka? My
sister?’
Shikandin merely pointed.
Sthuna fell to his knees and
began sobbing.
‘Sthuna, your daughter
too,’ Shikandin said. He
picked up one of figures he
had wrapped in his robe, and
carried her over to where
Sthuna was sprawled on the
ground and laid her in his lap.
It was all Dhrstyadymn could
do to not scream, as he
realized the dead girl could
hardly be twelve or thirteen
years old.
Unable to take it, he spat
out, ‘Yabha! How…? What
animals could do this?’
Shikandin replied, ‘Human
beings do it, Dhrstyadymn.
You’ve seen battle, but you
haven’t seen massacre. There
is something about war that
fuels rage and lust and fear
and every dark emotion there
is. The best of soldiers turn
into demons, and even the
most noble generals and
commanders cannot stop
them.’
‘This is not war!’
‘Isn’t it? It is as much war
as what is fought on a
battlefield. You…you don’t
know what the Great Scourge
was like, brother. What has
happened here…it is a re-
enactment of those hunts. I
guess, Devala has finally had
his revenge against me for all
those Panchala raids I once
led.’
‘You? You’d have never
let this happen if you had
been in command.’
 ‘You didn’t know me when
I was younger. I’ve made my
share of mistakes.’
‘And so? So we forgive
that bastard Devala? And
Vasusena? It was his men
who did this, wasn’t it? They
must have planned to attack
exactly when you were out. I
don’t understand, Shikandin;
nothing makes sense any
more. What world is this,
where we say: “This is how
men are, this is how kings
are.” Hai, is there no hope?’
‘There is always hope,’
Shikandin said. He spoke a
few words of consolation to
Sthuna and finally got him to
his feet. ‘Get your brother,’
he instructed. Sthuna went
back to where the other man
had collapsed outside the
village, but returned alone.
He held out a bloody knife to
Shikandin.
 ‘He didn’t have the
courage.’
‘Neither do I, Sthuna. But
this doesn’t take courage. It
takes… emptiness.’

Together, the three men

buried all the bodies in one
grave. It was well past
midnight by the time they
finished.
‘What now?’ Dhrstyadymn
asked, numb.
 In response, Shikandin and
Sthuna exchanged glances
and began walking into the
forest. Dhrstyadymn followed
in silence. The men came to
stop at what appeared to
Dhrstyadymn as a relic of sort
– a large stone pillar that bore
the marks of the elements and
worship both.
Sthuna broke into tears
again at the foot of the pillar,
while Shikandin stood resting
his forehead against the stone.
‘What…who…what is
this?’ Dhrstyadymn asked.
‘She is Amba. She is the
spirit of all those who were
burnt alive during the Great
Scourge, the eternal spirit of
the thousands of innocents
whose sacrifice we remember
and honour.’
‘But…’
Shikandin shook his head.
‘Not now, brother. Now is not
the time for stories.’ He
wrapped his fingers through
the white beads around his
neck, placing metal and flesh
against the stone. He then
drew back and began taking
off his armour. ‘Sthuna. Stay
here. The children know to
come back here once it’s safe.
Take them to your mother’s
tribe. Give my armour to my
son, to Uttamaujas. Tell him
to train hard, for the next time
we meet, we shall avenge his
mother’s death together. Tell
him…tell him to take care of
his little brother.’
With that, he turned away
and began walking back
towards where they had
tethered the horses.
Dhrstyadymn refrained from
asking any questions.
Shikandin said, swinging
into the saddle. ‘I’m heading
to Dwaraka. You should go
home.’
‘Shikandin, please. What’s
the point? Look, I don’t care
that Govinda is a Firewright –
not after everything that I’ve
seen and heard now – but that
doesn’t change the fact that
he’s a broken man. In twelve
years, we’ve not heard from
him. Rather, we hear of him,
of how all he cares about now
is drink and women. Is that
the Govinda we knew? And if
the Govinda we knew still
existed, would he have
watched and waited all these
years?’
‘We watched. We waited.’
Dhrstyadymn shouted, ‘But
he has lost all hope!’
In response, Shikandin
urged his horse forward.
Dhrstyadymn threw his
hands up in exasperation.
‘Wait! Wherever it is you
want to go, I’m coming with
you,’ he said as he swung on
to his steed. Muttering to
himself, he added, ‘Might as
well mate with crocodiles
together.’ Sullenly, he
spurred his horse, the forced
humour doing nothing to
dispel the smell of blood and
burning flesh from his mind.
 19
‘OUR PEOPLE CAN’T FIND
ANYTHING WRONG WITH
THE SHIP. BUT the sailors
insist that there is a problem
with the rudder, and that the
ship lists and veers at the
slightest cross-current. They
are demanding that Govinda
Shauri himself check the
vessel, else they won’t pay us
the port charges due to us for
docking and maintenance.’
The attendant tried to put all
the authority he commanded,
which was not much, into his
voice. Failing at the effort, he
conceded, ‘Or so I was
instructed to tell you. And to
ensure that Commander… I
mean… that is…Govinda…
accompany these soldiers
here…’ He trailed off, partly
embarrassed at having used a
designation that Govinda no
longer carried, and partly at
now having to address the
man in question with undue
familiarity.
Balabadra did not care in
the least for the messenger’s
discomfort, certainly not after
he had been woken up in the
dead of night. ‘Surely,’ he
argued, ‘the loss of a single
ship’s charge is not worth the
time of an emergency council
meeting?’
 ‘It’s not just one ship. They
refuse to pay for the whole
fleet and also for the many
times they have docked here
this year. Commander
Kritavarman says it may be
best to indulge them. The
Council agrees with him.’
‘Where is the ship now? In
port?’
‘On the sea. Beyond the
harbour. But one of the
smaller sailboats can get us
there.’
Balabadra looked
questioningly at Govinda,
who nodded. It was not
enough to convince him. ‘Be
careful,’ he cautioned, in a
low whisper. ‘I trust these
soldiers, and I think the
Council has not yet stooped
so low as to harm you, but I
still don’t like this middle-of-
the-night affair or the fact that
they went on to call a meeting
without me. That I could not
be found is the silliest excuse
I’ve ever heard. Keep your
eyes open, and your sword
close.’
If Govinda took note of the
warning, he did not show it.
Nor did he show the slightest
suspicion when, on reaching
the trading ship, he found no
evidence of any defect or
repair. Before he could
comment on this, the Yadu
soldiers escorting him were
asked to return to shore and
wait while he was taken
below decks, ostensibly to
meet the captain of the ship.
He smiled the moment he was
left alone in a small room.
This would be his prison, but
he gladly made it home, for
he knew what it meant. If
Syoddhan was coming after
him, Panchali was, at least for
the time-being, safe.
 With that reasoning
warming his heart, Govinda
stretched himself out on the
small wooden bunk that was
the only fitting in the room,
save for the shuttered wick
lamp of the cautious make
that was typical on ships. He
had hardly closed his eyes,
when the door opened and
four men came in.
Mercenaries, Govinda noted,
wondering what it the world
had come to that men such as
these could be found in
plenty. He did not protest or
resist, when they threw him
onto the floor and stripped
him, or when the relentless
whipping began. Govinda grit
his teeth against the pain for
as long as he could, but when
the lash, wet with his blood,
hit raw, broken flesh, he
screamed.
Govinda waited for the
burning sensation to drive
him to unconsciousness or
even death, but it did not. The
whipping stopped, and he felt
afloat in a sea of fire, his
body in flames yet whole. He
willed himself to let go, as
though holding on to the idea
of being alive was all that had
kept him so, and now it was
time, it was finally time, for
the release he had been
waiting for all these years.
Reason told him that it was
meant to be so. It was the
only thing that gave meaning
to everything, to believe what
he had once stood for was not
flawed, though he himself
was; a creature one with the
same frail, flawed humanity
that he so loved.
Blood flowed from a cut on
his forehead to pool, hot and
searing, in his eyes. Govinda
tried to wipe it away but he
could not move. Through the
blurred haze he saw a familiar
figure, her red hair framing
her face in a soft glow.
‘Philista?’ he gasped as the
sting of betrayal hit him,
forcing him to focus beyond
the physical pain.
‘I’m sorry, Govinda,’ she
evenly replied. ‘But you have
to understand that you ask for
the impossible. Your ideas,
your dreams – assume that
we…people…always act
rationally, and that there is
nothing more rational than
goodness. It is not so. I am
not so. You made me believe
and hope in the idea of
greater good. Now that you
have lost hope, though my
mind still sees the power of
your ideas, my heart fears for
my people, my nation. I will
not act towards the greater
good, Govinda. Nor will
anyone else. Fear distorts
reason. Chaos is inevitable. I
am sorry.’
She paused, waiting for
Govinda to speak, but he
remained silent. Philista
continued, ‘I…my people
have been promised a
favourable alliance with the
new Emperor – Syoddhan of
the Kauravas. All I have to do
in return is to…’
 ‘Kill me?’ Govinda grit his
teeth against the pain, trying
to find the strength to speak
clearly. ‘I knew it was to
happen, sooner or later. But,
I’m curious: did they specify
how badly torn up I must be?’
‘That is…personal. Though
not in the way you think. I
need to know, Govinda. The
last astra-weapon Agniveshya
created, when he was in
hiding after the Scourge, I
need to know where it is.’
‘And how much will
Syoddhan pay you for that?’
‘I said it was personal. By
which I meant it is for my
country, my people. Each
kingdom in Aryavarta is now
bent upon outdoing the other.
Can you imagine what would
happen if they all came
together – if this Syoddhan
really does hold the empire
together? What about the rest
of the world, Govinda? We
wouldn’t want to trade with
such an empire; we would
fear it, and would defend our
land against it. Now tell me
where this last weapon is…
this Naga-astra…’
‘And you think torture will
make me talk?’
Philista said, ‘I should have
known it wouldn’t, but my
benefactors insisted. I know
that the only thing that
matters to you is cold reason.
And cold reason says you
should tell me the secret. You
know why? Because it is your
fault that the entire world is
in danger now. Can you
imagine the horror if all the
nations of the world went to
war with each other? Isn’t
that terrible prospect what
made you and Ghora
Angirasa want to break the
Firewright order as it was?
Well, you should have done a
better task of it. You should
have done a better task of
building your peaceful,
glorious new empire, and
then none of us would be in
this position. This is your
fault, Govinda, and this is
your last chance to save the
world. Tell me. Where is the
Naga-astra hidden? What is
it?’
‘Syoddhan is far from a
bad man, Philista. He is
capable of bringing peace and
glory to Aryavarta, and
beyond. If my death is what it
will take for him to do so, it is
not a bad trade, at all.’
‘Aah yes…one for a
family, a family for a village,
a village for a nation, a nation
for an empire… That is how
the saying goes, no? I hope
you are right, Govinda. That
your blood, and that of the
Matsya nation, is enough.’
‘Matsya?’ Govinda’s voice
shook, just a little.
Philista did not miss it.
‘Sentimental? I believe that
was home to the Firewrights
once, was it not? Now that its
protector, General Keechak,
is dead, perhaps it can be
home to them again. Are you
still willing to die, Govinda?
Are you still willing to trust
Syoddhan?’
 Govinda did not answer
with words, but Philista could
see him transform, shrink into
something smaller than the
pathetic creature he had
already been reduced to. For
the first time in all the years
that she had known Govinda
Shauri, she saw his eyes brim
and overflow, his tears
mingling with blood to stain
the dark skin of his cheeks.
She gasped, and it took her
every bit of self-restraint to
not go to him, to not comfort
him now that she saw how
utterly broken he was.
Biting her lip to keep
herself from breaking down,
Philista said, ‘It’s not too late,
Govinda. Help me. Tell me
about the Naga-astra, and we
of Elis and the other Yavana
lands can stop Syoddhan
before it’s too late.’
‘No.’
 ‘You trust him still?’
‘Yes.’
Philista looked
disappointed. ‘Why?’
‘Because I make the last
sacrifice I have left to make.
He better be worth it.’
Philista stared at Govinda,
trying to read his lifeless
eyes. At length, she turned to
the sole mercenary with her –
a tall, lanky fellow with the
lower half of his face
shrouded in the typical style
of his profession. ‘Kill him,’
she ordered the man, adding,
‘Do it quickly. He’s already
been through enough pain.’
With one last look at
Govinda, Philista left.
Govinda let his head hang
heavy. A quiet sob escaped
him as he realized this was
not over yet, that his body
and mind both had much left
to pay for. The mercenary’s
voice, surprisingly gentle,
intruded on his misery.
‘Quickly? Is that how you
really want it?’
Govinda shook his head.
‘Make it hurt. Make it last. I
deserve it. Please…’ He let
himself hit the wooden floor
with a thud, the world
spinning around him. As his
will to hold on faded,
Govinda began slipping into
darkness, an endless darkness
that would offer no peace. A
voice sounded, dull and in the
distance. It took him a while
to figure out that it was the
mercenary speaking.
‘I knew this warrior
once…’ the man said, ‘a
tough, no-nonsense fighter he
was. He taught me that reason
was the ultimate weapon, the
most powerful of all forces.
He told me that the one who
walked the path of reason
could never lose. Of course,
that warrior is an old man
now…maybe he was an idiot.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe
that lady – Philista – speaks
truly. Fear distorts reason.
Fear rules us all. Even you.’
Govinda knew the man
was right. Fear did rule him,
and it had happened because
he had let go of reason. Till
that day in Kamakya, he had
let reason guide him, he had
made every sacrifice that had
been needed of him,
including…Panchali. By
letting her be a symbol for
life itself, by letting her mean
that much to him, he had
turned his ultimate sacrifice
into his ultimate mistake. At
the admission, the part of
Govinda’s mind that had been
trained into rational
methodicity flared in a last,
defiant thought. He knew that
the mercenary ought not to be
speaking to him, certainly not
in his own tongue and in such
familiar words. Perhaps there
was no mercenary other than
his own guilt, the final,
oppressive sense of failure.
There is no need for guilt,
Govinda told himself.
Sacrifice is the meaning of all
things. For the sake of all that
exists, the Primordial Being
sacrificed himself. From him
came all existence, this world
we perceive through reason.
Sacrifice is everything.
The words sounded in his
memory, in a child’s voice:
But why, Govinda? What the
Primordial Being did is all
very well, but why? Now that
is a question!
Govinda heard himself
speak before he realized what
he was doing. ‘He was not
wrong,’ he spat out with
vehemence. ‘Your warrior…
he was not wrong. Fear does
distort reason, but we fight
fear. And we fight it not with
duty or reason, but with
compassion. Compassion is
what sets humanity apart
from the gods – that we are
capable of such benevolence
as even the Creator could not
show. We were created, not
by an act of reason but by an
act of love. And to know that
is to know the reason of it all.
And so we fight because we
must. Even when there is
nothing left to fight for, we
fight for what is right.’
At those words, the
mercenary pulled off his
shroud, revealing fair skin
and a chiselled face. His eyes
were dark and large, and
filled with once-familiar
warmth.
‘You?’ Govinda wondered
for an instant if he were
hallucinating, for the man
before him looked so much
like he once had, not just for
his features, but for the light
in his heart. But the vision
smiled and he saw a glimpse
of something more. It stoked
the last of his strength, and he
pulled himself up to his
knees.
Abhimanyu Karshni held
out his hand to help Govinda
stand up. He said, ‘Prove that
old warrior right, then. Let’s
get you out of here.’

20
ABHIMANYU KARSHNI WAS
NOT A MAN TO HOLD
EXTREME DISLIKES. Yet the
one thing that irked him no
end was when people told
him, as they often did, that he
bore a strong resemblance to
his younger maternal uncle,
Govinda Shauri. In his
childhood he had seen it as a
compliment. Now it was a
whispered caution shared by
people mostly with his
mother or with his uncle
Balabadra. His reason to
dislike it, however, was the
same as what had made it a
compliment so many years
ago: In his mind, Govinda
Shauri was incomparable.
When Dharma and the
others had gone into exile,
Balabadra had brought
Abhimanyu and Subadra back
with him to Dwaraka.
Perhaps it was silent anger
against Partha that fuelled
them all, but Balabadra and
Pradymna had trained the
young Abhimanyu with a
vengeance, determined to
make him better than his
father in every craft. Better
and braver. Yet, paternal
affection, the one thing that
Abhimanyu truly longed for,
was denied him. He had
grown up addressing Govinda
as ‘father’ simply because his
cousins and companions –
Pradymna and Samva –
called him that. Since then no
one, not even his blood
parent, had been quite able to
replace him.
Not that Abhimanyu ever
had the chance to let Govinda
know – the Council was
adamant that the young
warrior be kept far from his
errant uncle’s influence and,
in any case, Govinda had no
desire to see his nephew. ‘I
cannot!’ he had declared,
barely days into his seclusion.
‘It would be more than I
deserve. He is as much hers
as he is mine. Tell him never
to come here again!’
Abhimanyu, who had been
waiting in an adjoining room,
had overhead and
misconstrued. He had rushed
to Subadra. ‘Who am I?’ he
had asked, far too distraught
to see how the question
insulted and pained her. ‘Why
am I called Karshni?’
His mother had not
flinched. ‘You are born of my
womb and the seed of Partha
Savyasachin the Kaurava. My
husband. Yet, your soul,
Abhimanyu, was forged by
the will of the two who stood
over me as you came into this
world – your uncle, Govinda
and your mother in the eyes
of law, Panchali. And so, you
are Karshni, for the father
who sired you is sometimes
called Krishna, the dark one.
But in my heart, you are
Karshni, because the light in
you comes from Krishna, the
dark-skinned cowherd, and
Krishna, the brave princess of
Panchala.’ At that,
Abhimanyu had thrown
himself into her lap and cried
his heart out for a while
before abruptly standing up
and walking away. Subadra
had let him go with a
knowing smile. Her son was
no longer a child.
 And so Abhimanyu had
waited, watched and learned
as much as he could in the
many years since. He saw
how Aryavarta was changing,
and with it his own nation.
Politics, trade, negotiation,
diplomacy and even war: he
observed it all with curious
eyes and a keen mind. He
also watched as Govinda
Shauri sunk deeper into the
depths of despair and as, one
by one, all those who loved
him lost faith in him. In the
recesses of his mind,
Abhimanyu fought his own
private war. The more people
lost hope in Govinda, the
brighter he let his faith for his
uncle burn in his own heart.
And now he finally knew it
had not been in vain.
Govinda was shivering
from head to toe, partly on
account of his nakedness, and
partly from fever. Abhimanyu
suspected that his uncle’s
whiplash wounds were
already starting to fester.
‘Right…’ he began, but
before he could say anything
more, he realized Govinda
was already hobbling over to
the corner where his clothes
and his sword had been
unceremoniously thrown. The
soles of Govinda’s feet left
bloody stains on the floor. He
tried to get dressed and hissed
in pain as his lower robe
touched the torn skin on his
thighs. He let the material
drop from his hands before
falling to the ground again,
unable to move.
Abhimanyu reached a
decision. ‘Wait here…’ he
said and slipped out of the
door, though he did not bolt it
from the outside. There was
no one in the narrow
passageway – after all, the
prisoner was hardly a threat
in his current condition, and
that too with a mercenary on
guard. Wrapping his robe
over his face once again,
Abhimanyu cautiously made
his way up a set of stairs to
the deck.
The ship was of a different
shape and construction than
the ones used by the Yadus,
but growing up in a bustling
port like Dwaraka,
Abhimanyu knew his way
around all seacraft well
enough. Govinda had been
kept just one level below
deck, so all Abhimanyu had
to do was to get him out of
the room, down the
passageway, up the stairs and
on to the deck. Then he had
to signal to the small boat
waiting just out of sight of the
ship’s lights, wait for it to
draw up alongside and help
Govinda down into it – all of
it while avoiding detection.
Yet, as he had observed even
while planning this daring
rescue, the situation was not
without benefit. Being
anchored in Dwaraka’s
waters, and that too claiming
to be unseaworthy, the ship
could hardly afford to show
undue strength in the form of
armed guards or regular
patrolling beyond the usual
nightly checks. Most of its
sailing and trading crew were
already on shore, as might be
expected, and only a few men
remained on board ship. Of
course, that still left Philista
and her mercenaries, barring
the one Abhimanyu had
subdued and was now
impersonating.
They have no cause for
suspicion. Success lies in
audacity, he reminded
himself, echoing Pradymna’s
oft-used words.
Drawing in a deep breath,
Abhimanyu let out a seagull-
like cry and repeated it twice
in quick succession. The
sound itself was not unusual
though the pattern was, but
not enough to raise an alarm.
The men in the waiting
rowboat, however, knew it
for the signal it was and
would soon draw up
alongside the ship.
Feeling a little light-headed
at how easy it was,
Abhimanyu made his way
back down the stairs and into
the passageway at a light run.
He realized at once that he
had rejoiced too soon. One of
the other mercenaries stood at
the door and was just about to
open it, but turned at
Abhimanyu’s approach and
went for his dagger.
Abhimanyu was in no doubt
that his deception had been
found out. He responded by
drawing his sword – the
mercenary’s serrated long-
blade that he had
appropriated. The weapon
was heavy and its
unfamiliarity placed him at a
disadvantage. He swatted
aside the mercenary’s dagger
with the blade, but lost his
balance in the move. By the
time he had recovered, the
mercenary had drawn his own
long-blade and now came at
him with a vengeance.
The fight was short and
bloody, particularly since
Abhimanyu was wary of
alerting others on the ship. He
dropped down to one knee,
swift and unexpected, and
slashed at the mercenary’s
abdomen. The serrated blade
cut deep, pulling out flesh
and entrails as he whipped it
out and around to face the
attacker he sensed advancing
behind him. The second
attacker was closer than he
had estimated, leaving him
with no choice but to chop
through his leg. The man
cried out, but Abhimanyu cut
his scream short by rising to a
squatting position and
lopping off his head. The man
was dead before all three
pieces of his body hit the
wooden floor.
Panting hard, Abhimanyu
surveyed his handiwork,
pleased with the results. It
distracted him enough to not
see the third man till it was
too late. The man brought his
twin-faced axe down hard,
intending to sever
Abhimanyu’s sword hand at
the wrist. Abhimanyu dodged
just in time, and the blow fell
on the lower part of the blade.
Still, the impact was enough
to knock the weapon out of
his hand and cause him to
lose balance on the blood-
slicked floor. He kicked out
at the mercenary, first trying
to land a direct blow on his
kneecap and then, when that
failed, to get him off-balance.
But he was too far away. His
only choice was to try and
make a run for it.
The mercenary moved in,
resolute, to the point that he
merely kicked his
companions’s severed limb
out of the way. Abhimanyu
tried to stand, but he was too
slow. Just when it seemed
there was no avoiding the
heavy axe, the mercenary
froze, arms raised to strike,
mouth open in a silent
scream. With a soft tear, the
tip of a blade emerged
through a blossoming wound
in the man’s chest.
Abhimanyu scrambled away
as the man fell face down. In
the narrow passageway, tired,
mangled, yet with a defiant
spark in his eyes, stood
Govinda Shauri.
The single blow had taken
all of Govinda’s strength. He
swayed unsteadily as he
pulled Nandaka out of the
mercenary’s flesh, falling
back as the blade came out
clean. Abhimanyu caught
him, and wasted no time in
moving towards the stairway.
‘You’ll never make it to
the shore in time. Our ships
surround this one. We won’t
even have to fight. One
command from me and they
will make it look like an
accident…’
Abhimanyu turned to face
Philista.
She gasped, visibly taken
aback. For once,
Abhimanyu’s resemblance to
his uncle served him well.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
Abhimanyu did not answer
but just stood there, his chest
heaving, his gaze defiant.
Philista looked from him to
the insentient Govinda and
then back again. This time, it
was Abhimanyu who was
astounded at the range of raw,
honest emotions he saw on
her face: jealousy, love,
anger…and, finally, hope. He
knew she would let them go.
He bent down to hoist the
inert Govinda over one
shoulder and had one foot on
the first step of the stairway
that led out to the deck and to
safety, when he turned around
to face the Yavana woman.
‘Come with us. You’ll be
safe, I promise. If you stay
here, they’ll surely blame you
for his escape… Come with
me.’
‘I just tried to kill you
both… Are you sure you’re
not Govinda?’
Abhimanyu grinned. ‘I’m
not sure I can explain it as
well as he does, but it has
something to do with the fact
that we were all created not
by an act of reason but by an
act of love. And so…well, we
should do what’s right…and,
you know, be compassionate
and all that.’
Philista laughed. She shook
her head: his words had
helped her reach a decision
she had been struggling with.
‘No. My place is at home, in
Elis. There are young women
and men like you there. They
are the future, and it is to
them I must now look. Go.
Take good care of him.’
Abhimanyu rushed up the
stairs and on to the deck. He
glanced over the ship’s side,
weighing his next decision,
when he heard indistinct
sounds of activity. Gritting
his teeth against the agony he
knew Govinda would feel, he
threw the wounded man
overboard. He waited till he
heard the splash, and the
immediate sound of paddles
that told him a waiting
rowboat was headed towards
Govinda. Then, tucking
Nandaka tightly into his
tunic, Abhimanyu jumped
into the dark waters below.
Strong arms pulled both
men out of the water and into
the boat, even as the small
vessel turned for shore. On
board the Yavana ship, there
was no activity. Philista had
raised no alarm. Abhimanyu
gave a sigh of relief, which
turned into a gasp of surprise
when he realized who his
rescuer was.
‘Uncle…? What…what are
you doing here?’ he
addressed the burly outline
that could only be Balabadra.
Balabadra did not reply.
With grunt of effort he forced
Govinda up into a seated
position and poured a
goblet’s worth of spiced wine
down his throat. The drink
made Govinda retch at once,
and he came to his senses
only to throw up over the side
of the boat. By the time he
was done, he was beginning
to look more alert than he had
in a long time, the sting of
salt water in his wounds
adding to the jolt of agony he
felt in his arm.
Balabadra set about
examining his brother’s
wounds as he finally
answered the pending
question.
‘How I got here is a simple
thing, Abhimanyu. There is
more than one rowboat
available in Dwaraka, and
you are not the only one who
knows how to be surreptitious
with its use. The point is why
I am here.’
Abhimanyu nodded. ‘I
know. Philista told us…him.’
 ‘Yes. It has begun. The
militarization of Aryavarta,
the race to develop and use
terrible weapons. And much
else will soon begin too:
bloodshed, intrigue, death and
destruction.’
Govinda’s strained voice
added, ‘It… It all began long
ago, and goes as expected.
The question now is how it
will end. Syoddhan is set to
attack Matsya. I don’t have
much time.’
Balabadra turned to him.
‘You want to go there…to
Matsya?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that which you find
there… Do you mean to take
it or destroy it?’
Govinda smiled, a shadow
of his former self but with at
least a spark showing through
after years. ‘What…what is it
you think I will find there?’
 ‘Weapons? Firewright
weapons. That is what
Syoddhan seeks. That is what
everyone would look for in
Matsya.’
‘No, Agraja.’ Govinda
willed strength and clarity
back into his speech. ‘You
see, I thought that I had more
time, that Syoddhan would
not turn towards Matsya as
yet. And so that is where I
sent Panchali. I have let her
suffer the consequences of
my decisions enough. Now…
how soon can I ride?’
Balabadra’s shock was
obvious. He blinked, as
though coming out of a trance
and said, ‘Yuyudhana is
waiting on shore with our
horses.’
‘Will you come with me?’
‘Yes, Govinda. I have let
you suffer the consequences
of your decisions enough.
Besides, I’ve always wanted
to see the great desert of
Matsya for myself. Call it a
childhood ambition, if you
will. And before you say
anything about the Council,
this once let me worry about
it.’
Govinda said nothing, but
threw himself flat in the boat
and remained there in a half-
dazed state for the rest of the
journey to land.
 21
‘THIS IS MADNESS!’
Bhim ignored Dharma, still
in his ministerial attire as
would befit his guise as
Kanka, and set about
tightening the straps around
his armour, looking all the
while at the desert plain
before him, now the site of a
soon-to-be battle. Chief
Virat’s massive forces had
been divided into four, one
part under his command, and
the others under Sankha,
Swetha and Bhuminjaya,
Virat’s three sons. Chief Virat
himself had, on Bhim’s
advice, remained at their
temporary command tent.
Dharma took the Chief’s
position as an indication of
cowardice, though Bhim
knew otherwise. Whatever
the chief may have lacked in
military acumen, neither he
nor his kinsmen were short of
courage.
‘I don’t see why I need to
be here either. Especially if I
can’t fight,’ Dharma
grumbled.
Bhim sighed, irritated, and
said, ‘You’re here as Virat’s
envoy and overseer in this
war. It is not uncommon for
chieftains and emperors to
send others out to do their
dirty work while they stay in
their palaces. You know that
from personal experience.’
‘I stayed at Indr-prastha
because I had to! Someone
had to maintain government
and hold the empire together
as it was being built. I would
have traded places with you
in an instant if I could,
Bhim.’
‘But you couldn’t. Just as
you can’t now.’
‘Exactly! Virat is just
being a coward. This is not
even a war; it’s just a battle.
Look…look at Susarman’s
forces – they are one-fifth the
size of Matsya’s army. And
with you as its General… Oh
well, let’s finish this and get
back to the city. Have you
appointed Nakul and Sadev to
key positions?’
‘I have,’ Bhim nodded, ‘as
best as I could, given they are
meant to be groundskeepers.
But they know what needs to
be done. They’ll make sure
that each of the divisions they
are part of swings out from
the main army and flanks the
enemy from either side. Still,
it all seems too easy. Why
would Susarman attack now?
He knows Matsya’s strength.’
Dharma said, ‘Because he
thinks the General is dead…?
I mean, the former General.’
He laughed, hollow. ‘I still
cannot get over that, you
know. Keechak, the mighty,
mysteriously dead in his own
land. How many men do you
know who can choke…no…
crush a man to death like
that? If I didn’t know better
I’d say it was you who did it,
Bhim.’
‘Are you saying it,
Agraja?’
 ‘No, not at all… I just
meant…’
‘Whatever you may have
meant, if the General’s death
is truly the reason why
Susarman has attacked, and
that too with such a small
force, it’s all the more reason
to suspect a trap.’
‘You think too much,
Bhim.’
‘Someone needs to,’ Bhim
said. He muttered a prayer
under his breath before
calling out the orders to
advance.

The battle did not last long.

Trigarta’s army was no match
for the larger and better-
prepared Matsya forces. No
doubt, Matsya’s soldiers were
well trained and brave, but
for the first time Bhim saw
the true value of Matsya’s
forges and the skills of its
craftspeople. The endless
supply of arrows –
lightweight and deadly, and
fine enough for a man to hold
a stack of a hundred in his fist
– was the first indication of
the superiority of the Matsya
army. Their armours, their
carriages – all their
equipment was sturdier and
more effective.
Panchali had explained to
him what she understood as
Govinda’s plan. As the
General had demonstrated to
her, isolation had forced the
people of Matsya to extend
their abilities with metal-
crafting into directions
beyond the needs of warfare
and armament. When news
came in of Susarman’s
impending attack, and
Matysa’s soldiers began their
preparations, Bhim saw
pieces of iron and metal being
transported for a week to the
border and assembled in less
than half a day to form
catapults and ballast that
would have taken even a herd
of elephants much longer to
transport in their finished
form. He saw wounded men
healing faster with the
metallic splints used by
medics, many of the soldiers
even returning to battle – so
light were the braces on their
limbs. Bhim noticed how fine
needles were used to close
open wounds with precision,
leaving little chance of them
getting infected. Water, the
most essential and scarce
resource for soldiers in the
harsh desert lands, was pulled
out of the deepest aquifers
under the sandy earth by
using a system of metallic
pipes with bellow-like
devices of leather attached to
them. Wick-lamps lighting
the army camp were housed
in shuttered containers that
ensured the flame would go
out if tilted, thus protecting
the camp from accidental
fires.
Many of these smaller
devices had been obvious to
Bhim even during the course
of his life as a cook in the
kitchens of Virat’s palace, but
to see them come together,
particularly with the benefit
of knowing how these
inventions had taken place,
was truly remarkable.
Unambiguously absent,
however, were weapons made
of Wright-metal, or any
devices that suggested
Firewright astra-weapons. It
was then that Bhim fully
understood. Govinda had
shown the world that it did
not take a powerful, secretive
order to drive humanity
forward to discovery and
invention. Bhim only hoped
the Dharma would see it too.
Another thing niggled at
his mind. Despite the odds,
the weakening Trigarta army
had fought with a will that
had only affirmed Bhim’s
suspicions. ‘You don’t
suppose this was just a
distraction? That Susarman
has more forces?’ he asked
Dharma as the two men
walked towards the command
tent. Both of them were fresh
off the battlefield and eager to
give Chief Virat news of their
victory.
‘And what would they
attack?’ Dharma countered.
He was enjoying the taste of
victory in open battle after
many years and was not
willing to let the thought of
further fighting mar the
moment.
‘The city. If they took
Upaplavya…’
‘Don’t be silly. Chief
Virat’s scouts would have
reported troop movement.
The only tract that remains
unwatched, and with good
reason, is the old riverbed to
the south. There isn’t a drop
of water in those parts. You
couldn’t get a man through
there alive, not to mention an
army.’
‘I suppose you’re right. I
suppose we should be
grateful that it was so easy…’
No sooner were the words out
of Bhim’s mouth than he
regretted them. Ahead, the
Chief’s tent stood in disarray,
a pale Sankha standing in the
middle of it all. ‘They’ve
taken him,’ he said. ‘They’ve
taken the Chief.’
‘What!’ Dharma looked
horrified.
Before Sankha could
respond, his youngest brother
Bhuminjaya came running
into the tattered shelter.
‘Susarman sends a message.
He’s holding our father
hostage. He says he is willing
to trade.’
‘Trade?’ Sankha said.
‘Trade for what?’
‘Matsya. They want our
surrender, and they will let
Father live.’
‘If you weren’t my brother,
Bhuminjaya, you’d be dead
for even bringing those terms
to me!’
‘Peace!’ Bhim intervened.
‘Stay out of this, Vallabha!
What does a cook know of
honour and war? We will die
before we surrender. And if
the first to fall is my father,
so be it.’
‘Sankha,’ Bhim raised a
calming hand. ‘The reality of
war is that it is not always
honourable, and far from
absolute. There are other
alternatives to surrender or
death. Listen to me…’
‘What alternative can you
offer me, Vallabha?’
‘Let me bring your father
back alive. Then we will
unleash more death on those
cowards in Trigarta.’
‘And how are we to do
this?’ Sankha said.
Dharma sounded even less
convinced than Virat’s son.
‘Yes, how? Don’t be foolish,
Vallabha!’
Bhim met Dharma’s gaze,
understanding full well the
folly that Dharma spoke of. If
he were seen and recognized
by Susarman, not as Vallabha
of Matsya but as Bhim
Vikrodara of Kuru, it would
invite great danger upon them
all. Especially Panchali. But
that did not change what had
to be done. That did not
change what was right.
Turning to Sankha, Bhim
said, ‘I have a plan. I will
need the help of Granthika
and Tantripala – two of your
groundsmen whom I
personally trust. I will also
need a scout who knows this
region like he does his lover’s
eyes.’
 Sankha nodded at
Bhuminjaya, who left to see
to the arrangements. ‘I hope
you know what you’re
doing,’ he said, turning back
to Bhim.
Dharma muttered under his
breath, ‘I hope so too, Prince.
I hope so too.’

22
PANCHALI BURST INTO THE
ROOM WITH A LITTLE MORE
FERVOUR than Malini the
handmaiden was wont to
show. ‘Have you heard?’ she
began, her eyes on Partha, but
fell silent as she noticed the
young woman with him. ‘I
beg your pardon, Princess,’
she immediately added,
though she shared more than
a congenial relationship with
Uttara, Chief Virat’s only
daughter.
The young woman was
about nineteen or so, but she
stood taller than Panchali.
Her fair skin had turned an
alluring golden brown under
the desert sun and her brown
hair had been stained a few
shades lighter. Her features
were as hard as the stone of
the land but in her own way
the princess was rather
beautiful. Influenced in her
growing years in equal
measure by her soft-hearted
father and her tough maternal
uncle, the dead General,
Uttara reminded Panchali in
many ways of herself when
she had been that young. Yet,
the girl was different, far
bolder and far more
responsible than Panchali had
ever been at that age, and way
more outspoken.
In the past year, the two
women had built a
relationship that bordered on
friendship, though Panchali
had been careful never to
overstep her bounds as
Malini, the handmaiden. She
also had this inexplicable
feeling that there was an
assailable, even mysterious,
quality about Uttara, and so
kept an eye on her – more out
of concern for the younger
woman than curiosity – while
maintaining a distance.
Rumour among the
handmaidens was that Uttara
went out of her rooms at
night to meet with a secret
lover. Panchali did not think
that was the case, but she
would also not put it past
Uttara to sneak out, if only to
wander her beloved city by
night, making sure that all
was well.
‘It’s all right, Malini. Don’t
go,’ Uttara said, waving her
in. ‘And yes, we’ve already
heard. A great army, led by
Syoddhan Kauravya, self-
proclaimed ruler of
Aryavarta, is set to attack us.
They are at the south-west
pass and have sent a message
asking for our surrender. In
the absence of my father and
brothers, the decision as to
what should be done falls,
unexpectedly, to me. What do
you think I should do,
Malini?’
‘Princess, it is hardly my
position to offer advice on
this. But since you ask, I
think we should stall for time.
Our forces would have surely
overcome Trigarta’s army by
now.’
‘They are three days’ ride
away, at the least. Victorious
or not, they are not here to
help us. The herds are a
priority.’
‘All this for a herd of
cows?’ Partha-Brihannala
blurted out, earning himself a
harsh look from Uttara.
‘Well, I mean, they’re
important but…’
‘But it’s brilliant! Don’t
you see?’ Panchali said.
‘Trigarta’s attack was a
diversion so that Syoddhan
and his men could achieve
their true purpose, which
is…’
Uttara chuckled. ‘Which is
what, Malini? The annexation
of Matsya? Control over our
forges, our foundries? Is that
why Syoddhan sent you here?
To kill my uncle and…oh,
don’t look so shocked. I was
there, that night in the
dancing hall. I saw the two of
you, and Vallabha too. I
heard everything.’
Partha began to offer a
flustered explanation, but
Panchali remained calm. She
said, ‘In that case, why didn’t
you intervene? You could
have raised the alarm, even
done it in time to save him.
Or at least you could have
had us arrested.’
‘For what? A known
enemy is far better than an
unknown one. If you were
indeed Syoddhan’s spies, you
would at least work to protect
his interests. The moment
Keechak was dead Vallabha
was more important to
Matsya than ever before. I am
not a fool to have him
arrested and condemned!
Besides, ever since I’ve been
old enough to understand the
situation, I’ve known that
Keechak was going to be our
doom. His ideas of bloody
revolution and the rise of
Matsya were fascinating to
hear, but they wouldn’t do a
thing for my people. Salvaged
pride lasts for only a
generation. My people need
more. They need a future.
Surrendering to Syoddhan
might just give us the chance
to become a part of Aryavarta
once again. That is how it
begins, with peace and trade
and the sharing of knowledge.
And that is why I have
decided’ – she turned to
Partha, a cold haughtiness in
her eyes – ‘Brihannala! Have
a rider take the message to
Syoddhan. We will agree, in
principle, to surrender
provided we are able to
negotiate the terms of peace.’
‘You cannot!’ Panchali
sprang forward. ‘Uttara, I
don’t know what political
game you think you are
playing, but this is not such a
simple matter.’
 ‘How dare you talk to me
that way, Malini!’
‘I dare to speak how I like,
Uttara,’ Panchali said.
Softening her tone, she said,
‘I dare speak, not because of
who you are, or who I was or
am. I dare because I must.
The truth is bigger than you
or me. This story is bigger
than you or me… My name is
not Malini. I am Panchali
Draupadi, once Empress of
Aryavarta. The person you
know as Vallabha is Bhim
Vikrodara and Brihannala is
Partha Savyasachin. Both are
brothers to Dharma
Yudhisthir of Kuru.’
To Panchali’s surprise, as
well as Partha’s, Uttara
shrugged, unconcerned, and
remarked, ‘Brihannala. I
always wondered about that
name: big reed. Rather
egotistic a euphemism for a
eunuch, don’t you think? But
then, all of Aryavarta knows
what a Kaurava thinks of
women. As for you, Panchali,
forgive me if I don’t fall on
my knees and grovel before
you. I have no interest in the
legitimacy of your claim to
the empire any more than I
have in Syoddhan’s.’
Partha looked distinctly
uncomfortable. He opened his
mouth as if to speak, but
could find nothing to say.
Panchali said, ‘It’s best you
leave us to talk this over,
Partha.’ He nodded and with
a glance at Uttara exited the
room, this time without the
customary sway of
Brihannala’s hips. Panchali
waited till he was gone and
took a seat. She gestured for
Uttara to follow suit.
The subtle gestures, the
assertion of dominance, were
not lost on the younger
woman. She sat, but did so
with condescension.
Panchali said, ‘You’d
make the perfect puppet,
Uttara. You’re so easy to
manipulate and predictable in
your thinking. I could make
you do exactly what I want
you to, while you remain
convinced that you act of
your own free will. I’ve learnt
that from the masters of
masters, the best politician
Aryavarta has ever seen, and
I won’t hesitate to do what I
have to.’
‘So why don’t you?’ Uttara
said. ‘Why do you argue with
me, instead of manipulating
me as you claim you can so
easily do?’
‘What makes you think I’m
not? What makes you think
every word I’ve just said was
not meant to achieve my
ends?’
Uttara muttered under her
breath as she saw the riddle.
‘Well, I am not
manipulating you,’ Panchali
said. ‘I have no way to
convince you of that except to
say that Matsya is as much
home to me as it is to you,
and that I would never wish it
harm. Matsya is the future; it
is hope. I did not want
Keechak dead, Uttara. But I
did what I had to… All I
asked him for was the chance
to explain. It is all I ask you
for too.’
‘Or else what? You’ll kill
me too?’
Panchali shook her head
and then, rising, went down
on her knees before the seated
Uttara. ‘I was once a princess,
an empress, but I learnt the
hard way that position, power
and status mean nothing in a
world where being just a
person has no value. Please,
trust me. Do not surrender to
Syoddhan. If you do, there
will be nothing left of Matsya
but its forges, and the people
will be merely slaves who
work in them.’
Uttara stared at Panchali
for a while. Then she reached
down and helped her up.
‘Don’t,’ Uttara said. ‘It
doesn’t feel right. Not
because of who you are, but it
just doesn’t feel right. Oh,
Malini. You act like you’re
the only woman with a brain
and a conscience. I admit,
you’re different, but whatever
gave you the right to presume
you are unique? I don’t think
I’m anything like you, but I
do find it offensive that you
think you alone can lay claim
to being capable of complex
thought.’
 Panchali said, ‘If you are
trying to provoke me, Uttara,
it’s not working. I’m
beginning to like you all the
more, in fact.’
Uttara laughed out loud.
‘You know what they say –
most friendships are based on
trust and respect. A few are
based on mutual insult, and
those are the strongest.’
‘My brother has a friend,
with whom he’s like that. But
they’d die for each other.’
‘He’s a lucky man. And his
friend is luckier still. Though
I would like to know if this
affinity for strange
friendships runs in your
family.’
‘Ask him yourself.’
‘Your brother?’
‘His friend, though before
that I need your help to bring
him here.’ As Uttara frowned
in puzzlement, Panchali
added, ‘His name is Govinda
Shauri.’

23
GOVINDA SHAURI.
Uttara knew the name well,
but the only recollection she
had of the man was a fleeting,
childhood memory from over
a decade ago. He had come to
Matsya, she had seen him,
and she remembered how the
older girls of the palace had
whispered things about him
that she had not understood
then. More than anything
else, she remembered the
horrible argument that had
ensued between her parents
and her uncle the night
Govinda Shauri had arrived.
Keechak had held a dagger to
her mother’s throat, saying
that he would rather kill his
sister than let her serve as a
whore to those forsaken
Firewrights. Uttara had asked
her brother Sankha what a
whore was and he had told
her to leave the room. But she
had stayed, and watched as
her brothers and her father
reassured Keechak that never
again would they welcome
Govinda Shauri into Matsya.
As she had grown older,
Uttara came to understand
what that conflict had been all
about. Keechak had insisted
that Govinda Shauri was a
traitor – why else had he not
made Matsya a part of
Dharma Yudhisthir’s empire?
He had cursed Satya and her
descendants, the clan of
Kuru, to eternal damnation
and sworn that if ever a
Kaurava or that lackey
Govinda Shauri set foot in
Matsya he would drink their
blood.
And now Uttara was
helping a Kaurava fight
another Kaurava who sought
to invade Matsya, and even
considering the idea of
bringing back Govinda Shauri
to her homeland.
I must be crazy, Uttara
cautioned herself. Yet, she
also knew why she was
entertaining Panchali’s
suggestion: Deep in those
childhood memories were
other, pleasant recollections.
She could not remember why,
but the thought of Govinda
made her think also of swings
and laughter and running
playfully over hot sand. It
made her remember her father
as he had once been – a
boisterous, wholesome man
who had been quick to
humour and slow to anger. A
part of her had once thought,
and still did, that Govinda
Shauri could bring back her
father’s laughter.

‘This way, is it not?’ Partha,

or the man Uttara had known
as Brihannala, whispered in
the darkness.
Night had brought a fearful
silence over all of Upaplavya
and no one ventured out of
their homes but for the city
guards on duty. Uttara had
the authority to order the
guards to let them pass, but
Partha insisted that secrecy
was better. She did not
dissent, and now led her
companions silently through
the darkness. ‘No, there is a
passageway here between the
army barracks that leads
directly to the funeral
ground,’ she told him. He did
not look convinced, but
Panchali gave him a
reassuring nod. The trio
walked on in silence.
A short while later, Uttara
said, ‘There! See, we are
almost on the other side of
the grounds. I think you must
have entered from the other
side, when you…’ She
stopped, realizing she had no
idea what Partha was doing.
‘Why did we come here?’ she
asked.
 Partha said, ‘We hid our
weapons here before we came
into Upaplavya.’ He turned to
Panchali. ‘I will need your
help.’
Together, the two
clambered up a solitary sami
tree that was used by the
people of Matsya to dispose
of the bodies of the worst of
criminals. The corpses of the
convicted were bound in
cloth and tied to the branches
of the tree, and left to rot at
leisure – ensuring, it was
hoped, that the deceased had
as difficult a passage into the
afterlife as possible. Uttara
flinched when Partha
examined one of the cloth
bundles by sniffing at it. With
a look of satisfaction, he
nodded to Panchali, who
helped him untie the bundle
and bring it down.
‘Weapons?’ Uttara asked.
‘But we make the best
weapons in all Aryavarta.
Why did you have to go to
such trouble… Oh!’ She said
nothing further as the cloth
covering the corpse-shaped
bundle fell apart to reveal a
bow, the likes of which she
had never seen. The metal
looked light and supple, every
curve and line of the bow
crafted with sleek precision,
as though fire had been tamed
and given form.
‘Gandiva,’ Partha said, as
he reverentially picked up the
bow. ‘Forged by Agni and
wielded by Indra, king of the
celestials, it is said.’
‘You can gape at it later,’
Panchali told an open-
mouthed Uttara. ‘Now help
me tie up the rest of these.’
Panchali had taken out her
own sword and bow, as well
as the rest of Partha’s
weapons. That still left an
impressive, gleaming
collection on the ground.
Uttara complied, though not
without confusion. ‘Who…to
whom do the rest of these
weapons belong?’
‘To my husband, Emperor
Dharma Yudhisthir, and his
brothers,’ Panchali replied,
tightening the last knot in the
bundle.
More questions spun inside
Uttara’s head, but Partha said,
‘Ready? Let’s go.’
‘Where?’ Uttara asked.
‘You and I are going to
face my cousins. Panchali is
going to get us help.’
‘I am?’ Panchali did not
look pleased at the prospect.
‘You have to, Panchali.
You need to let Govinda
know what has happened
here, where we are, and what
is going on. Get out of
Matsya. Find him, find your
brothers. Bring them back
here before it is too late.’
Panchali stood where she
was, frowning.
‘There is a way…’ Uttara
offered. ‘There’s an path up
the across the plains from the
old riverbed. My uncle
ordered it destroyed, but it
can still be used…if one is
careful. I’ve used it myself.
Head due south-east from the
marker beyond the palace.
You won’t be able to keep a
straight line, because it will
run through the marketplace
and the dwellings beyond, but
once you are out of the city
you can follow the stars. I can
get you to a horse, and you
should be able to reach the
cliff before dawn.’
‘What about the two of
you?’
Partha replied, ‘We will
need a horse and a rig. If we
ride out now, and then rest for
a while, the two of us should
be able to meet Syoddhan’s
armies by first light. They are
holding their position just
west of the city. It’s a good
position – they will stand
between the city and the
returning armies, if needed.’
‘A siege?’ Uttara said.
‘In time, yes.’
‘Two of you can’t fight an
army by yourselves. What are
you thinking of, Partha?’
‘I’m thinking of
challenging Syoddhan to
single combat, Panchali. He
and whoever else might be
willing to fight. I can’t defeat
them all at the same time. But
one by one…’ He smiled,
though it was not one filled
with mirth. ‘If we create
multiple obstacles – first me,
then the city guards – it may
hold back Syoddhan’s forces
for long enough. It will only
be a few days before the
Chief and his men return. We
need to hold out till that
time.’
Panchali said, ‘No, Partha.
This is wrong. Not your plan,
but that she is a part of it.’
She turned to Uttara. ‘You
go. I’ll ride with him.’
Partha was about to protest,
but Uttara cut in. ‘No,
Panchali. I might get out of
Matsya, but I wouldn’t know
what to do next. I’ve never
been too far from our borders,
and I certainly have no idea
how to find Govinda
Shauri…or your brothers.
Besides, I think it is a matter
of honour that at least one
Matsya soldier stand before
Syoddhan. Else, my father
will die of shame! Go.
Brihannala here is enough to
entertain me.’
Realizing that protest was
futile, Panchali agreed. Less
than half a muhurtta later, she
set off from the stables on a
dark stallion that would be
difficult to spot by night.
Partha watched her leave,
then looked at Uttara. ‘Thank
you, Princess. That was kind
and brave of you.’
‘It was sensible of me,
that’s all,’ Uttara said. ‘I
don’t know why you wanted
her out of harm’s way, but I
supposed that unless you got
what you wanted you weren’t
going to be in best form. And
that I cannot risk, considering
I want to stay alive.’ She
laughed softly and added,
‘You do know there is no
chance whatsoever that she
will be back in time with
help?’
‘Yes,’ Partha said. ‘But
there is a good chance that if
we hold the enemy back and
make them wait, your father’s
army will return. That apart,
the point of sending Panchali
away was to keep her safe, as
you rightly guessed.’
Uttara looked amused at
the confession. ‘Why?’ she
asked, her eyes twinkling.
Partha caught her
insinuations, but did not share
her mirth. He replied with a
straight face, ‘Because I owe
her safety to a friend.’
Feeling inexplicably happy at
the thought, Partha pulled
Gandiva off his shoulder,
strung the bow and tested the
string. A loud, solemn note
boomed through the night,
travelling as echoes off the
cliffs and resounding ahead
till it faded in the distance.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘are you any
good with chariot rigs? Think
you can handle two horses?’
‘Hah!’ Uttara said as she
began measuring out reins for
four.

24
BALABADRA WOKE UP WITH
A START. BREATHING HARD,
HE SAT in his makeshift bed
and looked around. Their
campfire, small and hidden
from view by a pile of stones,
was smouldering but had not
yet gone out. The night was
quiet, the air, cool, and little
appeared amiss other than the
fact that the makeshift bed
next to his was empty. As his
eyes got used to the darkness
he could make out the dark
shape of a man setting on a
rock at the cliff’s edge. With
a weary groan, Balabadra got
out of his warm bed and
made his way over.
‘Can’t sleep, Govinda?’
Govinda turned to look at
his brother and shook his
head. ‘I thought I heard….’
‘Hmm?’
‘Gandiva. I thought I heard
Gandiva.’
Balabadra sighed. ‘Wishful
thinking?’
A voice called out from
behind them, ‘Wishful
indeed. You can hear an
absent Gandiva, but neither
you nor your watch could see
this ambush coming, could
you?’ At the sound of the
voice, the rest of the men
sleeping around the campfire
rose to their feet, swords
drawn.
Shikandin laughed at the
sight, though not unkindly, as
he and Dhrstyadymn stepped
out of the nearby thicket and
on to the rocky ground of the
campsite. ‘Oh please! A little
too late for that, don’t you
think? Whatever happened to
the Yadu hunters’ instinct?
Or has your inner gwala taken
over?’
‘Considering the inner
gwala of this Yadu hunter has
an arrow aimed at your head,
you ought to be a little more
polite in your greeting.’
Both Shikandin and
Govinda turned to look at the
new speaker, who swung
down lithely from a tree, and
then at each other. Shikandin
said, mock disappointment
lacing his voice, ‘By Hara,
we weren’t like this, were
we?’
‘We had better lines,’
Govinda said. ‘This boy
thinks he’s in a play at a
village fair.’
At that the company burst
out laughing. Yuyudhana,
still bleary-eyed from having
been woken up, but delighted
to see Shikandin and
Dhrstyadymn stepped
forward to greet the brothers
with vigorous embraces.
‘You’re a sight for sore eyes,
my friends.’
‘You can say that again,’
Shikandin replied.
‘How did you get here?’
In response, Shikandin
pointed to the dim outline of
a lone eagle perched on a
rock nearby.
‘I didn’t send you a
message,’ Govinda protested.
‘No, but Subadra did. We
were heading for Dwaraka,
but our feathered friend found
us on the way. Anyway,’
Shikandin gestured to
Govinda’s whiplash wounds,
‘what happened to you? You
look like you mated with a
spiked sea-creature.’
Dhrstyadymn screwed up
his face in disgust. ‘Why the
sudden references to mating
with different animals,
brother?’
It was Govinda who
replied, ‘It means Shikandin
has been spending a lot of
time with old friends.’ As
Dhrstyadymn started, he
explained, ‘These are turns of
phrases unique to their tribes.
How is she, Shikandin? And
that brother of hers – Sthuna?
Does he still sing as well as
he used to?’
‘She’s dead, Govinda. And
there hasn’t been much cause
for Sthuna to sing of late.’
‘I…’ Govinda struggled for
words. Giving up, he
squeezed Shikandin’s
shoulder. With a deep breath,
he declared, ‘I’m tired,
Shikandin. I’m tired of losing
those we love. I’m tired of
hiding the pain and
pretending to surrender to a
greater cause. I’m tired of
fighting battles for others.
One last fight, one last plan,
and I’m done.’
Shikandin said, ‘Let’s get
Panchali out of there and go
home. But first, there is
someone I’m eager to meet.’
‘Abhimanyu,’ Govinda
called out. The young man
standing by the tree came
forward.
Shikandin let out a low
whistle, even as Dhrstyadymn
gasped.
‘Now, my friends,’
Govinda cautioned. ‘You
don’t want to say anything
about his resemblance to me.
He hates it!’
‘Who in Rudra’s name said
he looks anything like you,
Govinda?’ Shikandin said.
‘This man has Subadra
written all over him. He has
her eyes.’
Abhimanyu looked at
Shikandin with newfound
curiosity. It served to remind
him of his manners, and he
bowed to the two brothers
and greeted them
respectfully. Then he
straightened up and said,
‘Well, what now? Reunions
are all very well, but I prefer
either sleep or strategizing to
sentimentality.’
‘And there the resemblance
to Subadra ends and
Pradymna’s influence
begins,’ Govinda
affectionately complained.
‘But he has a point. Since it is
less than a muhurrta to dawn,
I suggest we decide on the
next plan of action.’
Dhrstyadymn said, ‘The
plan of action is simple. We
go into Matsya. We get
Panchali. We come back out.’
‘Except for one problem,’
Balabadra pointed out.
‘Which is?’
‘That,’ he pointed over the
cliffside into the gorge that
lay far below.
‘The pass?’
‘No, what’s in it. More
soldiers than it can hold,
Dhrstyadymn. Syoddhan is
here with his entire army, as
well as Vasusena and
Asvattama’s men. How do
you suggest we get past that?’
Shikandin threw himself
down and stretched out on the
ground. He said, ‘By waiting
till the inevitable happens.’
‘And that is?’
‘After an expected and
rather jaded dramatic pause,
Commander Govinda Shauri
will tell us there is another
way.’
 They turned in unison to
look at Govinda. He
shrugged.
‘Well?’ Balabadra urged,
with learned impatience.
‘What can I say?’ Govinda
replied. ‘There is another
way…’

25
‘AGRAJA…’
The voice that called out to
him was a familiar one, yet
Dharma Yudhisthir knew he
had not heard it in years.
A dream, he noted, and
himself an observer
suspended between the
waking world and the one
inside his mind. A memory
flashed within the dream – his
grandfather teaching him how
to let the conscious self
retreat into sleep so that one’s
inner voice would speak,
revealing truths that remained
hidden in daylight. Except,
Dharma did not know what it
was that he had sought out his
inner voice for.
‘Agraja!’
This time, the voice was
urgent. In his vision, Dharma
turned with a tired sigh to
face the speaker. ‘What is it,
Syoddhan?’
 ‘Agraja, you must come at
once. Bhim and Dussasan…’
‘They are fighting again?
By Hara, these boys… What
is it now?’
‘Something about nothing,
as usual. Bhim called my
father a blind snake and
Dussasan called yours a
spineless coward…’
‘That’s all? And they’re
fighting over this?’
‘Well…’ Syoddhan looked
a little uncomfortable. ‘Their
choice of words wasn’t as
mild as mine. But please,
Agraja, come with me. Bhim
won’t listen to anyone but
you.’
‘Bhim is your younger
brother too, Syoddhan. He
ought to respect you.’
‘Hah! I can’t get Dussasan
to respect me or listen to me.
Bhim is a far cry from that
lout. One day my brothers
will be the death of me.
Yours will be your strength.
I’d give you my crown, my
throne, any day if I could
have brothers like yours.’
Dharma laughed, restrained
and adult-like, even in youth.
‘That is destiny, Syoddhan.
Yours is the throne, and mine
is the means to rule.’
‘Then, perhaps, the throne
too should be yours. All I can
do with it is what my father
already does – sit on it just so
that it does not fall into the
wrong hands. I often wonder
what I am, a warrior or a
sentry.’
‘Dear brother, you have no
idea what a noble function
that is. There are only two
things worth guarding in the
world – uncorrupted good
and undiluted evil. Good is a
great power, and it must be
preserved and passed on. As
for evil…’
Syoddhan’s unlined
boyhood face lit up in a way
few ever saw. ‘Dharma
Yudhisthir, wise beyond
wisdom and mysterious as an
elephant’s backside. You’ve
got my attention, Agraja, so I
shall ask: Why would anyone
guard evil?’
Dharma threw his arm
around Syoddhan’s shoulder,
pulling him into a fraternal
embrace as they began
walking. ‘Because, my dear
crown-prince-who-knows-
the-answer-but-is-too-lazy-to-
explain-it, evil must be
guarded if only to keep it out
of the wrong hands.’
‘In that case, we’d better
hurry. Dussasan may or may
not be undiluted evil, but
right now Bhim’s hands are
certainly the wrong ones!’
The dream continued, a
garbled version of true
memory. Dharma the
observer found himself
getting impatient: Why am I
here? What’s in this dream?
His mind protested, watching
himself observe a young but
still powerful Bhim beating
his cousin Dussasana to near-
death.
‘Patience!’ The voice that
now counselled Dharma came
not from memory but from
imagination. It was a voice he
had always longed to hear.
Grandfather, the observer
called out, as Dwaipayana
took form in his dream.
‘You promised me,
Dharma. You said you
wouldn’t let me down. I told
you after your coronation that
it did not matter how you had
become Emperor. What
mattered was why you were
on the throne. Your rule was
the beginning of a new era. I
chose you over Syoddhan for
that reason alone. But you…
look what you’ve done.’
I did my best, Acharya,
Dharma protested. Everything
I said and did as Emperor
was to keep the realm free of
Firewrights, of their craft…
He stopped, as in his dream, a
young Syoddhan walked out
to stand next to Dwaipayana.
The old scholar’s eyes filled
with pride, an expression that
Dharma had always seen used
for himself and never for his
cousin.
Dwaipayana turned to
Syoddhan and asked him.
‘What will you do when you
are Emperor of Aryavarta, my
son?’
Syoddhan dutifully
answered, ‘I will protect all
that is good, Acharya. I will
protect Divine Order and our
way of life.’
But that is what I did!
‘And? Is that all,
Syoddhan?’
Syoddhan said, ‘No,
Acharya. I will guard evil
from itself.’ He turned to face
Dharma and said, ‘You taught
me that, Agraja. You taught
me that.’
‘Agraja…’
Dharma opened his eyes.
‘Agraja…wake up.’
 ‘Bhim?’ Dharma sat up
and looked out of his small
camp-tent at the dark skies
outside. ‘What happened? Is
everything all right?’
‘All is well, Agraja. Listen,
I’m leaving with the others.
One way or another, I will
bring Chief Virat back.’
Your brothers are your
strength. Protect the good.
Guard evil from itself.
Dharma got out of his bed
with renewed will. ‘I’m
coming with you.’
‘Agraja? But…’
‘I am coming with you,
Vallabha. It is my duty. And
in Varuna’s name, stop
calling me “agraja”. Here, I
am Kanka.’

Dharma found the same mix

of surprise and delight that he
had seen on Bhim’s face on
Nakul and Sadev’s too, as
they watched him walk up to
them in the full armour of a
Matsya soldier. Sankha, too,
looked pleased.
‘Well, Kanka. Looks like
you’re good for more than
just playing dice.’
If Dharma or his brothers
saw any irony in the
statement they did not let it
show.
Sankha continued, ‘Right.
Are we all here? All right,
Vallabha, what is this plan of
yours?’
Bhim stepped forward and
took command of the
situation. ‘It’s very
straightforward,’ he said,
crouching down to draw on
the sand with his finger as he
spoke. ‘The Trigarta forces
came at us from due west. We
met them in battle along a
rather wide line – over here.
In fact, Sankha, you chose
this spot because it gave us a
strategic advantage.’
‘Yes,’ the prince
confirmed. ‘The cliffs run at
an angle north and south of
the point to form a small
ravine. It forced the enemy
into a confined space but
allowed us to spread out
wide. Of course, the plan
worked only because we
outnumbered the enemy at
least five to one. I suppose
that is redundant now,’ he
finished.
‘Not completely,’ Bhim
said. ‘The Chief was taken
from our camp while the
battle was on. Which means
the men who took him had to
be behind us. Also, once they
captured the Chief they could
not take him directly
westwards because we were
in the way.’
Dharma said, ‘What if they
went along or around the
ravines…’
‘Which they could, given
time. But it would be a huge
risk to take a hostage in the
open over such a distance.
Also, they overpowered the
Chief’s personal guards at the
camp. No matter how stealthy
their approach, that would
have taken at least ten men,
maybe more. It’s too big a
group to keep moving in the
open, especially when we
have such a vast army at our
disposal to look for them and
give chase. They would have
gone into hiding as soon as
possible.’
‘But where?’ Sankha
asked. ‘There is no place to
hide between the camp and
the battlefront, and if they did
not climb up the cliffs or go
around into the ravines on the
other side, where could they
have gone?’
Bhim said, ‘Eastwards.
Behind us. Into Matsya.’
‘But,’ Bhuminjaya said,
‘even if they did try
something so audacious
there’s no place to hide there.
It’s just desert land with the
occasional nomads’
settlement.’
‘Which is why,’ Bhim
explained, ‘I requested you to
send for Granthika and
Tantripala. Along with the
scout, these two men have
been to every settlement
within a day’s ride of here. Of
course, they pretended they
were heralds taking messages
back to the capital, but both
Granthika and Tantripala
found us the one sign that
could help us identify the
settlement the enemy was
using to hide in – livestock.’
Nakul continued, ‘Human
beings can lie, or be scared
into silence and submission.
Horses and cattle are another
story. It didn’t take us long to
find a settlement where new
horses had been added to a
group of the old even though
they all looked dirty and
worn. Horses behave
differently when in groups…
When we also found that in
the same settlement the cattle
had been fed in their bowers
and not been let out to graze
on the nearby scrub it left no
doubt.’
Swetha, who had been
silent all the while, let out an
angry yell. ‘Yabha! The
entire village of traitors
should burn for this!’
‘Don’t be hasty, Swetha,’
Sankha cautioned. ‘They may
not have had a choice. What
would you do if the enemy
brought the Chief to your
doorstep and told you to
follow their orders or they
would kill him… And for all
we know they may have
taken the villagers hostage
too.’
Sadev said, ‘We had the
same suspicion, and that is
why we kept an eye on the
settlement from afar. Even
Matsya’s sun wouldn’t stop
children from coming out to
play. When we saw none
running around, we realized
that they too were probably
being held hostage.’
‘Maraka! A plague on all
Trigarta!’ Swetha swore.
‘Don’t they have any regard
for morality? Using children
and innocents to hide…’
Bhim said, ‘I know a very
wise man, who would often
say that morality is a subtle
thing. It has taken me years to
understand his words. But
now that I do, I see how
morality becomes the most
powerful value of them all.
Which brings me to the plan.
It has to be a surprise attack,
or else we will place the
Chief and the villagers in
danger. I propose this: We
ride, just a few of us, to this
village. We say we are raising
muster for the Matsya army
and all able-bodied men must
join us right away. The
enemy is most likely to let all
the men of the village go,
with the caution that if they
reveal anything, their women
and children won’t live.
Perhaps an enemy soldier or
two will join them. Once that
happens, the advantage is
ours. Any and every able-
bodied man, barring the
Chief, who remains in the
village, is clearly one of the
enemy. We can kill without
hesitation. Unfortunately, the
plan puts the women and
children at greater risk, not to
mention the old men left in
the village. That is my only
concern.’
Dharma said, ‘But it is a
risk we must take. A village
for a nation is good trade, and
what is a nation without its
chief?’
‘Father would never
approve!’ Bhuminjaya
blurted out.
Sankha waved him silent.
‘I won’t let even a single
innocent die, brother. But I
won’t lose Father, either.’ He
looked around at the small
company. ‘Let’s go. We
should reach there at dawn
and catch the enemy
unprepared. Come, Vallabha,
Kanka. Let’s ride out and
bring back the Chief!’
Exchanging calls of
resolution and determination,
the men mounted their horses
and began riding east.

26
THERE WAS LITTLE, IF
ANYTHING, TO SUGGEST THE
PRESENCE OF enemy soldiers
in the village as the party of
six – Bhim, his three brothers
and the three sons of Chief
Virat – came up to the
village. The number was,
Bhim had argued, a strange
one, but none of the others
had agreed to being left
behind. They had changed
into the simpler armour of
common soldiers, which
Nakul and Sadev already
wore, and tried their best to
adopt a tired, war-worn look
that would go with it.
 Sankha called out to the
woman who was filling water
from the small oasis-well by
the mingled light of the
setting full moon and not-yet-
risen sun as a man looked
diligently on. ‘You there!
Summon your head or village
elder.’
The frightened woman did
not answer and looked
instead to her escort. The man
stepped forward. ‘Who are
you and what do you want?’
he questioned Sankha.
‘Can’t you see, you blind
fool? We are soldiers.
Soldiers of the Matsya army,
in case you wandering idiots
don’t know the difference
between friend and foe. We
have orders to gather all the
men in this region, to come
fight for the Chief. Quick
now, get all the men out. We
haven’t got all day.’
 Sankha set his face in an
expression of weary
impatience. The others began
guiding the horses through
the village, repeating the
instructions as and when men
and women emerged from
their hutments. In truth, each
of the seven was making his
way to an assigned position,
as per plan. Except for Bhim.
His task was to find Chief
Virat and protect him at all
costs.
The opportunity came
when he saw an ashen-faced
woman being pulled back
into the shadows of her
doorway. She re-emerged to
ask, in a trembling voice,
‘But…. But if you take all our
men away, who will protect
us?’ It was, Bhim noted, a
tactical mistake on the
enemy’s part. Matsya’s
women were anything but
dependent on their menfolk,
and he could hardly imagine
the burly matron asking him
that question of her own will.
‘And is your man teaching
you to give such excuses?
Bring him out! Bring him out
before I come in there and
drag him all the way to the
battlefront.’
The threat worked. Rather
than letting Bhim in, a sullen-
looking, bearded man stepped
out of the hut. ‘Go in,’ he
roughly commanded the
woman. He looked around
him, exchanging discreet
glances with three other men,
before all of them joined the
group of villagers – pretended
and otherwise. Assuming all
four were Trigarta’s soldiers
in disguise, that would leave
at least six or more to deal
with, Bhim reasoned. They
could easily harm any of the
hostages, or even the Chief,
unless the rescuers acted
carefully.
‘Right,’ Bhim turned in his
saddle to address
Bhuminjaya. ‘Get that lot of
men outside the village and
lined up in marching order.’
The group of about twenty-
five men were herded outside
the makeshift perimeter of the
settlement, where both
Bhuminjaya and Swetha
stood guard over them. Bhim
realized it was now or never.
He slid off his horse,
declaring casually to Sankha,
‘I’m just going to take a look
around, make sure there are
no more cowards hiding in
their homes.’ Knowing he
had to move fast, he ran
towards the hut in which he
suspected the Chief was
being kept, ignoring the rising
sounds of activity around
him. Men and women were
screaming, shouting, threats
filled the air, as did the sound
of weapons being drawn.
Bhim left his companions to
deal with it all and rushed
into the dark doorway of the
hut as the burly matron got
out of the way.
‘Drop your sword or the
Chief dies,’ a hoarse voice
commanded. Bhim complied,
letting his weapon fall to the
ground, biding his time while
his eyes got used to the dark.
‘Now, on your knees.’
As Bhim slowly got down
on his knees, he could see the
outline of two soldiers in full
armour. The third figure was
that of Chief Virat. The
Chief’s mouth was tied with a
piece of cloth, and his arms
and legs were bound with
rope. His eyes, however, were
open and bright, and he
looked at Bhim with
recognition.
‘Down!’ one of the men
barked. Bhim placed his
palms on the straw-strewn
floor and went down on all
fours. An instant followed in
which he could hear the
bustle outside, but he could
not make sense of the
situation. Apparently, neither
could the Trigarta soldiers.
The second of the two was
about to step outside, when
the first one ordered him
back. ‘Tie this one up first.
Or, better still, kill him.’
To dissuade Bhim against
any attempt at resistance, the
man drew a knife from his
belt and held it to Chief
Virat’s throat. The second
man grabbed a length of rope
and began moving, with
caution, towards Bhim. He
bent down to grab at Bhim’s
hands and made the fatal
mistake of taking his eye off
the man.
In that instant, Bhim acted.
He bounded lightly to his
feet, catching the head of the
bending Trigarta soldier in
the crook of his left arm. At
the same time, he pulled a
thin, sliver-like dagger out
from where it was strapped
around his ankle and hurled it
with all his might at the first
soldier. Using both his hands
he snapped the second
soldier’s neck in a move that
he realized had now become
characteristic of him. The
man fell dead to the ground.
Bhim turned to Virat. The
captive Chief was safe, not
even shaken from the
experience. The soldier who
had held a knife to his throat
lay sprawled next to him,
Bhim’s thin dagger driven
into the middle of his
forehead like a nail.
Bhim sprang forward to cut
the Chief’s bonds. Virat gave
him a nod of gratitude and
warmth, but wasted no further
time. Bhim drew his sword
and handed it to the Chief,
who took it. He then bent
down to retrieve the dead
men’s weapons.
‘Wait here,’ he told the
Chief, who merely growled
his refusal and strode out the
doorway, eager for battle.
Bhim shook his head and
followed.
The scene that greeted
them outside was, given the
circumstances, an agreeable
one. Three of the captors lay
dead, Swetha and Nakul’s
arrows pierced through them.
Dharma stood over another
fallen Trigarta soldier. The
villagers had beaten the four
other pretended enlisters to
death.
‘The children?’ Bhim
asked. Sankha gestured
towards a large hut, which
Sadev had begun hacking
down with his sword. Bhim
saw the children were already
outside and safe though still
looking afraid, being seen to
by their mothers and fathers.
The last two Trigarta soldiers
were lying face down on the
ground, the matron, who he
surmised was the leader of
the settlement, standing
proudly over them with a
blood-smeared iron pestle in
her hand.
Bhim bowed in respect,
and she returned the gesture.
At the villagers’ insistence,
Virat, Bhim and the others
waited till the settlement was
returned to order and
refreshments were served.
With many thanks and an
emotional farewell, Chief
Virat prepared to lead the
men back to camp.
By the time the company
returned to the front, the
victory over Trigrata’s troops
was complete. Scouts
reported that what remained
of the enemy troops were
drawing back into their
kingdom. To the resounding
cheers of his men, Chief Virat
raised his sword in a sign of
triumph. The soldiers
responded with unrestrained
adulation, beating their
shields, and calling out
praises till, with one voice,
they began chanting ‘Jayeti!
Jayeti! Victory to the Chief!
Victory to Matsya!’
Dharma, delighted and
amused by the scene,
whispered, ‘Have you ever
seen anything like this?’
 Bhim frowned as the
remark stirred an old
memory. ‘Yes, Agraja,’ he
said. ‘I’ve heard and seen
people adore Jarasandha this
way. What does that say
about what we believe?’
Dharma did not reply in
words, but placed a
reassuring hand on Bhim’s
shoulder. For the first time in
many years, Bhim felt
younger, less burdened. He
had found Dharma
Yudhisthir, the brother he had
once sworn to obey and
follow till death, once again.

27
PANCHALI DREW DEEP, EVEN
BREATHS AS SHE WAITED
FOR THE sun to breach the
horizon. Timing and patience
were imperative to her task.
She had not wanted Partha to
worry about her and had left
him and Uttara without much
argument. But she had not
ridden far, staying well within
the city limits so as to not
draw attention from the city
guards on her return.
Even as Partha, Uttara and
she had made their plans,
Panchali had recognized how
redundant her task was. She
reasoned that if there was an
old Firewright path in and out
of Matsya, Govinda already
knew of it. What she feared
was that he was not the only
one. There had been no
question – she would have to
stay back at Upaplavya.
By the time Panchali
returned to the palace, Partha
and Uttara had slipped quietly
out of the city and were long
gone. Panchali set about
making sure that their
absence would not be
discovered for as long as
possible – a precaution that
the two of them had not
discussed at all, intent as they
had been on moving towards
their dramatic encounter with
Syoddhan’s armies. She went
through the usual actions of
settling a pretended Uttara
into bed, leaving strict
instructions with the other
attendants that the princess
was not to be disturbed, for
she had a tough day ahead,
considering the nation’s
plight. After that, Panchali
visited Sudeshna, Virat’s
queen and Uttara’s mother,
reassuring her that her
daughter was indeed in
control of the situation, and
that the best she could do was
to show faith in her
daughter’s leadership. These
matters settled, Panchali went
back to her rooms and sat in
silent contemplation. At first
light, she had made her way
out of the palace and across
the grounds towards the
forge.
For a nation at war, life had
changed little in its capital
city. It was quieter in parts of
the city, with entire garrisons
being called away to battle,
but in most other respects
daily life continued
uninterrupted. Panchali
wondered whether this
ambivalence came from the
generations-long seclusion
the people had faced from the
rest of Aryavarta, or from a
quiet confidence that their
armies would prevail. Indeed,
security around the city had
not been intensified – though
she had no doubt more scouts
had been sent out into the
countryside. As she had
expected, there were no
guards around the forge,
dawn being one of the few
instances when a change of
guard left the structure
unattended. Panchali quickly
slipped inside.
Inside the forge, it was
silent: the craftsmen were yet
to come in for the day.
Panchali waited till her eyes
adjusted to the darkness, and
began her descent into the
forge. She made her way
across the work floor and
towards the small room she
had earlier been brought to.
The night Keechak had
died, Panchali had considered
taking his keys. But she had
rightly guessed that Chief
Virat would change the locks
the moment the General’s
disappearance came to light.
She had concluded, too, that
the only way to put in new
locks would be to change the
door. And the Chief had done
exactly that, replacing the old
iron door with one made of
the new alloy from Matsya’s
forges.
A simple mistake, Panchali
noted. There was a reason
why the Firewrights of old
had put in an untempered iron
door to seal off a forge where
Wright-metal was in constant
use: It took different means to
melt down the two metals.
Now, entering the inner room
would not take much. She
found what she needed next
to the smelting area.
Carefully picking up a small
wooden bowl filled with a
thick, black liquid and the
wooden ladle lying next to it,
she carried it over to the new
door. Using the ladle, she
began applying the liquid to
the edges as though she were
tempering the door with oil.
Unsure of how much to use,
Panchali waited, stepping
away a fair distance to be
safe. It took time, but she saw
the effects – subtle at first but
rapidly becoming more
pronounced. The door was
softening around the edges,
curling away from its
surrounding jamb as its inner
layers peeled off.
 Panchali applied more of
the corroding liquid – this
time only to at the hinges. A
short wait later, she pushed at
the door, nearly laughing out
loud with delight when the
door swung open with a soft
yawn. Panchali stepped
inside. A pang of regret hit
her as her eyes ran over the
array of bottles and
containers on the shelves of
the room. But time was
running out and, resolute, she
set herself to the task at hand.

Panchali stared at her own

handiwork, wondering how it
was that she had not killed
herself with some potion or
the other. It crossed her mind
that the power of the old
Firewrights may just have
been nothing more than a
symbol, a dead force.
The sound of a person
descending the stairs made
her turn. She felt sick to her
stomach at the sight of the
man who came into view.
Fists clenched tight, she
turned and stepped out of the
small room, revealing its
empty shelves to the new
arrival. Asita Devala took one
look at the debris, the broken
shards that were all that was
left of the Firewrights’
greatest creations, and his
delight turned to despair. ‘No!
What have you done? How
could you do such a thing?’
Panchali sneered. ‘How
could you do what you have
been doing? Don’t you see?
This is why the Firewrights
had to be destroyed!’
‘You think it’s just the
Firewrights? You’re a fool
then, just like your dear
Govinda Shauri. You two
think the world runs on
reason, but there is no greater
reason, no greater
justification in the world than
power. Power makes its own
morality, Panchali. You
should know that by now.
And the one who has power
gets to make the rules, dictate
morals, and call himself
whatever he likes. Firstborn,
Firewright, rebel – these
names are but illusions.
Power is the only reality. It is
the only thing that
distinguishes man from man.
There are those who have
power. And there are those
who fear. I think you know
what that feels like.’
‘Yes, I do. I think you will
too, soon, if you don’t
already. You have failed. I
know you came for the Naga-
astra. You may now leave,
empty-handed.’
Devala advanced on her, as
though to hit her. Panchali
stood her ground, defiant, but
the Firewright did not raise
his hand. Instead he put his
face close to hers and
laughed, cold and mocking,
and said, ‘You think that by
destroying the Naga-astra,
you will balance power in
Aryavarta, don’t you? You
believe in all that prattle
about trade and equality and
new ways of life that Govinda
has filled into your head.
When will you come out of
your make-believe dreams to
see that the world is much
larger than Aryavarta? There
are many more lands to
conquer beyond these tiny
borders, Panchali. When the
world goes to war, what is it
that you wish for Aryavarta –
that it will conquer, or be
conquered?’
Panchali felt tears
brimming in her eyes, for it
drained her to stand, tiny and
weak, against the undeniable
truth of Devala’s assertions.
But she did not flinch. She
said, ‘There will be war,
Devala, within Aryavarta and
beyond these lands. You are
right. There will be war, and
the lust for power and fear
will rule us all. But there will
be war because in every age
there will be those who fight
for what is right, those who
stand defiant against men like
you. Now, we can discuss the
eternal battle of good and evil
for as long as you like. It
doesn’t change the fact that
you cannot have what you
came here for. The Naga-
astra is gone.’
Devala stared at her, still
disbelieving, and then turned
once again to the multi-hued
liquids that mingled on the
stone floor of the inner room,
slowly coming to terms with
the enormity of his loss. He
turned to Panchali, his eyes
blazing. ‘Do you truly
remember nothing? Who you
once were? What you once
did? And what Govinda
Shauri did to you? If you
cannot remember the distant
past, surely you remember
your life as Panchali? Have
you not endured enough?
How much more will you
bear for him? After all that he
has done to you, how can you
trust him?’
‘Really, Devala. That is
such a silly question,’
Panchali smiled, completely
at ease. ‘As for this,’ she
gestured to the destroyed
bottles. ‘I didn’t do it for him.
I did it, because it is the right
thing to do. You are right.
Power is the only reality men
like you understand, and it is
unfortunate that the world is
filled with men like you. But
I think you know the old
story… At the end of the day,
neither the Indras nor the
demons of the world get to
own Sri. She cannot be
owned or kept, but will
remain a companion to the
one who sees her for what she
is.’
‘Hah! Stories… Who
believes them? And who do
you imagine your Vasudeva
Narayana to be? Foolish girl!’
Panchali raised her chin,
feeling within her a
wholesomeness and pride that
were new to her, but at the
same time so natural as if it
were a childhood quality
pushed forward from her
subconscious mind. ‘I don’t
remember who I was, Devala.
But I remember some of what
I was taught. And if there is
one thing I know, it is that
behind every myth lies a
meaning, a meaning that is
housed equally in reason and
benevolence. Vasudeva
Narayana is each one of us,
he is a symbol of the
goodness that is inherent in
humanity… Humanity,
Devala, not these
inconsequential, egotistic
illusions you call you or me,
or other men and women. Sri
is the essence of that
humanity, the manifested
form of the potential within
us that we can either embrace
or destroy.’
Devala snarled. His eyes
showed betrayal and
disappointment. He brought
up his right hand, curled his
fist and opened it to reveal a
tongue of flame that appeared
to be dancing on his hand. He
said, ‘In that case, it is settled.
I owe you nothing. I owe
your family nothing.’
Panchali started at the
statement, but Devala had
made up his mind. He raised
his hand and swung it to
throw the ball of flame at her.
The flame missed Panchali as
she moved back, but hit a
stone receptacle which burst
into flames, billowing smoke.
The sudden occurence
knocked her to the ground.
By the time she was back on
her feet, her eyes watering
from the smoke, Devala was
gone. She took a few deep
breaths to compose herself,
and then made her way up the
stairs and towards the
entrance.
She had not given much
thought to how she would
leave the forge because, she
silently admitted to herself,
she had not thought she
would leave. As she stepped
forward cautiously,
wondering what to do next,
she came upon the inert body
of a guard – the man posted
within the forge, who had
perhaps taken up his position
by the time Devala had
entered the building. Devala
had no doubt taken the man
unawares, and there was no
sign that the dead soldier had
raised an alarm.
With a word of prayer,
Panchali stripped the dead
guard of his uniform and put
it on, hiding her own robes
and the precious item she had
secreted away inside them
within its folds. She tucked
her long hair under the
soldier’s metal helmet,
covering it as best as she
could. She waited as she
reached the top of the stairs,
listening intently to the
footsteps of the guards on
their rounds outside, counting
their paces, till she was sure
of her timing. Then she
opened the door to the forge,
stepped out into the sunlight
and began walking towards
the palace with all the
confidence she could muster.
Panchali reached the
attendants’ room without
incident. Cleaning herself up
and changing into fresh robes,
she made her way towards
Uttara’s rooms, as was her
morning duty. Just as she had
instructed, no one had
intruded on the princess.
Settling herself into the
appropriate state of mind,
Panchali entered Uttara’s
chamber all set to discover
that the princess was missing.
With careful tending, the
matter would grow to obscure
the inevitable discovery of
the dead guard and the
destroyed potions, not to
mention a small item that had
disappeared from the forge,
once the craftsmen arrived for
their daily labours. It would,
she estimated, give her till
evening at the least before
things got too complicated,
and by then… Panchali felt
sad but content at the thought.
By then anything could
happen. By then Matsya
could fall and she herself
could be killed, or in
Syoddhan’s captivity, or
worse, in Dussasan’s custody.
No doubt he had every
intention of finishing what he
had started on the day of the
dice game. But the possibility
no longer inspired fear, at
least, not in the helpless,
hopeless way it once had.
Panchali closed her eyes and
smiled. I am Existence itself.

28
‘WHAT ARE THEY WAITING
FOR?’ UTTARA SAID,
SHADING HER eyes with her
hand as she looked at the
army. She knew what she saw
was just a meagre portion, a
hundredth possibly, of the
entire force, but the leaders
were all there, right at the
frontline. Yet, they had
neither attacked nor sent a
response to the shouted
challenge to single combat
that she had issued at the
break of dawn.
Partha checked his bow for
the third time in the last half-
muhurrta before putting it
down and looking up from
where he sat on the floor of
the chariot rig. The small and
light rig was space enough for
two to sit on without too
much discomfort, but Uttara
remained standing, one hand
lightly holding on to the reins
of the horses. He said, ‘They
suspect a trap. To be precise,
they suspect a Firewright
trap… like the earth opening
up under their feet or the
mountains falling upon
them.’.
 ‘Heathens and magicians.
That is what we have always
been to you all, haven’t we?’
Uttara said with ill-concealed
contempt.
Partha replied, ‘Just as we
have always been blood-
sucking oppressors to you.’
He added, ‘I don’t want to
fight about this, Uttara. I’ve
learnt the hard way that the
past is important, but not at
the cost of the present or
future. For what it is worth, I
now believe that your people
are among the bravest I have
ever met, not to mention the
cleverest. This is a fine
location for an imperial
capital.’
Uttara opened her mouth to
retort, but Partha went on, ‘I
mean it, without
condescension. Imagine, in
times past, when the river
flowed through these regions:
Your imperial capital would
have been nestled in a verdant
plain, surrounded by these
mountain ranges for
protection. True, the
mountains are not tall, but
they are steep and difficult to
scale. The only way in or out
would be through these
mountain passes.’
‘Unless,’ Uttara pointed
out, ‘the enemy came from
the north or the west. Of
course, one could argue that
there is enough of a distance
between the borders and the
capital city to hold attackers
back, but still…’
Partha shrugged.
‘Exceptions are inevitable.’
‘So you think there is a
chance Susarman’s forces
may overcome our armies? I
mean, in the west?’
‘The chance always exists.
But the last message we had
from the western front was
that our forces outnumbered
the Trigarta troops many
times over. Of course, now
we know that the attack by
Trigarta was merely a
distraction. Perhaps your
father should not have led the
entire army there.’
‘Hmm… I remember
Bhuminjaya saying as much.
And I did too. But when it
comes to the cattle… Our
herds are tough and hardy and
manage to graze well enough
on desert scrub and still yield
milk and plough what little
farmland we have. In fact, the
nomads of the west depend
on their herds completely for
their sustenance. It is tough
not to react to a threat to the
herds. Your cousin probably
expected that.’
Partha frowned.
‘Considering my brothers are
fighting Susarman in the
west, and I am standing here
with you and not with my
cousin, as you call him, a
little more charm from you
would not be amiss.’
Uttara was undaunted. ‘If it
weren’t for you lot, we –
Matsya – would not be in this
situation in the first place.
But, as you said, this is
neither the time nor the place
for a fight… I’m sorry.’ After
a while she said, ‘I’m just on
edge, not knowing what we
are waiting for or why.’
Partha said, ‘I’m sorry, too.
It’s been a while since I was
as young as you. I’ve
forgotten what it is like to be
impatient, though now I
wonder if that is a good thing,
after all. If it makes you feel
any better, we can surmise
what the enemy is up to. The
moment you issued your
proclamation, Syoddhan
would have gathered his
advisors to debate on it. His
dearest friend Vasusena
would have insisted that they
they ride us down. Grandsire
Bhisma would have cautioned
against it, pointing out that
such an action is contrary to
the rules of battle just as
single combat is permissible
within the rules of
engagement. Kings may
choose to let a duel decide the
outcome of an entire war in
order to prevent bloodshed.
Or, should a nation lack an
army, it may issue a similar
challenge. Acharya Dron
would have emphasized that a
challenge has indeed been
issued and that to ignore it
would reek of cowardice. He
would suggest that he ride out
to face you, that is, us, in
single combat. At that point,
Syoddhan would ask if it
were not better to check the
rearguard of their armies to
negate the possibility of
another attack. Asvattama,
Acharya Dron’s son, would
inform him that messengers
were already on the way to
check this.’
‘He can do that? Without
Syoddhan’s permission?’
‘Asvattama is not a man to
wait for anyone’s permission.
He has a mind of his own.
His father trained the two of
us together, and I ended up
being Dron’s favourite simply
by keeping my mouth shut.
Asvattama would get himself
into trouble, sooner or later,
every time.’
Uttara was impressed. ‘Is
that how you know so much
about each one of them?’
‘Yes. I grew up with them.
Some of them brought me up,
some of them taught me…
They were not all my friends,
but none of them were really
my enemies, till…’ He trailed
off.
Uttara did not press him.
At length, Partha said, ‘He
is like that…Syoddhan. He
does very little without
asking for counsel. It is both
his strength and his
weakness.’
‘How can that be a
weakness?’
‘Because thought and
debate are all very well when
plans are being made, but not
when plans are falling apart.
My cousin is not a bad man,
Uttara. But in my opinion he
lost the right to be Emperor,
even the king of Kuru, the
day he could not stand up to
his own brothers, the day he
could not stop those under his
command from transgressing
their bounds.’
Uttara laughed. ‘It’s
strange,’ she said, ‘how
neither Kaurava who has
stepped up to lead Aryavarta
has the fundamental quality
that defines an emperor. It
makes one wonder who is fit
to lead us…’
‘Maybe, Uttara, no one
person is meant to lead.
Maybe people, we, all of us
together make the best
leaders.’
Before Uttara could reply,
a horn sounded along
Syoddhan’s frontline.
‘What in the name of…
Are they retreating?’
‘No… Yes!’ Partha said,
with a puzzled frown. ‘They
are retreating, but not all of
them. But yes, they are falling
into marching ranks. But…I
wonder?’
‘Don’t speak too soon. The
soldiers have stopped
moving. This makes no
sense…’
As Partha and Uttara
watched, two riders left the
frontlines and headed towards
them, one of them holding
aloft a white flag of truce.
When they came to stop just
outside arrow range, Partha
recognized them as Syoddhan
and Asvattama. It was
Syoddhan who spoke first.
 ‘Princess!’ he called out.
‘Can you hear me? I must ask
you to identify yourself once
again.’
Uttara stood tall. ‘I am
Uttara, daughter of Virat,
Chief of Matsya. And I
remind you that my challenge
remains unanswered.’
‘It is the matter of the
challenge that I need to
discuss, Princess. But before
that I need to ask you, who is
the other person with you?’
Partha hissed a curse, but
Uttara remained unruffled.
‘This is my charioteer and
fellow warrior. I know her as
Brihannala.’
The response drew a
chuckle from Asvattama. He
said, not bothering to hide his
amusement, ‘You’re a clever
girl, Princess. And I have no
doubt your companion is, too.
Which is why I would like to
hear…her…identify herself.
You there, upon your honour,
who are you?’
Partha felt his heart skip a
beat. He had no qualms about
revealing his identity, but was
afraid that it would place
Uttara in grave danger. If
Syoddhan found out the truth,
he would not hesitate to cut
them down where they stood,
flag of truce or not. He chose
his words carefully and spoke
in the lilting tones that he was
now used to. ‘Did you not
hear the princess Uttara? She
said my name was
Brihannala. I have served in
her palace as an attendant
excelling in various fine arts.’
‘Battle included, no doubt,’
Asvattama replied. ‘I ask you
again. What is your name?’
Partha remained quiet.
‘What is your name,
eunuch?’ Asvattama said,
rolling the last word off his
tongue with all the derision
he could put into to it.
It was more than Partha
could take. He drew his
shoulders back, firm and
strong, as he proclaimed. ‘I
am Partha Savyasachin, by
birth a Kaurava and by right a
king amongst kings. Fight
me, if you dare.’
Asvattama urged his horse
closer. He said, ‘Oh, I dare,
Partha Savyasachin. I dare.
But I will not. What
happened that day at the dice
game ought not to have
happened. That I was not
there to stop it lies as a debt
on my head.’ Before either
Syoddhan or Partha could
speak, he raised his hand and
said, ‘I am not here to debate
whose fault those events
were, for enough fault lies on
all sides. All I know is my
own omission. And so, today,
I will not fight you. I
suspected it was you, when
we set up camp last night.
Few bows sound the way
yours does. But Syoddhan
here had his doubts… Well,
that is settled, Syoddhan. I
owe you my loyalty, and I
shall fight as the least of your
soldiers in any war of your
choosing. Bring me Virat,
bring me the entire Matsya
army, and I shall stand and
fight till my last breath. But
him… I cannot fight. Not
today.’ With that Asvattama
spurred his horse back
towards the frontline.
Syoddhan stayed as he was
for a while, glaring at Partha.
Then he too turned and
headed back to join his
troops.
‘What just happened?’
Uttara asked amazed as,
slowly, the enemy forces
came into formation and, at
the signal from many horns,
began to retreat.
‘I think,’ Partha said,
equally astounded, ‘we just
won.’

The counsellors and

commanders of Syoddhan’s
forces had gathered in a
circle. Three men stood at the
centre of it all, fighting their
own silent battle of wills.
Around them, the sound of
troops, marching as they fell
back, filled the air.
It was Vasusena who spoke
first, giving form to the
tension in the air. ‘How could
you, Syoddhan? Just because
he said so…’ he pointed to
Asvattama.
‘He had a point. We came
here to conquer Matsya, not
fight private battles.’
 ‘And you will turn away
from Matsya with your tail
between your legs because
one man stood in your way? I
don’t understand. What
perverted sense of honour is
this? Just because he told you
he wouldn’t fight.’
Asvattama cut in, ‘He is
standing right here, and can
speak for himself.’
‘Then,’ Vasusena turned to
face Asvattama, ‘I suggest he
explain how an advice to
retreat in these circumstances
constitutes loyalty. You said
you had an obligation not to
fight. That sounds like you
owe them more than you owe
your liege-lord here.’
‘A man is not defined by
one allegiance alone,
Vasusena. If he were, then
reason would have no value,
nor would loyalty have
meaning. I am capable of
remaining true to a greater
principle and yet serving
Syoddhan as a faithful vassal.
If it is my loyalty you
question…’
‘If I may interrupt…’
Sanjaya’s voice gently
intruded from those gathered
around the trio.
Asvattama turned on him,
visibly irate. ‘Welcome, Suta.
Amazing how you are never
to be found when we ride to
battle, but as soon as we stop
to talk there you are! An
enviable talent, if cowardice
were a thing to envy!’
‘Stop it! All of you!’
Syoddhan called out. His
raised a hand, firmly
forbidding Dron or Bhisma
from adding to the argument.
‘My decision is final. And my
reasons are my own. We fall
back.’
‘And if,’ Vasusena
persisted, despite the caution,
‘Susarman should have won
in the west?’
‘Vathu, Vasusena!’ Bhisma
did not pass up the
opportunity to put down the
other man. ‘Use your head, if
you have one. We used
Susarman to draw out the
Matsya army, knowing full
well that it would be difficult
for him to win that battle. It
was to be a distraction while
we took Upaplavya. That
which was difficult in any
circumstances is surely
impossible if Partha’s
brothers ride with the Matsya
army, which they most likely
do. Susarman could not have
won in the west.’
Dron added, ‘That being
the case, if Matsya’s army is
riding back towards
Upaplavya before we take the
city, we will have lost our
only advantage. Our strategy
was to take the capital in a
surprise stroke. That may not
be possible anymore. We lack
the strength to meet Matsya’s
forces in war. From what my
spies tell me, they are about
four to five divisions strong.’
Sanjaya edged his way into
the triangle of confidence.
Asvattama refused to move,
forcing Sanjaya to stay a foot
behind and to the left of
Syoddhan. Sanjaya ignored
the slight, and directed his
words at Vasusena, ‘If
Susarman has indeed lost in
the west, then it is all the
more to our advantage that
we withdraw. You heard what
Partha said. Clearly, he and
the others have been living
here in hiding. Now that he
has revealed his identity, and
that too in the presence of
Matsya’s princess, Matsya’s
Chief will take care of them
for us. Won’t they,
Grandsire?’
Bhisma was taken aback at
being suddenly addressed.
Recovering quickly, he gave
a firm nod.
Vasusena said, ‘I’m not
convinced.’
Sanjaya sighed. ‘What we
need from Matsya we will
get. Let us go.’
‘What do you mean,
Sanjaya?’ As the implications
of the statement dawned on
him, Vasusena spat out,
‘Where is Devala?’
Sanjaya merely smiled.
Syoddhan frowned. ‘You
should not have acted of your
own accord, Sanjaya.
Devala…’
‘Is expendable. If he fails,
he will be seen as a traitor
who wanted to take
advantage of the situation. If
he succeeds…’
As though the statement
settled all concerns, the group
slowly began to disperse.
Each of the men went to
oversee the retreat of their
respective divisions, and to
impress upon their men that it
was a tactical move. Dron
could be heard muttering an
old adage about commanders
who retreated not remaining
in command for long.
Syoddhan ignored it, and
turned his attention again to
Vasusena, who had not
moved. ‘What is it now?’ he
asked.
‘Let me go after him,
Syoddhan. Alone, or with just
a few men. Just as your
outstanding debt makes you
retreat, mine compels me to
go after him. I cannot forgive
or forget my humiliation at
Panchali’s wedding contest. I
want Partha’s blood.’
‘What… After all these
years?’ Syoddhan looked at
his dear friend with
incomprehension, for he had
thought that nothing meant
more to the Anga king than
loyalty and friendship.
Vasusena, however, brimmed
with vengeance, an old
vengeance that had been all
but forgotten. Seeing his
friend this way left Syoddhan
at a loss for words.
Vasusena said quietly, ‘I
have always been your friend,
Syoddhan. Please be mine. If
I fail, you can disavow all
knowledge of it. The blame
for anything that comes of
this shall lie on me alone.’
Syoddhan started at the
words, then he said, ‘Is that
all you want from me,
Vasusena? All right. Go. I
will lead your divisions back
for now.’
Vasusena pulled Syoddhan
into an impulsive embrace
and then went straight for his
horse. He let out a low
whistle as he mounted his
steed. Ten of his best men fell
in behind him. Syoddhan
watched as they rode out
before anyone could notice.
Except Asvattama. ‘I didn’t
know, Syoddhan, that to you
friendship means letting your
friends do things that are
foolish, even wrong,’ he
remarked.
‘Friendship means
respecting the other person’s
priorities even if they are not
your own,’ Syoddhan said,
adding, ‘I learnt that from
you, my friend.’
Asvattama did not answer.
He watched the lone eagle
circling the sky above, as he
placed his hands behind his
head and brought his elbows
together, stretching his upper
back till muscle and bone
settled into place with a
creak. ‘I grow old. We all do.
What now? I suppose it’s too
much to expect that it is
over?’
Syoddhan was about to
answer, but stopped short as
he felt a strange chill descend
on him. The hair on the back
of his neck stood on end and
his spine tingled. He turned to
see if anyone were watching
him. He saw no one in the
vicinity except for Sanjaya.
Turning back, he said, ‘No,
Asvattama. Something tells
me that it is far from over.
And I cannot help but feel a
little…afraid…of what might
come next. I do not know or
understand what it is we do
anymore. What has happened
to us, to this realm? Or is this
what all who live to see such
times, who stand as emperors
and kings, feel? Is this our
destiny? Or can we make our
own? No, Acharya,’
Syoddhan respectfully
stopped Asvattama, who was
about to speak, ‘no
philosophy, no advice, no
observations. Not now. If you
must speak, just say that you
will stand by me no matter
what comes next.’
 Asvattama squeezed
Syoddhan’s shoulder. ‘I will.
You’ve always helped me
meet the demands of my
conscience. The least I can do
is help you meet yours. You
have my word. No matter
what comes next, I will stand
by you.’
Syoddhan smiled. ‘On that
note, let us go home.’
 29
‘WE ARE OUT OF WATER,’
UTTARA SAID. ‘WE NEED TO
STOP AT THE next oasis and
let the horses drink.’
Partha said, ‘You make it
sound like we need to stop at
the next wayside inn! I don’t
suppose you have any of
those between here and the
city?’
 Uttara laughed. ‘One year
in Matsya and you still
haven’t learnt anything about
the desert, have you?’
‘It’s not my fault,’ Partha
grumbled. ‘All Brihannala
ever had to do was string
garlands and play music and
dance and…I’ll have you
know, I’ve learnt to plait a
woman’s hair in thirty-seven
different ways! How is that
for a survival skill?’
 ‘It might be, depending on
who you marry!’
Partha thought of the
simple, bold Subadra. ‘I’m
not sure she’d care about it…
my wife, that is.’
‘You are married?’
‘Yes, to Govinda Shauri’s
sister. We… Wait, what are
you doing?’ he said as Uttara
brought the horses to a halt in
the low valley between a
cluster of sand dunes.
 ‘Water,’ Uttara replied,
pulling out what looked like a
cylindrical metal vessel from
where it had been secured to
the side of their chariot rig.
The vessel was open at both
ends and had a perforated
partition in the middle.
‘Could you unharness the
horses, please?’ she
instructed.
Partha complied, but asked,
sounding puzzled, ‘This is an
oasis? There is nothing here!’
Uttara did not reply as she
got down on her knees. She
ran her hands across the sand
till she found what she was
looking for. Slowly, but with
what appeared to be the ease
of experience, she forced the
cylinder into the sand at that
precise point, pressing down
on it with all her strength. She
stepped back and waited as,
slowly, clean water gathered
in the upper half of the
receptacle. Uttara filled both
their waterskins before letting
the horses drink their fill from
the ground. She passed one to
Partha, and raised the other to
her lips, drinking in a slow,
measured way. Then she
lifted the skin high to pour
some water on to her face.
Both of them heard the dull
thud before the water-skin
waterskin is one word burst
from the impact of an arrow.
‘Down!’ Partha cried, but
Uttara was already on the
ground. She crawled towards
the rig, whistling to the
horses, which had wandered
beyond the dunes and into the
attackers’ line of sight.
‘No!’ she shouted as a
flurry of precise arrows took
three of the horses down. She
was about to run to them,
when Partha grabbed her
hand and pulled her under the
cover of the chariot rig. She
realized the futility of her
actions, but still shrugged off
Partha’s grip and jumped up,
grabbing the reins of the
fourth horse. She coaxed the
animal down on to all fours,
trying her best to get him
behind the rig. As one of the
other horses let out a dying
whinny, Uttara settled into a
cold rage.
 ‘Stay down,’ Partha
instructed. ‘They can’t see us
as long as we stay behind the
dune.’
‘Yes, but we can’t see
them either! Wait here.’
Before he could protest,
Uttara wrapped her upper
robe around her face, and
dived into the sand, as though
it were water. Crawling low,
she made her way up to the
edge of a dune and peered
over without letting herself be
seen.
Partha could see her hand
as she signalled to him. She
counted eleven men, all
mounted. She moved her
hand in an arc, indicating the
direction of their approach. It
was enough. Partha closed his
eyes, trying to focus his
hearing to locate his quarry,
but the sand dulled all noises.
He made a swift calculation
from the speed and number of
soldiers advancing on them,
and estimated the distance
between them. All Partha had
to do now was find one by
sound, and he could shoot
them all down. He looked up
to find Uttara staring at him,
waiting for him to act. He
tried to signal his
predicament and urged her to
fall back to safety. She
nodded, and then did
something that Partha had not
expected. She stood up,
letting herself be seen. As she
had hoped, one of the
attackers shouted out to his
companions even as he raised
his bow to shoot at her.
It was all Partha needed.
He let fly a quick succession
of arrows.
Uttara threw herself back
on to the ground. The impact
drew a gasp of pain from her,
the sound of which
immediately attracted more
arrows. Scrambling to her
feet, she ran down to join
Partha. ‘What sort of training
do they give you Kaurava
archers?’ she said. ‘Not only
do you shoot by sound, so
does whoever it is out there.’
‘In that case, it can only be
Vasusena. And just so that
you know…he is not a
Kaurava!’
 ‘I don’t care what he is,
what do we do now?’
‘You said there were
eleven. I’m sure I got five of
them in the last round, maybe
six.’ He let loose another
round of arrows, aiming in
the general direction of
Vasusena and his men. He
heard a faint cry, possibly
from a man wounded by one
of his shafts and he followed
with another volley of arrows.
This time, the loud screams
told him that two more men
were down. ‘That leaves just
three,’ he counted.
‘Which might include your
not-a-Kaurava-but-can-shoot-
by-sound Vasusena,’ Uttara
pointed out. ‘What is he
doing chasing us, anyway?
This is treachery! Syoddhan
said…’
‘Never mind what
Syoddhan said!’ Partha
snapped as another rain of
arrows descended on them.
Partha pushed himself and
Uttara under the rig just in
time. Many of the arrows hit
the floor of the chariot rig,
but none of the shafts could
pierce through the metal-
overlaid wood.
The horse gave a chilling
shriek as a dart pierced one of
its haunches. Uttara grit her
teeth. She said, ‘Let’s charge
at them.’
‘What?’
‘Let’s charge at them. We
are not going to get out of this
anyway. We might as well
die honourably.’
Partha was not amused.
‘Stupid girl! Take it from a
veteran: Stay a little afraid,
and you will stay alive. Dead
men…and women…are of no
use to anyone, and…’
‘Out! Now!’
 ‘What?’
‘Can’t you smell it? That’s
a flame-tailed arrow.’
‘We’d feel the fire if it
were a flame-tipped arrow.
Calm down, you are
panicking!’
Uttara gave him a
disgusted look. ‘I said flame-
tailed, not flame-tipped!
Once the shaft burns all the
way down to the arrowhead,
it ignites the… Oh never
mind, we aren’t arguing about
this now. Just move!’
Partha weighed the dangers
of coming out from under
cover of the rig against
staying there. He had heard of
flame-tipped arrows but
flame-tailed ones, he knew,
were still an imperfect, no, an
impossible, weapon.
Frowning, he said, ‘But…’
‘Out! Go!’ Uttara shouted.
Her voice drew a fresh rain of
arrows, another one of them
hitting their equine
companion. ‘Mih!’ Uttara
crawled closer to the animal.
Even as she tried to she
scramble out from under the
rig, she slapped the horse on
its rump, trying to get it to
move. Finally, the horse
staggered to its feet. ‘Come
on!’ she called out again to
Partha. This time, he did not
protest, for the smell of
burning wood filled the air.
He half-emerged from
under the chariot to see that
the arrow had already burned
down to a thumb-length from
the explosive tip. ‘Uttara,
hurry!’ he called out and
reached under the chariot to
help her out. He grabbed her
hand and pulled at her.
‘Aaah!’ Uttara cried out,
and slid out of his grasp with
a jerk as the horse got to its
feet and moved a few feet
away from the rig, dragging
her along the ground.
‘Yabha!’ Partha said. ‘The
reins…they are tangled.
Uttara, your foot, cut it loose.
Cut the reins.’ More arrows
fell. Partha had no choice but
to take refuge under the
chariot once again.
‘Run for it,’ Uttara told
him. ‘Just go! They will be
aiming at the rig, they won’t
expect it. Run!’
Partha smiled, as though
they had all the time in the
world. ‘I have a son a little
older than you, Uttara. No
father would run for it.’
Uttara stopped struggling to
free herself and closed her
eyes, reaching out at the same
time for Partha’s hand. He
said, ‘You’ll make your
father proud, just as you have
made me proud.’
 Silence. And then they
heard the hiss of a single
arrow, the crack of breaking
wood and, all at once, many
voices, shouts and the sounds
of a fight.
Uttara opened her eyes to
find Partha listening intently.
A man’s voice said, ‘Give
me a hand here!’ and she felt
the rig move. She cried out
despite herself as the tangled
reins pulled at her foot.
 ‘A woman! There’s a
woman!’ A second man’s
voice said.
‘By Rudra, you’re a
genius!’
To Uttara’s utter
confusion, Partha began
laughing. Aloud, he said, ‘If
it’s no bother, I’m here, too,
Shikandin. And stop pulling
at the rig, Princess Uttara’s
foot is tangled in the reins.’
At that, a wild-looking
man, his many tight braids of
grey and black hair pulled
back and tied together at his
neck, peered under the rig.
His eyes gleamed with
amusement as he saw Partha,
who still bore the traces of
having been Brihannala. ‘And
who might you be, my
beautiful one? An apsara
from above?’
Uttara recognized him as
the first man whose voice she
had heard earlier. She
prickled at the statement and
prepared to rudely counter it,
but realized that Shikandin
had not referred to her but to
the long-haired Partha. She
turned away as the second
man crouched by her feet and
began cutting the reins with
his dagger. He was, she
noticed, young and
handsome. He smiled at her,
and Uttara recognized it as
the self-assured grin of a man
used to having women swoon
over him. She decided she did
not like him and indicated as
much by rejecting his offer of
help to slide out from under
the rig. Her next thought was
for the hurt horse. Already,
another man was tending to
the animal despite the fact
that he only had use of one
arm – the other was in a sling
that hung around his neck. He
turned and rose to his feet as
she rushed forward, sending a
familiar sense of comfort
coursing through her.
‘Govinda Shauri?’ she
gasped.
Govinda said, ‘Surely, this
is not little Uttara with the
two tight plaits and the many
dolls she kept wanting new
clothes for? And you, Partha!
Why, I’d wager that you are
the most beautiful woman in
all Matsya. Aah, those dark
tresses would drive even the
best of poets mad with
wordlessness.’
‘You gwala, you!’ Partha
retorted. He then asked,
‘How? And Vasusena…?’
‘Oh, we sent him running
as if a hive of bees were
attacking his backside,’ a man
replied, riding up.
‘Yuyudhana!’ Partha
greeted him.
 Uttara saw that
Yuyudhana’s bow was in his
hand. Two more men were
with him: a large, fair-
skinned man, who still looked
grim, and another man with
impeccably chiselled features
and an arrogant bearing.
Yuyudhana continued,
detailing how their group had
come down the cliffs and
seen the attack in progress.
‘…but it wasn’t fair sport,
really. Vasusena and his
second turned back as soon as
they saw us, so there wasn’t
much for us to do. The other
man didn’t take much killing.
I must protest, Partha. You
always end up taking the pick
of lot, whether it is soldiers to
kill or courtes…’ he stopped
mid-word as he realized that a
young woman was present in
their midst. ‘Mahamatra…’
he respectfully acknowledged
her, and Uttara in turn
responded with a bow.
Partha said, ‘If you come
late to the banquet, all you
will get are leftovers.
Besides, that was remarkable
archery, my friend – shooting
off the burning shaft before it
could explode. I salute you!’
he declared, indicating where
the small broken-off piece lay
charred and harmless, on the
sand.
 ‘That was not me. That
was a boy who has archery in
his blood. You might know
him…’ The young man who
had freed Uttara’s feet from
the tangle of reins stepped
forward. Despite her dislike
of him, Uttara thought it only
polite to thank him for his
help. But before she could
say a word, Partha had run
forward and thrown his arms
around the young man,
embracing him tightly and
with unrestrained affection.
Not sure how to respond to
the emotional exchange and
backslapping between the two
men, Uttara stepped back.
At length, Partha turned to
her. ‘Uttara, this is
Abhimanyu, my son.
Abhimanyu, this is Princess
Uttara, daughter of Chief
Virat of Matsya. She is one of
the bravest people I’ve met in
all my life.’
Uttara acknowledged him
with a polite bow. She turned
to Govinda, the one she felt
most comfortable addressing,
and said, ‘You should get that
arm looked at, and soon.
Come, Upaplavya is not too
far a ride away. We can be
there by early evening.’
‘Is that an invitation?’
Abhimanyu called out. ‘If it
is, it’s not much…’
 Uttara twisted around to
look at him. ‘Would you like
to wait here in the desert
while I send someone along
with a group of dancing
girls?’
Govinda cut in. ‘We’d be
delighted to follow you,
Princess. Please lead the
way.’
Uttara nodded, and went
about fixing the harness and
reins on the surviving horse.
She thought she could feel
Abhimanyu’s eyes on her for
a long time.

30
DHARMA YUDHISTHIR WAS,
BY HIS OWN BRUTALLY
HONEST reckoning, a man of
considerable intellect. As
such, it was not unusual for
him to condense events
around him into singular
questions of philosophical or
moral importance, which then
allowed him to make his
decisions. He was, therefore,
not in the least discomfited by
the news of all that was
transpiring around them, nor
the fact that it was his cousin,
Syoddhan, who was behind
the events.
He received the news that
Syoddhan rode under the
elephant banner of Emperor
Hastin with a knowing smile.
What he had not expected,
however, was the enemy
ranks also flying flags with
symbols of a golden altar and
a white umbrella, for those
belonged to Kripa and
Bhisma, respectively.
Alongside theirs was another
flag with the symbol of a
flame – a sign that Dron,
acharya to the Kuru clan, no
longer felt the need to hide
his origins. That his teachers
and Grandsire Bhisma had
taken up Syoddhan’s cause
was the final sign Dharma
needed to understand fully
the many things Vidur had
told him a year ago. The
insight made him feel lighter
than he had in a long time. He
thought yet again of the man
he loved and respected as a
father and sent him silent
thanks. Vidur had been
insistent that Matsya was the
answer to all the questions of
morality Dharma had
struggled with. By the time
he, Chief Virat and a few of
the others had ridden ahead to
the capital, Dharma had made
up his mind.
When rulers forgo what is
right,
Know that evil shall
delight…
My fault was not that I
played dice, but that I lost at
it. My duty was not only to
protect, but also to guard. I
failed at it then, but not
anymore. He had his brothers;
they were all he needed. It
was time to act.
With this conviction,
Dharma turned his attention
to the missive that awaited
them at Upaplavya: Uttara
and Brihannala had
challenged the Kaurava
leaders to single combat.
Syoddhan’s army had
retreated. Virat had insisted
on riding out again to meet
his daughter and her
companion at once, but
Sudeshna, urged gently on by
Panchali, had prevailed on
her husband to wait and to
ensure that the armies were
refitted before being deployed
again in case the enemy
should decide to return. Still,
nothing could dull the
anticipation with which Virat
took his seat in the assembly,
and went about giving the
appropriate orders.
Dharma saw the situation
as destiny providing him with
an opportunity, one that he
would be a coward to ignore.
Virat was beholden to him
and his brothers in more ways
than one. This was a gamble
he could not lose. And then,
with the military might of
Matsya at his disposal… He
found his chain of thought
broken as Virat began
speaking. ‘Kanka,
Vallabha…and you too,
Granthika, Tantripala and…
Brihannala, is it not – the one
who is not here yet? Never
mind. Tell me, what can I
give you to show you my
gratitude? Ask, and it shall be
yours.’
Dharma thought, once
more, of Vidur. He said,
‘Give us that which is ours by
right, Chief. Give us Matsya.’
Virat laughed. ‘What do
you mean, Kanka? I’m not a
man without honour to
disavow those who have
served me well, and it is true
that I might owe Vallabha my
life. But Matsya belongs to
the people, to these brave
soldiers who fought for it,
and the thousands who have
stood behind them.’
‘What is your right to lead
them, Virat? For mine is the
same right.’
‘Silence!’ Virat thundered.
A moment of silence ensued,
followed by the sharp scrape
of metal against metal as
Bhim, Nakul and Sadev drew
their swords. In response,
Sankha, Bhuminjaya and
Swetha too reached for theirs.
Alert to the danger to their
chief, Virat’s personal guards
quickly surrounded their
charge.
‘Father!’ Uttara’s voice
rang out from the doorway,
Partha and Panchali by her
side. Sankha ran to pull her
away, even as Nakul shifted
his position, anticipating an
attack. In the middle of it all
stood Dharma, unperturbed
and unshaken. In fact, he
looked all the more majestic
for not drawing his weapon.
‘Chief Virat,’ he began.
‘Do you know who I am? I
am your kinsman.’
‘Kinsman? Hah! I don’t
care who you are, Kanka,’
Virat replied, pushing past his
guards to come face to face
with Dharma.
‘Oh, but you must! I am
Dharma Yudhisthir
Kauravya, the true Emperor
of Aryavarta. The one who
stood by your brave daughter,
the one whose presence
caused Syoddhan to retreat
from battle – he is my brother
Partha Savyasachin. My other
brothers, Bhim Vikrodara,
and Nakul and Sadev
Madriputra, you already
know as men in your employ,
and the handmaiden Malini is
Panchali, daughter of
Dhrupad. Most importantly, I
am descended from Satya,
Queen of the Kurus, whom
many believe to be a woman
of Matsya. But both you and I
know that she was more than
that. She was Crown Princess
of Matsya, was she not,
Virat? It is only when she left
these lands to live in hiding
as a fisherman’s daughter that
her brother – your great-
grandfather – became Chief
to hold the throne in trust for
its true heirs. By all law and
all morality, your throne is
mine.’
Virat stared at him,
incredulous. Then, slowly, he
raised his hand and laid a
single, resounding slap on
Dharma’s cheek. A silence
hung over them all.
It was Sankha who stirred
first. He turned to Swetha and
said, ‘Arrest them. The
woman too.’
‘No!’ Uttara protested.
‘This is outrageous!’ Bhim
growled.
Bhuminjaya and Swetha
both came forward,
exchanging confused looks.
‘Arrest them all right now,’
Sankha insisted.
Sadev said, ‘But why?
What is our crime?’
Sankha glared through
bloodshot eyes. ‘Your
brother’s crime, firstly, is that
he is a fool! Have you never
wondered why even Bhisma
of the Kurus never dared step
into these lands – though he
is the only one of that line
who might have survived, for
he is not of Satya’s blood. If
you truly consider yourself
my kin, on account of Satya,
then wouldn’t your cousin
Syoddhan be my kin, too?
And he just went running
from our borders, did he not?
Yes, Satya was from Matsya.
That is well known. But do
you know why she left these
lands? Because she was a
traitor, she betrayed those
whom you and your family
have spent years hunting
down. You see, Dharma
Yudhisthir, your ancestress
Satya was trained as a
Firewright by the man who
loved her, and whom she
eventually betrayed.
Generations later, Matsya still
pays the price, we stand alone
and forsaken. Finally, we
shall have our vengeance and
the barren earth of our
motherland, the parched
course of the river, shall slake
its thirst with your blood.’
‘But…’ Dharma had no
words, merely the vague
thought that he wished
Sankha would kill him right
there, right then. He did not
know whether to feel shame
at the tainted, Firewright
blood that ran in him, or to
rejoice that his ancestress had
dared bring those heathens
down. Yet, at the same time,
questions stirred in him, all
the more for his recent
experiences. Had Vidur not
known? Had Dwaipayana not
known? But the answers
came to him even as the
questions formed in his mind.
No…of course, they knew.
That is why Dwaipayana had
chosen him and not Syoddhan
to become Emperor. Protect
the good, guard the evil.
Bhuminjaya’s touch on his
arm drew him out of his
introspection. The prince still
remained hesitant and
respectful. ‘Come, Kanka.’
‘Sankha, please…’ Uttara
interjected.
‘Vathu, Uttara!’
‘My lord, Chief Virat…’
Dharma felt a searing pain as
he heard the voice, far worse
than what his body or honour
had endured when Virat had
struck him or Sankha had
ordered him arrested. The
speaker’s next words,
however, stirred a whirlwind
of emotions: shock,
confusion, joy and sadness,
and others sensations that he
could not identify. ‘You owe
that man your greatest
allegiance, Sankha. Because
truly this throne is Dharma
Yudhisthir’s. In him survives
the true legacy of Matsya,
and the secret of the
Firewrights.’

31
GOVINDA FELT BLOOD RUSH
TO HIS HEAD, RISING WITH
THE HEAT of fury, self-
loathing and rage. Guilt and
recrimination followed as he
realized he had betrayed the
one secret that had allowed
him to weave his web of
intrigue over Aryavarta, the
one secret that Ghora
Angirasa, once Secret
Keeper, had left in his
possession. The secret had
bought him his legitimacy,
his influence with the
Firstborn despite the burden
of his own origin and
allegiance; it was the one
thing that had kept him even
remotely useful to
Dwaipayana and, so, alive. It
had been the one thing he had
left to trade. But it had taken
just one glance to dismiss all
reason and do what he had to
do.
 As Bhuminjaya and
Swetha had advanced,
following Sankha’s
command, Panchali had
remained where she was,
summoning courage to stand
firm. But, for just an instant,
she had turned to glance
back, not quite seeing him.
Her eyes had held, again, the
look of a trapped, desperate
animal, one that longed to
live even as it was being led
to slaughter. He had seen it in
the eyes of a young girl,
whom he had promised to
protect, only to fail time and
again.
In that moment Govinda
knew he would do whatever it
took to to shelter Panchali
from any further suffering.
He did not care any more for
half-truths and conspiracies,
for politics or honour. And,
he admitted, a deep, angry
part of him longed for
Dharma to know the truth, the
complete truth, and to see if
that could finally pierce
through his insufferable self-
righteousness.
Govinda turned to Virat
and said, ‘Dharma
Yudhisthir, great-grandson of
Queen Satya of the Kurus and
once Crown Princess of
Matsya… Nothing happens in
isolation. Satya’s story is part
of a larger, inevitable change.
Even as the Firewrights grew
unfettered in power and
arrogance, within their own
order there rose rebels – men
and women who believed that
fire is the light of knowledge
and that it ought not to be
tamed by a few. Ghora was
one of those. He was the one
who trained Satya, though she
was an outsider – just as he
later trained me, and many
others.
‘Satya saw, as Ghora did,
that the order had to be
destroyed for the sake of all
Aryavarta. And so, when the
Firewrights failed to harness
the waters of the Saraswati
and turned all of Matsya into
a desert, she set into motion a
plan. I cannot say whether
she intended vengeance on
the order or not… But she did
intend their downfall. She
agreed to let her father send
her away to live with Chief
Dasha, but by that time she
and Ghora had already begun
to spur on the only power
capable of bringing down the
Firewrights: the Firstborn.
You all know how the story
goes after that. Satya kept the
birth of her son, Dwaipayana,
a secret till such time as
Dwaipayana became
surrogate father to her
grandchildren, the Kuru
princes. That was not without
reason, for by her actions she
had inextricably bound the
fate of the Firstborn and the
Firewrights – not the old,
entrenched ones she wanted
to destroy, but the rebels who
would gladly disappear into
obscurity if they could leave
their craft and knowledge as a
legacy for all Aryavarta.’
Govinda paused, aware
that his audience hung on to
his every word. After all, he
was for the first time telling a
tale that many had heard in
bits and pieces, never in its
entirety. He was also aware
that with each word he spoke
he was revealing Aryavarta’s
greatest secret, tearing apart
the immaculate plan that
Ghora had set into motion
with his own death.
All this for a woman? The
memory of a voice reared its
head in his mind.
All this, because it is right,
Govinda answered.
Out loud he continued,
‘But we failed. I failed.
Where there should have
been no order of Firewrights
in this empire, we now have
two. The Secret Keeper…’
He looked up as gasps filled
the air. ‘Yes, there is a Secret
Keeper – Ghora Angirasa’s
successor. I serve him…
Virat, I once asked you to
trust me, because there was
something that I knew and
you did not. This is that
secret. Ghora Angirasa left it
in my keeping as he died, and
my knowledge of it was the
reason Dwaipayana and the
Firstborn have wanted me
dead, but never exposed me
as a Firewright. But now, I
have put my faith in you. You
must choose, Chief. Are we
traitors? Or are we rebels, a
few who stand for what is
right against the might of
many? Isn’t that what your
nation is? An island of
equality and hope within the
moral desert that is
Aryavarta? Do you not
understand?’
‘Enough!’ Sankha stepped
forward, drawing his sword.
‘Your lies and trickery won’t
work on us, rebel! What
happened to this land was
punishment for Satya’s
treachery. But since you feel
so strongly for her cause, you
can be the first to die for it.’
But before he could raise
his weapon, Chief Virat was
on his feet. ‘No, Sankha,
wait! If it is him…if he has
come back, then…then there
is hope. Govinda? Govinda
Shauri, is it really you? I
thought you had forsaken
us…’
Govinda opened his arms
in a gesture of peace. ‘I had,
Chief. I nearly had. But don’t
lose faith in your fellow men
and women just yet.’
As though punctuating
Govinda’s words, the rest of
his companions entered, the
group dominating even the
large hall. Balabadra and
Yuyudhana were faces Virat
and his sons recognized,
though Shikandin and
Dhrstyadymn were new to
them. Abhimanyu, looking
less youthful now and more
sombre, stood behind them.
Govinda looked around at
them, their presence bringing
a smile to his face. He said,
his characteristic mischief
returning to his voice, ‘I hope
we are not unwelcome,
Chief?’
 Chief Virat laughed, the
sound a boom that matched
his bulk. The sound of her
father laughing filled Uttara’s
heart with joy, and she ran
forward to embrace him. She
whispered in his ears –
apparently words of counsel
from the thoughtful frown on
Virat’s face. When she was
done, he placed an
affectionate hand on his
daughter’s head as he turned
back to the man before him.
‘Unwelcome? Govinda, you
are a sight for sore eyes and a
thirsty heart. Every day I
have prayed that you would
return, that the future that was
promised us was not just a
dream. Seeing you here
today…’ Realizing the
implications of the situation,
Virat gestured to his sons to
lower their weapons.
‘Dharma Yudhisthir…?’
 Govinda said, ‘Dharma
Yudhisthir. Dwaipayana
promised Satya that he would
see her line on the Kuru
throne. He kept his word to
her, but at the same time he
was determined to fulfil his
duty as a Firstborn. And so he
did all he could to hide the
truth of his origins even as he
brought the Firewrights
down. But in doing so, he
subsumed much of the
Wright’s craft and knowledge
into his own fold. In a few
generations we would not
have remembered the
Firewrights, but their skills
would remain.’
Sankha said, ‘In a few
generations…? That can’t
happen anymore, can it? Not
after what you’ve said and
done right here. Unless you
want to make us all part of
your conspiracy? Wouldn’t
that be sheer incompetence
on your part?’
‘Absolutely, Prince. But I
have no need for this
particular secret anymore.
You can send out heralds
with proclamations for all I
care.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Now that is a secret that I
might have use for yet. Not a
secret, really, but just a story
for another time. What do
you say, Chief?’
Virat looked at Govinda
and then again at Dharma,
seeing him through new eyes.
‘Dharma Yudhisthir! I
understand now why Govinda
urged us to wait. He said that
your empire would be
Matsya’s chance to rise to its
rightful place of respect
among its neighbours. He
insisted that our patience and
sacrifice would light
Aryavarta’s future. But we
didn’t believe him. We
thought him a traitor too….’
Dharma frowned, but said
nothing. The Chief did not
notice. Instead he rested his
hands on Govinda’s
shoulders, and looked him up
and down with unrestrained
joy. ‘What now, Govinda?’
‘Now the true Emperor
rules. We of Ghora
Angirasa’s legacy stand by
him and his empire. I see no
better place for the Emperor
to return to claim what is
rightfully his than here, where
it all began. Unless, Dharma,
you have any objections…?’
Dharma finally brought
himself to look at Govinda.
Both men knew that the one
objection he had raised, years
ago at Kamakya, was no
longer relevant. Dharma had
thought himself tainted by
Govinda’s association, but
now he knew, everyone
knew, that Syoddhan was as
tainted as he was, as were
those to whom they all turned
for counsel and justice: the
Firstborn, and Krishna
Dwaipayana, the Veda Vyasa,
not the least. He nodded.
Govinda smiled. Silence
was, Govinda knew, the
closest to warmth Dharma
could show in the
circumstances, and it was
enough. He stepped back and
let Virat guide Dharma to the
Chief’s seat of honour.
To muted but respectful
greetings, Dharma Yudhisthir
sat on the throne of Matsya,
the seat, heralds announced,
of ancient emperors. His eyes
remained on the man who had
brought him this, his third
crown. Govinda’s gaze,
however, remained on Virat’s
silent but disgruntled sons.

‘What was that?’ Shikandin

pulled Panchali aside, making
no effort to hide his
amusement.
‘That, my dearest brother,
is called politics. It so
happens that I’ve had a lot of
time on my hands these past
years and I have spent much
of it contemplating this rather
consummate art.’
 ‘You’re good at it. I can’t
imagine who else Dharma
might have learnt from.’
‘You see it too?’
‘Yes. Dharma wants
Matsya. He tolerates Govinda
for he reasons that the ends
justify the means, though he
begrudges the fact that even
now it has taken Govinda’s
word to settle his affairs. No
wonder Govinda wanted you
to marry him. No matter what
he does for Dharma he will
always be the lesser man,
because there is one thing that
our esteemed Emperor has
that Govinda can never
have… You. Hai! The
intrigue never ends. And so
much so for Dharma’s moral
stand.’
‘Ah, but morality is a
subtle thing, as Dharma
would say. Duty is constant.
And Dharma Yudhisthir
believes he is doing his duty.’
Panchali’s smiled faded as
she thought of all that lay
ahead, but she forced it back
on to her face as Govinda
approached them. She tried to
give a name to the confused
sensations that coursed
through her.
Govinda said, ‘Panchali, I
need you to speak to Uttara.’
And then he was gone,
weaving through the crowd to
fall in step with Virat and
Dharma as the assembly
concluded and they left the
room. He struck up a
conversation with the two
monarchs as though the
occasion were nothing but a
pleasant visit.
Dhrstyadymn walked up to
Panchali and Shikandin,
looking at Govinda with
displeasure, and said, ‘What
just happened?’
 Panchali sighed. ‘Ah yes,
you wouldn’t see it. You
never did. It’s rather simple,
brother. This realm isn’t quite
Dharma’s yet. Sankha and his
brothers are not fully
convinced. No doubt their
father will explain things to
them in private, but we need a
bond stronger than Virat’s
word and his sense of ancient
honour. We need another
kind of alliance to hold this
together.’
‘I don’t get it. I simply
don’t understand. Why, after
all that has happened… Why
would Govinda let Dharma
Yudhisthir reclaim a throne,
any throne?’
As if of one mind, Panchali
and Shikandin looked at each
other and burst out laughing.
‘What?’ An
uncomprehending
Dhrstyadymn stared at his
siblings.
‘My dear brother,’
Panchali began.
Shikandin continued, ‘If
after all this while there is
just…’
‘…one thing you should
know…’
‘…about Govinda Shauri,
it must be this…’
Panchali concluded,
‘Govinda Shauri always has a
plan.’
 32
PANCHALI SUSPECTED THAT
A CLEVER WOMAN LIKE
UTTARA KNEW well what
was to come, but facing her
now, she found no
satisfaction in knowing that
her assessment had been
accurate. No sooner did she
enter the room than Uttara
came striding forward to face
her, confusion writ large on
her face. ‘Are you here to
help me or to counsel me,
Panchali?’
‘What if they are one and
the same, Uttara?’
‘The last time you and I
were alone in a room, I made
a few choices. Choices I did
not regret till a short while
ago, but now…’
Panchali sighed. ‘I take it,
then, that your father has
already told you of his plans
to wed you to Abhimanyu.’
In response, Uttara
grunted, disdainful.
Panchali went on, ‘I also
take it you don’t want to
marry Abhimanyu?’
‘What makes you think I’d
want to marry him? Or do
you think me obligated to do
so? Yabha! I’m not some
puppet for you to treat me
this way, nor am I a child
who plays with them that you
can cajole consent out of me.’
‘Your father initially
offered you to Partha, Uttara.
But Partha can’t think of you
that way, not after he’s cared
for you and protected you as
a daughter. That’s why I
suggested you marry his
son…’
‘I don’t want to marry his
son! I’d rather die than…
What is this, Panchali?
Conquest without bloodshed?
I have seen my father bow to
the General and bend under
the weight of ancient
promises and lies that meant
nothing. How do you expect
me to have any regard
whatsoever for a man who
comes to my home, lives
under my father’s protection
and in return takes away my
father’s throne and honour
with it. And what of my
brother? The throne is
rightfully Sankha’s! Just
because my family has been
the custodian of a right that
Dharma now claims, I don’t
have to like it. And even if
Matsya is Dharma’s by law, it
certainly doesn’t come with
me as tribute!’
‘Your father should have
thought of that before…’
‘Before what, Panchali?
Before he kept his oath as
Chief to give up his throne to
Satya’s heir? Or before he put
me up as a prize? Isn’t that
what happened to you?
Where were your ideals then?
Where were your brothers?
And where was your precious
Govinda Shauri?’
‘Uttara, please…’
‘What now, Malini? Will
you cry and plead? Will you
counsel me that this is the
fate of our kind? And what
kind is that? Women?
Princesses? Or just those of
us unfortunate enough to be
of political use? And don’t
give me all that piss about
putting my nation’s interests
before mine. We both know
what this wedding really
means. As it stands, every
monarch in Aryavarta would
give an arm and a leg to call
himself kinsman to Matsya!’
‘And does that make you
feel less like an object of use,
a political puppet?’ Panchali
snapped back. ‘At the end of
it all, you’re obsessed with
your own self-worth, aren’t
you, Princess? All that…what
did you call it…“piss about
my nation’s interests”…I’ve
been through that and more.
I’ve seen the one I trusted the
most throw me away, trade
me in the interests of all
Aryavarta, and I’ve felt more
anger and rage than you can
begin to imagine. But there is
a difference between use and
sacrifice. Do you even know
what that word means?
Sacrifice? It is when you
surrender…not because you
think you mean nothing. One
cannot give up that which
means nothing. I was not a
puppet, Uttara, I was a
sacrifice. Just as your
ancestress Satya was. There
are many who have given up
everything because they
believed in the ideal of
Aryavarta, of a united realm
beyond the politics of
Firstborn and Firewright. I
will leave you to choose what
you believe in and what you
wish to be.’
Panchali turned to go and
was almost out of the room
when Uttara called out,
‘Wait.’ Panchali stopped, but
did not turn. Uttara
continued, ‘If Abhimanyu
touches me, he dies. Him, not
me, be clear. I’m not one to
suffer anything and
everything. I will agree to this
wedding, because I know it is
what Govinda Shauri wants.
But it is an arrangment – that
is all it is. You can tell that
brat to stay away from me.’
‘All right.’ Panchali left
without looking at Uttara. She
also did not bother with tears,
not then, nor later as she lay
sleepless throughout the
night.

A week later, on what turned

out to be a fine, cloudless
morning, Abhimanyu and his
kinspeople, including his
mother Subadra, were led
through the city of Upaplavya
amidst a jubilant convoy of
dancers and musicians. The
moment they entered the
palace, Govinda slipped away
from the ceremonial
procession. He moved around
the chief’s court, joyously
greeting old friends and
allies, jesting and striking up
conversations. He was
constantly flanked by
Shikandin and the recently
arrived Dhaumya, who had
been sent for to perform the
wedding ceremonies. The
sight of the three old friends
took Balabadra and
Yuyudhana back many years.
‘Keep him out of trouble,
will you?’ Balabadra jovially
ordered Dhaumya.
‘He is trouble!’ the scholar
pointed out in return.
When Dharma stood up
from the Chief’s throne to
formally welcome all the
guests to the wedding, the
three of them made their way
back to the front of the
assembly. As everyone took
his or her place for the
wedding ceremony, the
groom was led away for a
ritual bath and to change into
wedding finery, while
Dharma and Virat exchanged
gifts and made pledges of
friendship and alliance.
Govinda looked around, but
could not see Panchali
anywhere. They had
exchanged no words, not
even socially, since the day
he had told her to speak to
Uttara, and he wondered if
she were avoiding him. He
had caught a glimpse of her
now and then from a distance,
but before he could approach
her, she had always
disappeared. And now, too,
she remained elusive.
Subadra noticed his
preoccupation and whispered,
‘She is with Uttara…Look!’
she exclaimed softly, as
Abhimanyu was led back into
the hall.
‘Pradymna’s spoilt him!’
Subadra lovingly complained.
‘What can I say? He’s such
a gem.’
Abhimanyu approached
Dharma and Virat where they
sat, and greeted them both.
Virat stood up and offered his
son-in-law his place, as was
custom. Abhimanyu was
visibly hesitant, but he went
forward to stand in front of
the carved seat. His discreet
refusal to sit on it did not go
unnoticed, and the burly
Chief drew the younger man
into an impulsive embrace.
Sankha, Swetha and
Bhuminjaya, too, were
discernibly warmer towards
Abhimanyu after that.
Princess Uttara was led out
by a group of women. A
light, golden veil covered her
face, and her eyes remained
on the ground before her.
Govinda knew better than to
mistake it for modesty, and
he felt a new emotion tug
painfully at his heart. He tried
yet again to find Panchali.
She was not there.
‘Come on, we can’t stand
here like some distant
cousins!’ Subadra hissed and
led Govinda to the foot of the
ceremonial dais. There she let
go of her brother’s hand and
went up to join her husband.
Shortly, Dhaumya called
for everyone to bless the
wedded couple. Abhimanyu
grabbed Uttara’s hand with
an air of familiarity, and the
two sought blessings from the
assembled guests. ‘Flirt!’
Govinda muttered to himself,
beaming with delight at the
scene.
 ‘He’s your son,
remember?’ a very familiar
and welcome voice sounded
in his ear. Govinda turned, a
rare expression of absolute
surprise on his face. ‘For
once, I managed to sneak up
on you, Govinda. You have
no idea how hard it was! But
I must admit that the look on
your face just now was worth
the effort…’
‘How, Panchali…?’ he
asked her, referring to the
couple before them.
‘I trust your upbringing,
Govinda. Abhimanyu won’t
touch her unless she lets him.
As for her… I made her see
reason. Just as you once made
me see reason. One woman
for an empire is a very fair
trade, is it not? But, I must
admit, I was afraid for a while
that Uttara was already in
love with someone else,
maybe even an incorrigible,
flirtatious cowherd… But no.
It wasn’t as bad as all that.’
‘Was it not? Is reason truly
everything, Panchali?’
‘You know it isn’t. You
know there’s more inside
you. And that is what keeps
me going.’
Govinda stared at a
Panchali he had not known
before. Ruthless and
calculating, yet hopeful and
spirited. After all that had
happened in all this time, she
seemed… Reforged.
Tempered by fire.
‘Panchali…’ he began, but
fell silent, unable to find the
words to tell her how much
he admired her. How much
he had missed her. How
much he cared for her.
Finally, with a smile of
contentment, Govinda took
her hands and held them
tight.

33
‘YOU CAN’T BLAME ME FOR
NOT LIKING MATSYA,
PANCHALI. I’M a cowherd – I
need greenery, pastures,
rolling fields. Not sand… and
then more sand!’
Panchali clucked her
tongue in mock sympathy as
she led Govinda across a dry
stretch of ground from the
forge towards the quarters
that Chief Virat had
surrendered for Dharma’s
use. Despite her playful tone,
her words were serious. ‘Are
you angry with me?’
‘For destroying those
potions? Or for letting Devala
escape alive?’
‘Both.’
 ‘Neither, Panchali. In fact,
I am not angry at all. You did
what you had to do, and I…’
Govinda stopped in his tracks
and stood looking at the
building ahead. It was alive
with the bustle and flurry of a
wedding just concluded but a
strained sobriety lay under all
the activity. ‘How is he?’ he
said, ‘Our lord and master,
the Emperor?’
‘Surprisingly content and
settled. The advantage of
being a man of principle is
that once your values are
indulged, it is easy to find
peace.’
‘He’s not unlike his
grandfather, Dwaipayana. Or
perhaps it is a Firstborn trait.’
Panchali laughed. ‘Is that
why you find it so easy to
manipulate him?’
‘Manipulate? You make
me sound evil, Panchali. Am
I evil?’
‘Never! You’re just highly
useful, Govinda, as evil
sometimes is. You were
useful to Dwaipayana by
keeping a secret. Now,
you’ve made yourself useful
to Dharma by sharing the
same secret. Where is the evil
in that? But, I wonder, did
you get what you wanted out
of it?’
Govinda turned to face her.
‘What do you think I wanted,
Panchali?’
‘What you’ve always
wanted.’
‘Are you going to accuse
me of ambition and hunger
for power yet again? I did not
at all enjoy our last
conversation along those
lines. Besides, I’m
overdressed for it.’
Panchali could not help but
smile. She said, ‘You sent us
here, didn’t you? Vidur was
acting on your instructions.
Why? Why here?’
‘So that all I needed kept
safe, would be so. I did not
want anyone to find you,
Panchali. I did not want
anyone to hurt you. But the
mistake I made, one of many,
is that I thought Matsya had
more time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Matsya’s isolation was
meant to foster change.
You’ve already seen the
evolution of their craft –
Uttara found nothing strange
about a flame-tailed arrow,
even though Partha could not
even think of it, as he told us.
But more important was the
change in their way of life.
Matsya’s is a far more equal
society than the rest of
Aryavarta. I admit, it is far
from perfect, but it is a step.
You see, the rest of Aryavarta
concentrated power – not just
moral or martial power, but
power over effort, over
resources and the produce of
the earth – in the hands of a
few, and did so in the name
of Divine Order and a
righteous way of life. And the
few who have the power tend
to struggle with each other
over it – just as the Firstborn
and Firewrights have. But
today, when faced with the
unique creature that is
Matsya, a place where
equality is intrinsic to justice,
and power lies in the hands of
the people and not a chosen
few, a man like Dharma
Yudhisthir does not know
whether he owes his loyalty
to the Firstborn or to the
Firewrights. And so, his
decisions will come not from
blind allegiance, but from
reason and greater good. As
will Syoddhan’s, for that
matter.’
Panchali frowned, trying to
understand. ‘So you needed
to isolate Matsya long enough
for this change to happen?
But how could you force
something like that to
happen?’
‘I…we…didn’t force it,
Panchali. The isolation began
as a result of many events,
most of which were socially
inevitable and all of which
were beyond our control. The
failure of the Firewrights to
divert the river, Satya’s own
actions, the resultant
escalation of the Great
Scourge and the rise of the
Firstborn – all these are part
of the greater cycle of Time.
All we could do was to try
and ensure that the isolation
lasted long enough for it to
allow these changes to
happen within Matsya.’
Panchali was unconvinced.
‘You make it sound so easy,
Govinda. But how could
you…or Ghora, or your
fellow Wrights, know what to
do, or for that matter what
path Matsya would, in fact,
take?’
‘Because, my dear, the
Creator doesn’t play dice.
The universe is a very
efficient place, and we are its
rational products. Matsya was
a result of social evolution –
as was Dwaraka. But the
mistakes we made with the
younger, newer idea of
Dwaraka taught us better how
to deal with Matsya. We
Yadus were a society based
on our livestock, not unlike
Matsya, and that made it
easier to give each person
some degree of power over
their lives. Although, we
could never completely
change the structures of
power – even at its height,
Dwaraka’s Council members
were mostly all former Yadu
vassal princes despite our
pretence at equality by calling
them leading citizens and
such. And so, at the first
opportunity, Dwaraka begins
to regress to what it once was
– a bunch of infighting tribes,
led by a few men acting in
their own interests. Dwaraka
lacked isolation. It lacked
balance.’
Panchali said, ‘So, the
imperial campaign… You
wanted to build an empire,
not just because you wanted
to unify Aryavarta but also
because you wanted to isolate
Matsya…’
‘Absolutely! The empire
never really did cover
Matsya. And to ensure that
the isolation would last
adequately long, I fostered
internal dissent – or balance,
if you will – within Matsya.
The tensions between Virat
and Keechak, for example.
This ensured that at any point
Matsya would not only resist
conquest, but also that the
ruler of Matsya couldn’t
upset the plan and rise as a
tyrant to conquer the unified
Aryavarta.’
Panchali felt a pang of
guilt. ‘I…we…Keechak…’
‘I know. Bhim told me. It’s
all right, Panchali. These
actions don’t change the
larger tide of events all that
much; not at this stage,
anyway. The point is,
Aryavarta would move
towards this moment, towards
Matsya, irrespective of who
sat on the throne. What
Dharma would have done,
had he remained Emperor, is
not very different from what
Syoddhan did.’
‘Then…then why did you
stop Syoddhan? Why did you
come here? What is Matsya
to you, Govinda? Your secret
stash of weaponry? A private
army at your command?’
‘I think you already know,
Panchali, and you’re just
teasing me. Matsya was an
opposite. An antidote. The
other that makes the whole,
just as you and I make each
other whole.’
Even as Panchali struggled
to place her emotions,
Govinda said, ‘I didn’t come
here for Matsya. I came here
for you. Telling Virat the
truth about Satya, placing
Dharma back on a throne,
Uttara’s marriage…all of that
has no other purpose than to
protect you. Dharma,
Syoddhan – it makes no
difference to me who rules
Aryavarta or what becomes
of the Firstborn and
Firewrights. All I know is
that I can’t let you be hurt
again, not by Syoddhan, nor
Dharma, nor Virat or anyone
else. My arrogance and my
ambition have brought you
great hardships. Can you ever
forgive me?’
 Panchali wanted nothing
more than to laugh; no, all
she wanted was to cry. But
the sensation passed, and she
settled into quiet
contentment. ‘Do you regret
your actions?’ she asked
lightly.
Govinda answered in all
seriousness, ‘Not in the least.’
‘There is nothing to
forgive, Govinda. You have
done with me as you would
with yourself. But if that was
your way of telling me this
conversation is over then I
must ask your forgiveness,
for it most certainly is not.’
Govinda laughed, quiet but
wholeheartedly, as he hadn’t
in a long time. His eyes
looked just a little less
shallow, a little less tired, as
though something within him
had stopped tearing itself
apart. ‘It is over for me,
Panchali. Not just this
conversation, but this whole
journey. Now that you are
safe, it is enough.’ He paused
and chose his words
carefully. ‘When we met at
Kamakya, you refused to
come with me. I understand
why. The secrets I have kept
bound me to Aryavarta, to its
fate. Now,’ he took a deep
breath, ‘I am a free man. I am
free of Dharma, of the Secret
Keeper, of Dwaipayana… I
owe them nothing. I hide
nothing. It is over, Panchali.
Let us leave Aryavarta.’
‘You want me to come
with you?’
‘I want you to come with
your brother. We shall take
Shikandin with us. He’s been
through unspeakable pain. I
find myself unable to look
into his eyes, there is so
much…so much sorrow
and…’ Govinda shook his
head, and said, ‘Oh Rudra,
Panchali. Leave for yourself,
of your own will. I will not be
judged by another, and
neither should you. Let us do
as we will.’
‘That sounds selfish,
Govinda. It is not a quality
I’d readily associate with you
– dispassionate creature of
reason that you are.’
‘Some things are more
important than reason,
Panchali. And for that you
can call me selfish, or an
idiot, or anything else you
like.’
‘Selfish idiot?’
‘That too. I look forward to
hearing many more such
compliments from you. It
promises to be a worthy
application of whatever time
may be left to us. But as far
as Aryavarta is concerned…
our days here are finished. It
would be foolishness to not
admit it and let go. It is over.
There is nothing left here to
fight for, anymore.’
Panchali heard herself say
the words, ‘Nothing left to
fight for, Govinda, is nothing
left to lose.’
For all his unflappable
equanimity Govinda Shauri
the cowherd looked as though
he had failed to tell a cow
from a bull.

34
IT WOULD, GOVINDA KNEW,
BE A DRAMATIC
EXAGGERATION TO pretend
that Panchali had not aged.
True, age sat better on her
than it did on many others,
and he found nothing but
beauty in the fine lines by her
eyes and the creases that her
smile left behind. Her hair,
once as black as the darkest
night sky, held traces of grey
elegantly distributed in
streaks as though to be
otherwise scattered would be
a disservice to her grace.
He imagined her older,
further wrinkled, a little
shrivelled, bent over with the
burden of her years, hair
white as the snow-packed
reaches of the Great
Mountains. But her eyes
would remain the way they
were now, and he would long
to look into them as he died.
There was a fire in their
depths that nothing, no
travail, could extinguish, and
it served as his last solace to
know that there was at least
this one thing left, this one
goodness that he could not
destroy, no matter what
mistakes he made. Govinda
let the thought pass. Some
things, he knew, could not
happen, not any more, but to
feel intensely the bitter pain
of that loss was better than
living in the empty happiness
of oblivion. He was content
to watch her in the moment,
admiring the proud line of her
shoulders, the defiant upward
thrust of her chin. As he
watched, she seemed to grow,
not in size but in courage,
walking through flames to
emerge unscathed.
‘Do you know,’ Panchali
began, ‘not a day has passed
since Dharma, and…even I…
have wondered if I did not
bring this misfortune on
myself, on us… Wait, let me
explain,’ she interjected, as
Govinda began to protest. She
went on, ‘After the game and
after you met us at Kamakya,
on many occasions Dharma
argued with me and cautioned
me that my arrogance was my
undoing. There have been
times, during the darkest of
nights when I have lain
awake wondering if what I
did was wrong. Perhaps I
should not have been defiant.
Perhaps I should have begged
for Syoddhan’s mercy, for the
kindness of the elders present.
I should have said, yes, I am
your slave, but have pity on
me… I should have implored
Dussasan to let me go, called
him “brother” and begged
him to look on me as his
sister. I should have cried
instead of arguing, I should
have asked for mercy, instead
of justice. I should have
submitted and kept what
honour was left me by my
masters and by my destiny.
But I did not, and I don’t
regret it. Do you see why?’
Govinda shook his head.
He did not dare meet
Panchali’s eyes and his gaze
remained on her fingers. His
nostrils flared as he tried hard
to remain calm.
Panchali extracted her hand
from his grasp and placed it
on his cheek, tilting his head
up so that he would look at
her. ‘You did that to me,
Govinda. Just as you did to
thousands of gwalas who had
believed that their birth and
destiny condemned them to
the life they led, that power
was an end in itself and that
to be weak meant to give up,
to surrender. I could not beg,
I could not give up, because
you showed me that to be
human is to have the right to
be free, to be my own person
and be worthy of basic
respect, my birth and gender
and stature notwithstanding.
You taught me that my body,
my soul, were my own, and
not meant to be taken from
me by force. You taught me
that the true role of a ruler is
to protect the rights I was
born with just by the virtue of
being born. That society, law
and justice were all human
creations – systems made to
preserve what we can call
righteousness or dharma or
whatever we like. To
surrender would be to give up
that which cannot, ought not
to be ceded.
‘Dignity is not someone
else’s to give me, Govinda. It
is mine, to keep. You showed
me that. You’ve shown your
fellow citizens at Dwaraka
that. We shall not forget.
Twelve years ago, it was just
me. Today, I know for sure
that Nakul, Sadev, Partha and
Bhim would stand with me,
as would my brothers.’
‘Panchali…’
‘Listen, Govinda! You
wish to blame yourself? Yes,
you are to blame, but only for
making us what we are.
Revolution is here! It is time.
What Satya began is not over
yet. Destroying the
Firewrights as they were is
not enough. Removing the
distinction between those
who fight to hold power is
not enough. We need to
remove the distinction
between those who have
power and those who don’t.’
‘You don’t know what
you’re saying, my dear. I
understand you want to find
meaning for your suffering
but…’
‘You did not fail. The
system failed. The kings who
promised to protect me,
righteousness, morality, law –
the institutions I called on to
defend my right as an
individual…they failed! Not
you, Govinda. Not yet. But if
you were to give up now, you
would fail, just as everyone
else has failed me. The choice
is yours.’
‘It’s a choice I cannot
make. I cannot bear to put
you at risk. I’ve had enough
of believing in my own
rhetoric, in the nobility of
sacrifice and the greater good
of Aryavarta. Who am I
trying to convince, Panchali?
You and I both know that I
am a selfish man who does
what he does because it
makes him feel good to do it.
I am no different from
Dharma or Syoddhan or any
of the others. All I’ve ever
wanted is for you to
understand me. And you do.
That is enough!’
Panchali held back a sob as
Govinda averted his eyes. She
had never seen him this way:
angry yet vulnerable, honest
yet fighting the truth, both
selfish and selfless at the
same time. She wanted to say
so much, explain that she not
only understood, but that she
also admired and cherished
him just as he was. But she
could not. She nodded,
conceding the point, and
walked a few steps ahead.
Govinda stood where he
was, in silence, expecting that
she would stop and she did.
But she did not turn around.
She continued to look into the
distance as she said, ‘You’ve
never really told me about
your mother, you know. I’ve
asked before, but you’ve
never quite answered me.’
 ‘What do you want to
know?’ Govinda said,
frowning at the unexpected
mention of the woman he
thought of often but never
spoke of.
‘What is your oldest
memory of her? No, tell me,
what is your most cherished
memory of her?’
Govinda crossed the
distance between them
slowly, deep in thought. ‘I
remember her singing to me
as she went about her chores.
Most women in the vraja
would sing to themselves as
they worked, but she…she
sang to me. She would speak
to me even when I was an
infant, and not the
meaningless sweet cooing
that everyone does with
babies. She would tell me
things as if I were an adult,
like how the harvests were
coming along, or how the
village was worried that there
was no rain. She’d talk about
taxes and tax collectors,
vassal lords and river and
mountain spirits and…and so
many things. And she’d
always end with a song, a
song to me… Don’t ask me
how I know what she said,
Panchali, but I did…or I feel I
did.’
‘You loved her?’
 ‘Of course!’
‘And yet, when you left
your village in the
countryside behind to become
the Prince of Surasena, you
never saw her again. At least,
that is what I’ve heard…’
Govinda said, emotionless,
‘It’s true.’
Panchali said the words as
kindly as she could, ‘Do you
even know if she is alive,
Govinda?’
 The reaction was muted,
but Panchali knew Govinda
well enough to imagine his
clenched jaws, the slight
throb at his throat and,
finally, as he pulled himself
together, the near-
imperceptible swallow. ‘No,
Panchali,’ he stated. ‘I don’t
know if she is alive.’
‘Why?’
‘Why what, Panchali?’
‘Why didn’t you go back to
her…or for her? Why did you
turn your back on the woman
who raised you, protected you
and loved you, and made you
the man you are – a man who
has been a prince and a
commander and so much
more…’
‘What are you
implying…?’ Govinda began,
defensive. He fell quiet as he
understood. ‘Oh Rudra!’ he
swore under his breath.
 Panchali said, ‘Everyone
thinks you made this
sacrifice, like every other one
that you’ve made. But it
wasn’t your sacrifice to make,
was it? It was hers. She let
you go. And her loss made
you see what you had to do
for your people, for
Aryavarta. We cannot
sacrifice that which isn’t ours,
Govinda. And that which is
truly ours, we never sacrifice
in vain. You dared defy a
tyrant because your mother
thought that the life of a
simple, poor gwala was
fighting for. Great things
happen when the weakest
rise. You knew this in your
heart when you swore to
make me queen over all
kings, for when you said that
there was none weaker, none
more desperate in all of
Aryavarta, than I. You know
this now, when you say
compassion is greater than
reason, than duty, because
compassion is what makes
you rise, to do right.’
Govinda asked, ‘What do
you want me to do?’
‘That is not for me to
decide. Mine is the honour of
sacrifice. I did not always
understand, you know. So
many times I’ve blamed you
for what happened to me…
from the very beginning of it
all. In moments of weakness,
I rail against you still. But
never so much that I forget
that you would not give up
what you don’t honestly think
is yours.’
Govinda stood stunned for
an instant, and then he threw
his head back and laughed.
Panchali felt herself smiling
at the mere sight of his mirth,
for it had been far too long
since she had seen him laugh
this way – open, fearless and
with unfettered joy. When he
finally settled down his eyes
once again held the spark that
she knew so well and loved.
‘I asked you a simple
question, Princess. I might
have thought twice about it if
I’d known that your host of
enviable talents does not
include brevity.’
Panchali was all set to
retort in a similar vein, but
the smile faded quickly from
her face. She was painfully
direct now. ‘The answer to
your question is this: I want
you to take us to war,
Govinda.’
Govinda frowned. ‘War is
not mine to declare, Panchali.
Rightfully, it is for your
husband, the Emperor, to deal
in such terms.’
‘And he will fight because
it is his duty. As will
Syoddhan, because it is his.
As will the Grandsire, and the
acharyas Dron and Kripa –
and Dwaipayana and Vyasa
Markand will bless them all
for it. But who will fight for
what is right, Govinda?’
‘It’s not that easy. Dharma
may not even agree.’
‘Many won’t agree. But
when has that stopped you?’
‘I don’t want war,
Panchali. All I’ve ever
wanted is peace.’
‘No, Govinda. The price
for peace will be too much to
pay. The different kingdoms
compete to grow their armies
and arsenals, to lay claim to
more and more power, and
that can never lead to peace.
This is no longer about
Firstborn and Firewright,
heretics and rebels. This is
about why we do what we do,
the very meaning of being
Arya, of being noble. It is
time for revolution. It is time
for Vasudeva Narayana, he
who sleeps on the Eternal
Ocean, to rise.’

35
IT WAS NOT UNCOMMON FOR
THE MEN, WOMEN AND
CHILDREN of Upaplavya to
empty out on to the streets to
cheer Govinda and the others
as they went about their
business. When that
happened, Govinda would
gratefully mingle with the
crowd, relishing for the first
time the sense of acceptance,
even respect, that the identity
of Firewright brought him.
He spoke plainly and politely
to all, often thanking them in
earnest for their good wishes,
and nodded and smiled at
those who were too far away
to hear him. It was on one
such occasion, when he was
walking back from the stables
with Shikandin and a still-
sullen Dhrstyadymn by his
side that he noticed the silent
group of travelling seers that
stood in the crowd. They
were less boisterous than
their neighbours as could be
expected, but they raised their
hands in blessing as he passed
them. Govinda bowed his
head in respect, but his eyes
remained on the bright-eyed
man in the middle of the
group, a man reclusive
enough that he remained
unrecognized by any of the
others. He turned away as a
few boys ran up to him.
In all the boldness of
childhood, one of the boys
said, ‘Aren’t you Govinda,
the great Firewright warrior?’
He laughed and said, ‘I’m
Govinda, yes.’
‘Is it true that you can kill
ten men with one stroke? Are
you really as strong as an
elephant? Can you do magic?
My brother told me you can
fly!’
‘And who might your
brother be?’
In reply, another wide-eyed
boy was pushed to the front.
Govinda went down on one
knee in front of the two
children. A throng of adults
gathered around, curious to
see what he would do.
‘I can’t fly,’ he said, in a
sombre tone. ‘But,’ he pulled
out a distinctly deformed
brass coin bearing the
Panchala emblem from his
waist band, ‘I can do magic.’
Laying the coin out on his
right palm, he waved his left
hand over it in a grand
gesture. The coin
disappeared, to the amazed
gasps from the children. The
adults laughed at what they
thought was a sleight of hand.
Govinda stood up, glanced
around him, and bent down to
address the children.
‘Where’s it gone?’ he asked.
The children gestured their
puzzlement, while the adults
murmured that it must be
concealed on his own person.
Govinda dramatically shook
his head. He nodded at
Shikandin, who, with an
expression of great surprise,
searched around to find the
coin tucked into the leather
bindings on the hilt of his
sword. It was unmistakeably
the very same piece, bent out
of shape in the very same
way. The adults gasped and
the children broke into
spontaneous applause.
Grinning widely, the warriors
walked on.
Govinda waited till they
were away from the crowd. ‘I
hoped you still had it with
you, old friend. Otherwise, it
might’ve been rather
embarrassing.’
Shikandin said, ‘The
keepsake of our very first
battle… err…together? Of
course I still have it, I always
do.’ Turning to Dhrstyadymn,
he added as an explanation,
‘When Govinda and I first
met, we placed bets on who
was the braver man. These
coins were the stakes.’
‘And who won?’
Dhrstyadymn asked.
Govinda and Shikandin
burst out laughing. ‘We need
to have yet another wager on
that!’ Shikandin said.
 Dhrstyadymn shrugged.
‘Well, now that I think of it, it
was a rather simple trick. I
mean, what you just did in
front of those boys there – I
too was taken aback.’
‘It’s the way he does it,’
Shikandin said, ‘the
confidence and persuasive
charm…’
‘Well, it was supposed to
be Firewright magic…’
Govinda irreverently teased.
‘Or do you prefer Firstborn
miracles? Repeat a fantastic
tale often enough and it
becomes the truth, that sort of
magic?’ He chuckled
dismissively.
‘You know, you’re not
only insolent but you’re
really apathetic too.’
‘No, Shikandin. Not
apathetic. Merely…
overwhelmed. But I’ve been
self-indulgent for too long
now. It’s time to change that.’
Dhrstyadymn regarded him
keenly and was about to
speak, but reconsidered. After
that, his behaviour towards
Govinda was almost normal,
as though the unstated issue
between them had settled
itself for the time being. He
did not think Govinda noticed
either way.

It was nearly evening by the

time Govinda was able to
make his way through the
palace kitchens to the
courtyard behind them. As
always, people waited in the
hope of alms or even
leftovers from the royal
scullery. Many of the
travelling mendicants he had
seen that morning were there
too. Govinda made sure the
one he was interested in saw
him distinctly before he
continued to walk, heading
into the agrarian sections of
the city. He turned back just
once, casually, to make sure
that he was indeed being
followed. After that, he did
not look back again.
After a while of wandering
along the city’s roads,
Govinda made his way into a
barn that stood at the edge of
the city, abutting the dry, hard
grounds that passed for a
farmer’s fields. He waited in
the shadowed doorway,
watching as the man who had
followed him approached.
The seer drew near and
looked around, unsure of
where to go. Govinda waited
to make sure that no one else
was in the vicinity before
letting out a low whistle.
Immediately, the seer turned
to look at the doorway and
made his way inside.
 The man wrinkled his nose
a little as he entered the barn.
He took a look at the animals
around him and said, ‘I’m
sure my predecessors in this
position have many mighty
deeds to their name, most of
which I cannot even aspire to
match. As it stands, I am
likely to go down in historical
accounts as the Secret Keeper
who held most of his
meetings in particularly
pungent places – cowsheds
and stinky inns not the least
of them.’
‘Well, you could blame it
on me. I am a gwala.’
‘Oh please! You chose this
place for a reason and you
chose well. Not only is it
secluded, but you’re relying
on the cows’ behaviour to let
you know if anyone
approaches.’
‘Yes, it does offer that
simple advantage too.’
‘A valuable one. It
wouldn’t do for me to be
recognized, particularly not at
this point in time. But leave
that be for now, Govinda. I’m
pleased and relieved to see
you again, and that too in one
piece.’
Govinda acknowledged the
sentiment with a nod. ‘And
you? How have you been,
Acharya?’
 ‘Do you really want an
answer to that question,
Govinda?’ With a sigh, he
reached out for Govinda’s
arm. ‘How did this happen?’
‘Apparently when
Abhimanyu threw me off the
side of a ship. It didn’t help
that I ignored it till Dhaumya
got here and gave me a
tongue-lashing about taking
better care of myself now that
I’m an old man.’
 The Secret Keeper
examined the bandage. He
said, ‘This is a new method,
and an interesting one. Using
splints to set a bone is well-
established, but this…this
method offers far more
mobility to the limb.
Dhaumya has excelled
himself.’
‘This was his student. A
boy named Charaka. I have
great expectations of him. He
has immense talent and
Dhaumya is a great teacher.’
‘Remind me to meet him.
It would make me wistful, I
suppose, but it would also
give me great pleasure.’
‘And hope?’
‘And hope, yes.’
‘You deserve it. This has
always been a hard fight, but
your lot has been a
particularly lonely one.’
‘Has it? I suppose, yes. It is
difficult to hide things so
deep from your own self that
no one could ever see who
your really are. To look at
one’s own reflection and
wonder who you are at any
given instant, and if anything
you are is real or true.
Frankly, I admire Sanjaya for
the way he has been able to
do that. He fooled me, and I
must take responsibility for
what has since come to pass.
You told me long ago that the
person behind Devala’s rise
had to be one who held
authority to act in the Vyasa’s
name. I suppose I have been
as blind as the Vyasa, to not
have admitted it all this
while. That has been my fatal
flaw.’
‘Every man and every
woman has a fatal flaw,
Acharya. It is these foibles
that are the very foundations
of humanity.’
‘Flaws are the foundations
of humanity? That’s a new
philosophy, Govinda.
Whatever happened to
emulating divinity?’
‘Its overprized. Humanity
is wonderful, just as it is.
Have you ever heard of gods
striving to be more? But
that’s how we human beings
are – we seek courage to
overcome fear, in suffering
we find compassion, and
without anger we would
never know the meaning of
forgiveness. Most of all,
without passion we would
never know the true depths of
Oneness, for passion is our
flawed title for what is a
sense of unfettered potential,
of infinity and of love. That is
a lesson that took me a while
to learn.’
The Secret Keeper clucked
his tongue. The light moment
hardly lasted, though, and he
was sombre again. ‘So, once
again, Govinda Shauri comes
to Aryavarta with a plan. But
after what has happened here,
I don’t know if I can trust
you.’
‘Do you doubt me?’
Govinda asked, the hint of a
smile in his eyes.
The Secret Keeper found it
difficult to meet the gaze and
looked away as he said, ‘I’m
not sure you act in the best
interests of Aryavarta
anymore. We had a plan.
Things were going well.
Matsya had been the isolated
womb of new skills and new
methods and if Syoddhan had
brought it under his sway, as
he intended to, then the entire
realm would have benefitted.
I admit, it happened sooner
than was expected, but it was
not contrary to our plans.
Once Dharma lost his empire,
Syoddhan became the next
and most obvious choice. All
would have turned out
exactly as we had once
wanted it to. But instead of
staying away and letting it
happen, as you were
supposed to, you intervened.
Do you realize what you’ve
done? Keeping the secret of
Satya’s true allegiance was
not only in the interests of the
Firstborn, it was in our
interests too. We’ve lost our
influence over the Firstborn,
and we’ve created a new
struggle for power. Now
every petty ruler in Aryavarta
will claim allegiance to us, if
not link us to their ancestry.
You’ve destroyed everything
that we worked for, Govinda.
Where the Firewrights ought
to have disappeared into
ignominy and legend, you
have resurrected them, made
them real. In short, you’ve set
us back three generations.
‘Are you blaming me,
Acharya?’
‘I’m asking you, Govinda.
I’m asking you how it is that
the most rational, selfless
man I know could suddenly
take a personal decision, a
decision that served the
interests of a few over that of
many.’
‘You’re right, it was
personal.’
‘That’s not an answer. I
want to know why. You have
thrown this very same woman
away time and again; treated
her as nothing more than an
instrument, a puppet; let her
suffer things that no person
should have to endure. Why
this newfound concern for her
safety and well-being?’
 Govinda reached out
instinctively to pet a calf as
he considered his next words.
Then he turned back to the
Secret Keeper. ‘For years
now, both Firewright and
Firstborn have fought over
what has been best for
Aryavarta. They have both
considered themselves
justified in all that they do, all
that they achieve no matter
what the means, because they
have thought themselves as
righteous and good.’
‘This is an age-old
dilemma. The fact is, both
have been right and both have
been wrong.’
‘Yes. And in that conflict
lies progress. Everything has
a counter, an opposite. The
Firstborn and the Firewrights
have not only been opposites,
they have been
complementary, even
essential to each other. It is in
the constant debate between
philosophy and science,
between faith and reason, and
imposed morality and
uninculcated virtue that we of
Aryavarta have grown to
glory. You remember men
like Ghora Angirasa…even
Parashara Varuni or his
ancestor Shakti, and the many
tales we have heard of their
famed dialogues, the endless
dialectic and fearless enquiry
that has led to what we today
revere as sacred knowledge?
They were rivals, enemies
even…but Aryavarta
prospered under their rivalry.’
‘Then how did it come to
this, Govinda? All you or I
have ever known is blood and
politics. Who brought it to
this? The Firewrights? The
Firstborn? The kings of
Aryavarta?’
 ‘Human failing.’
‘But whose?’
‘The failing of every man
and woman who refused to
stand up against what was
wrong. The failing of every
one of us who did not stand
by what was right. What
happened with Panchali…’
He trailed off.
‘Is that what this is about,
Govinda? Revenge?’
‘It’s about that which you
long for, too, Acharya. It’s
about hope.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Govinda considered the
honest admission, all the
more humble for the
unquestionable wisdom of the
man who had made it. He
said, ‘When we first met, a
long time ago, you told me
that for a cowherd to rise to
be a prince was nothing less
than the work of either
divinity or destiny…do you
remember?’
‘I do. I also remember
what you said. You told me
that your rise was the work of
neither divinity nor destiny,
but of humanity.’
‘And that, I think, has been
the only other occasion,
Acharya, when you’ve said
you didn’t understand me.’
‘Surely an explanation is
now overdue?’
 ‘Indeed. You asked me
who is responsible for the
state of things around us –
Firewright, Firstborn, the
kings of the realm. The
answer is simple. The only
person who is responsible for
any situation is the one who
has chosen to do nothing
about it. The only people
responsible for the rise of a
tyrant are those who choose
to submit and suffer. The
only people responsible for
evil are those who choose not
to fight it. That the gwala you
once knew rose to be prince
was nothing but an
instrument, a means to an
end. It was the people of
Surasena who raised him to
that position, because they
decided that enough was
enough. And I don’t know
about you, but I think
Aryavarta has reached that
point. Enough.’
‘Because a man sworn as
Emperor to protect these
lands wagered them away?
Because a good woman was
humilated and hurt in the
most terrifying of ways?’
‘Because after all that
happened, someone stood up
and said: Enough. But it
wasn’t me.’
The Secret Keeper was
taken aback. ‘Panchali.
But…’
‘This isn’t about
vengeance, Acharya. When
we watch, silent, while a
wrong is done, we make it all
right for wrong-doing to
become the new right, the
new established way of life.
Syoddhan allowed a wrong to
happen, even though he had
the power to stop it. Today,
he rules us all. Dussasan,
Jayadrath, Vasusena…
noblemen, monarchs, mighty
leaders. And Bhisma. But
why blame them when I have
been equally guilty – not
because I could not protect
Panchali, but because I did
not protest when everything I
want Aryavarta to stand for
failed. I let despair take
over…’
‘It’s only human, Govinda.
We do not fight battles we
cannot win. It is survival.’
 ‘No, Acharya, it is
surrender. To not fight is to
surrender. It is not for us to
judge the worth of a battle by
its outcome. We must do
what we must. And so it is
that human failing is its own
redemption. Humanity will
rise. It’s who we are.’
‘And so?’
‘Acharya, my friend…we
were willing to go against our
own, we rebelled against the
order we swore loyalty to.
Why? Because we knew that
the order had failed. Now it is
not just the old Firewright
order that has failed, but the
entire system around us that
has shattered. Panchali
simply asked for justice. The
Firstborn, the Firewrights, the
empire and its kings – none
of them could give it to her.
They all failed. I care for
none of them anymore. All
we can do is to be true to our
convictions, be the
instruments of change, till
together we become change
itself. Kali, the age of
darkness is upon us, and I
swear by Time that I shall not
stand and watch in silence
while humanity is lost. I
swear to you, I will change
Aryavarta as you know it, and
the world will remember
Panchali, the one who dared
to stand up for what was right
when no one else did.’
As the full implications of
Govinda’s words sunk in, the
Secret Keeper let his concern
show. ‘This…this is…’
‘Treachery? I’ve been
accused of it more than once.
It is time I earned the
distinction.’
The Secret Keeper cleared
his throat, but said nothing.
Govinda’s calm certitude was
terrifying. Eventually, he
spoke, but all he could say
was, ‘You put me in a
difficult position. My
mandate as Secret Keeper is
beyond doubt. I am sworn to
preserve the spirit of the
Firewrights, their knowledge
and, above all, to act in the
best interests of the whole
realm. What you propose will
reduce us to nothing. At best
we will become slaves to
those kings who will
patronize and protect us. At
worst we will be hunted down
once again. Where will that
leave Aryavarta, Govinda?
No,’ he shook his head, ‘the
only way forward is to
salvage the situation, to work
out a peace arrangement, an
arrangement that will let me
fulfil my ultimate task, the
last element of our plan. I will
personally…’
 ‘Peace? We can want peace
all we like, Acharya, but the
time for peace is past. You
underestimate the power-lust,
the ambition, that is seeded
into our society. Duty is a
good thing, yes, but not at the
cost of reason. And even
reason cannot be upheld at
the cost of compassion. It is
compassion that we have lost,
Acharya, and your illusions
of peace cannot bring it
back.’
‘Vathu! Consider this a
command, Govinda: Stop this
madness at once. Throw your
might, your support, our
support behind Syoddhan.
We can still make this work.’
‘No.’
‘You disappoint me. I did
not expect you to act this
way!’
Govinda shrugged. ‘Do
you expect me to apologize?’
 ‘I am not a man you want
for an enemy.’
‘I am not your enemy.’
‘You are, Govinda, if you
stand in the way of what I am
sworn to do. And I will do
whatever it takes to meet this
great responsibility, to fulfil
this one last, crucial task that
was left to me.’
A feral glimmer shone in
the Secret Keeper’s eyes. For
all his kindness and
benevolence, the scholar was
a man of cold reason. ‘Think
about it before you answer,
Govinda,’ he urged. ‘Before
we reach a point we cannot
turn back from, think hard
and tell me: Are you sure this
is how you want things to
be?’
Govinda took a deep
breath, reaching into the fount
of Oneness that had never
truly faded away, not since
the day he had seen Panchali
standing there in the forests
of Kamakya. He surrendered
to the sensation, fading into
insignificance, inexistence,
till he was nothing at all. And
in that nothingness, stripped
of all ego and identity, he
truly came into being.
When he spoke, it was
Vasudeva Narayana himself
who formed the words, ‘I am
sure. It is time for revolution.’
 36
HASTINA WAS ASTIR.
EVERYWHERE SANJAYA
WENT, BE IT THE great
assembly hall, Syoddhan’s
private chambers or even the
usually quiet temples, a buzz
followed him, and the words
that seemed to reach his ears
the most were: ‘Satya the
Firewright’. No, they were,
‘Satya the loyal Firewright’.
 Conversation, argument,
debate, he did not care what it
was. To listen would be to
invite madness, for he knew
there were many, many
interests he had goaded and
spurred on to weave his
tapestry of deceit. And now
each of those voices, those
interests, pulled at the warp
and weft of his plans in their
own self-interest. It was not
an insurmountable problem.
In fact, Sanjaya knew that
once things settled a little, the
ground would be more fertile
than before for him to plant
the seeds of destruction. It
would be the ideal climate for
him to see his plan through to
its end.
He saw Syoddhan and
Grandsire Bhisma together in
the armoury bonding over
weapons that had previously
been stored with utmost
discretion to look as if they
were of no importance.
Vidur, uncomfortable but
dedicated, described the
inimitable gleam of the
Wright-metal to an
accompanying Dhritarastra,
whose blind eyes lit up with
delight. Elsewhere, he saw
Dron and Asvattama in deep
discussion, each man radiant
with the glow of having
found that which they had
always been denied –
acceptance by those who had
earlier dismissed them.
Vasusena and Dussasan
alternated between sullen,
excited and inebriated, even
as Dussasan’s spies brought
him timely updates on all that
transpired in the palace as
well as the on-going search
for Devala throughout the
realm.
Of course, the fact
remained that the recent
developments had cost
Sanjaya his personal hold
over Dwaipayana. But a
public revelation of the old
scholar’s shameful secret, and
that too by one such as
Govinda Shauri, had only
served to diminish
Dwaipayana’s stature. It was
only a matter of days now
before the Firstborn would
stand destroyed beyond
recognition He nearly
laughed out loud at the
thought of how simple it now
was: Govinda had destroyed
the Firstborn and legitimized
the Firewrights. Now all he
had to do was destroy
Govinda and the rebel
Firewrights, an easy enough
task. Those fools would soon
be crushed under the might of
Syoddhan’s empire.
Though the situation was
cause for joy, Sanjaya’s heart
held a strange foreboding, a
sense of impending doom,
made worse by the fact that
he was not usually inclined to
place any worth in such
irrational premonitions. He
could not ignore that his
calculations had been
incorrect, and that Govinda’s
unexpected revelations had
swung the balance of power
in the latter’s favour again.
The thought brought to mind
Dwaipayana’s old lessons on
the true nature of strategy, of
seeing the field of conflict as
a fluid, everchanging, living
creature. Another thought
followed, this one self-
recriminating – that despite
the many years that had
passed, Sanjaya still thought
of Dwaipayana as his teacher
and found himself applying
Firstborn aphorisms to his life
and actions.
It had been a long and very
lonely journey and he was
tired of constantly sifting
through the clutter of human
minds, trying to manipulate
people into doing what he
wanted of them while they
were convinced they were
doing so of their own will and
volition. A few muhurttas of
silence and solitude was what
he needed.
 Sanjaya headed to his
small but lavish rooms in
search of exactly that, but a
curse escaped him as he saw
his attendant waiting at the
door.
‘Mih!’ he swore again as
the identity of his visitor
became apparent. Determined
not to entertain the
unwelcome guest with even a
smattering of warmth, he
burst into the room with
quick, angry strides.
He stopped.
He was familiar with the
silent nod with which his
guest greeted him. But the
visitor’s cold gaze, the way
he reeked of arrogance and
power, made him a stranger.
Sanjaya could not remember
the last time he had felt this
unsettled, afraid from the pit
of his stomach – not mortal
fear, for the man before him
was no warrior, and despite
his considerable stature was
not likely to pose any
personal danger. The fear he
felt was more subtle. He
could smell it in his own
sweat, the tang of rust and
salt that overcame the
perfume he was fond of
wearing. For the first time in
his life Sanjaya was afraid he
would fail.
‘Come on in, Sanjaya.’
Suka was positively cheerful,
startling Sanjaya. ‘Come,
come, sit down. We have
much to talk about and
unfortunately very little
time.’
Sanjaya could only stare
and wonder what had
happened to the timid,
reticent man he had known all
these years. The Suka who
stood before him looked no
less self-assured than a king,
an emperor even. Enraged, he
lashed out, ‘Whatever you’re
here for, Suka, you’re
wasting your time. I’ve told
your father and your half-
brother this already: I will
bring the Firstborn down, if it
is the last thing I do. There is
nothing you can say to
change my mind.’
Suka sat back, adjusting
the cushion behind him for
comfort. ‘Why not?’
 ‘What?’
‘I said, why not? Why
can’t I get you to change your
mind?’
‘Because, unlike your
father, I am not ashamed of
who I am… I am not
ashamed of my heritage and
blood, whereas your father…
Yabha! Your father finds it
such a shame that he has
never told you, even once in
all these years, who he really
is, has he? And what that
makes you! Now that the
whole world knows you have
come to me begging for my
help.’
‘Really, this is confusing –
your father, my father, their
blood, our blood. It’s all one,
you know. But that’s not the
point. I have no intentions of
insisting on formality, so
there’s no need to stand in my
presence. Do sit down and
let’s talk about this in a
civilized manner.’
‘Civilized? You talk to me
of being civilized when your
father…’
‘Enough about my father.
Personally, its my
grandmother I’m more
interested in – as, I think, are
you.’
Sanjaya clenched his teeth
in a bid to show no response.
He sat down.
 ‘That’s better,’ Suka said,
leaning forward. ‘So, my
grandmother. Queen Satya of
Kuru. Of course, my
grandfather…Parashara
Varuni, met her before she
became a queen. She was a
lost princess, fleeing her
tormented land… We both
know the story, so there’s no
point restating it. After she
gave birth to my father,
Dwaipayana, she met
Shantanu, which makes her
your ancestress by custom as
well – through King
Vichitravirya. You are, after
all, a bastard child of the
Kuru clan, are you not? For
all legal purposes you are
Kaurava…as much as
Syoddhan and Dharma are, at
least.’
Sanjaya sprang to his feet,
growling.
‘Sit down,’ Suka
instructed, as though Sanjaya
were merely a troublesome
student.
‘How do you know all
this?’
‘What difference does it
make? You thought my father
would go to any lengths to
keep the truth about Satya
from me. And now that its
public knowledge you think
this revelation will destroy
the Firstborn completely.
Yes, you’re right, my father is
ashamed. But you have to
understand, Sanjaya, he’s
human too. I think you can
imagine what it is to be…
shall we say…residual, like
the leftovers of a sacrifice
that no one wants but that still
cannot be fed to pigs because
it was sacred once. For what
it’s worth, my father, your
grandfather, Dwaipayana,
still feels the same way. He
does not know why he was
concieved, and for whose
vengeance. I think he just
wanted to spare me the self-
loathing that he, and in your
own way you have gone
through.’
‘And you…now that you
know, you are not ashamed?’
‘Ashamed? Frankly, I
couldn’t care less either way,’
Suka stood up and paced
around slowly, weighing his
next words. ‘You don’t really
know me. I don’t know what
you’ve thought of me so far,
but whatever it is I assure you
that’s not what I am. I am a
practical man. But also a
patient one, unlike you. Your
problem, Sanjaya, is that you
don’t deal well with
priorities. You’re dedicated
and focussed, and you have
the resilience of a tiger, but
you’re not good at delaying
gratification.’
‘Hah!’ Sanjaya did not
agree with Suka’s assessment
of what he considered his
greatest strength.
‘Considering the Firstborn are
nothing more than an
impotent group of hymn-
chanters sired by the blood of
Firewrights, a decrepit order
led by a feeble, bumbling
Vyasa like Markand. I’d
thought of letting your lot
fade away quietly but I swear
by Agni that your arrogance
won’t go unanswered, Suka. I
will have the Firstborn hunted
down, ravaged and tortured
and verily plucked off the
face of Aryavarta, the way
your family had us hunted
down during the Great
Scourge.’
Suka smiled and Sanjaya
could not help but notice how
handsome, how impressive he
was when he did so. ‘You
mean our family, Sanjaya.
Our family has been both the
hunter and the hunted,
depending on how you look
at it. As for everything else…
Oh well, I suppose I might as
well tell you. I wanted
Markand to be Vyasa before
me. I wanted that docile, god-
fearing hymn-reciter to
become the Vyasa because I
knew the Firewrights would
rise again – one way or
another. And, finally, when
Aryavarta stood fragmented
and leaderless with its kings
and their mighty armies ready
to fly at each other, in threat
of war, of foreign invasion
and internal dissent, when its
kings trembled in fear
because each one had
outdone the other in a race to
weaponize their forces, I
would step forward. Yes, I,
Sukadeva Vashishta Varuni
would become the Vyasa of
the Firstborn. Now, do you
see?’
‘I…I don’t understand,’
Sanjaya refused to accept it.
‘Why bother to weaken the
Firstborn and then rebuild
their influence…assuming
you could, that is.’
‘Oh but I can, and I will.
You see, Sanjaya, despite
what everyone says, I don’t
take too much after my father
or my grandfather. It is my
grandmother’s blood that runs
true in me…as it does in
you.’
Sanjaya tried not to show
it, but his eyes held curiosity
and uncertainty both. Suka
stood up and stepped forward
to squeeze his shoulder, the
gesture affirming every
impossible speculation that
Sanjaya entertained.
 ‘I’m not a man to destroy
that which can serve me well,
Sanjaya. And that is what you
will now do…you and your
fellow Firewrights, such as
you call them. No…don’t
bother to protest,’ Suka held
up a hand, shutting the other
man off. He said, ‘You and I
have our differences. Very
simply, we are both men who
want the same outcome.
Power and peace are mutually
compatible ends, Sanjaya.
One cannot exist without the
other. And so, there is no
reason why we both can’t
have what we want. Now,
who would you rather trust
for this trade? A Vyasa you
know to be your friend, or a
puppet rebel Secret Keeper
you don’t even know exists?’
Sanjaya’s eyes shone with
frantic curiosity. ‘You know!
You know who the Secret
Keeper is!’
‘But of course,’ Suka said.
‘Surely you see it too…? Oh,
don’t disappoint me, Sanjaya
– I had great hopes of you!’
‘Who? Who is he?’
‘Let me finish,’ Suka
imperiously cut in. ‘All that I
have said so far has been out
of courtesy. The fact is, you
rolled the dice on this one.
You held the secret of your
grandfather – my father’s –
birth over him and you
thought you could hold it
over me. But that is no longer
a secret, thanks to your dear
fellow Wright, Govinda
Shauri. Nor can you hold
whatever I’ve told you now
against me. I assure you, no
one would believe you if you
told them that I, Suka, am not
what I seem. Not my father,
not Syoddhan and certainly
not Dharma Yudhisthir. You
have failed. Unless you have
any other tokens to move, I’d
say this game is over. It is up
to you whether we play the
next game as allies or foes.’
Sanjaya sank into a seat
and let his head rest in his
hands. He was not a man to
concede defeat, leave alone
doing so in haste, but to see
Suka here, this way, speaking
as he did… It made him
wonder if treachery was less
brutal than the sheer shock of
having been fooled, of being
shown up as a blind imbecile.
‘If…’ he began, but could not
put his thought into words. ‘If
I…we…?’
Suka said, ‘For now we’d
continue exactly as you had
planned, Sanjaya. Though my
methods might be a little
more direct than yours.
Building forges, getting into
these little skirmishes…the
time for that is past. If you
truly want these kings, these
overlords, to fall at your feet,
you need to show them the
true reach of your craft. It’s
not just one vassal lord here
and there who needs to be
touched by the Wrights, my
friend. It is every man,
woman and child in
Aryavarta. You see, at the
end of the day, these names,
these orders – they are just
ideals. What matters is
power. You have the means, I
have the motivation. The
Firewrights hold scientific
and economic power in their
hands, but we, the Firstborn,
control the political and the
spiritual. It is time we began
working together.’
‘And why would I do this
when I stand so close to
victory? I have brought
Dharma Yudhisthir down by
my own effort, Suka. I don’t
need you to make the
Firewrights win.’
Suka laughed. ‘What
Firewrights do you speak of,
Sanjaya? The ones in
Matsya? The Nagas? Or the
mercenaries under Devala’s
control? There is only so
much use he can be to you.
With such power at their
command, neither Dharma
nor Syoddhan can resist the
temptation to conquer, and
we know where that will lead
us all. Yes, either way, the
Firewrights will win. But the
question is, will you? You
need me, Sanjaya. Just as I
need you, to keep the
legitimacy and influence of
the Firstborn alive.’
Sanjaya’s eyes held a
calculating gleam. ‘What can
you give me?’
‘The one thing you want
for yourself, the one thing
that was denied you, and
given, with what you believe
to be no due cause, to your
brother… Ah yes. I know.
Rather complicated, these
secrets of birth and ancestry.
Be that as it may, give up this
antiquated notion of being the
Firewright. It means nothing.
Become, instead, the Emperor
of Aryavarta. You promised
my father, did you not, just as
he promised his mother, that
a Kaurava would sit on the
imperial throne? Are you
telling me that you’ve never
wanted that? Are you telling
me that knowing in your heart
that you’d make a better ruler
than either of your brothers,
you’ve never wondered what
it might be like? An
incompetent Dharma, an
unambitious Syoddhan, both
men have the power of the
Wrights on their side now.
Only I can give you more.
And so, that will be our trade,
Sanjaya. Help me legitimize
the authority of the Firstborn
over all Aryavarta. In return, I
will legitimize your rule and
the power of Wright-craft.
Once that is done, nothing, no
one, can stand in your way. In
return, you will give me the
peace I want for Aryavarta.
You will do what either of
your brothers have failed to
do.’
It took Sanjaya a few
moments to form any
coherent words. When finally
he found his voice, he heard
himself saying, ‘How can I
trust you?’ It was, he knew
from experience of having
been on the other side of
many conversations such as
this, the last, defiant question
to ask before the final
concession was made.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t,’
Suka noted with malicious
amusement. He added, ‘But
that is not the point, that is
not the point at all. We have
work to do.’
‘And the plan, Acharya?’
‘History teaches us that
there is one thing, above all,
that changes the world as we
know it. It turns every hearth
in every home into the fire of
a forge, spurs new inventions,
new discoveries and new
political arrangements. Few
things are ever as revitalizing,
and when it is over it brings
peace, undisturbed and
lasting peace.’
For a while, he fell into a
strange silence, as though
rolling his next words on his
tongue without speaking them
aloud because they were
strange and new, having
never been used before.
Finally, he made his peace
with them, with nothing less
than a childlike amazement of
discovery, or perhaps the
lighthearted joy of ultimate
enlightenment. Sanjaya did
not care. All he knew was
that he was on his knees. He
would have bowed at the
scholar’s feet but for the fact
that he could not bring
himself to take his eyes off
Suka’s face as it glowed with
all-pervading joy, the bliss of
fulfilling the purpose of one’s
existence.
As Sanjaya Gavalgani let
his heart brim with adoration
– though for an instant he
wondered if it were fear – he
heard Sukadeva Vashishta
Varuni say, matter-of-fact
and resolute, ‘Let it come,
Sanjaya. Let there be war.’
Standing on the
Shoulders of
Giants
A NOTE ON
SOURCES AND
METHODS

The Aryavarta Chronicles is

the product of research and
analysis, with the latter
drawing on the former. A
slew of work is out there –
critical, unconventional, even
controversial – that revolves
around the world of the
Mahabharata. Many are in
regional and vernacular
tongues, existing as folklore
and tales that have never
made it into print as a
cohesive tome. The
Chronicles rely on a mix of
these scholarly and popular
sources, on histories that tend
towards established fact, as
well as those based on
socially constructed beliefs of
what constitutes fact.

THE EVOLUTION OF AN
EPIC
The Bhandarkar Oriental
Research Institute (BORI)
version (also known as the
Poona Critical Edition) of the
Mahabharata, which remains
the dominant source for most
retellings and
reinterpretations today, is
estimated to have been
prevalent around the fifth
century ce, that is, the Gupta
Age. That leaves a fair 3,000
odd years or so during which
the story was told over and
over, endlessly, forming a
final ‘layered’ narrative filled
with explanations and
interpolations. The bard–
narrator of the mainstream
edition, Ugrashravas Sauti,
states that he recites what he
heard from the scholar
Vaishampayana, who in turn
is one of the five students
who learns the epic from its
original author, the Vyasa.
Add to this the fact that the
epic itself recorded its growth
from 8,800 verses composed
by Dwaipayana Vyasa to
24,000 verses, and then to the
100,000-verse version we
have today. Somewhere along
the line, the Harivamsa is
added on, as an appendix.
And there begins a journey –
for history is not stagnant, nor
is its narration.

Reproduced from The Aryavarta

Chronicles Book 1: Govinda.
UNRAVELLING THE EPIC
Bibliographically speaking,
my study began with C.
Rajagopalachari’s
Mahabharata (Mumbai:
Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan,
2005). My main source,
which forms the broad canvas
of ‘canon’ Mahabharata, is
the translated version by
K.M. Ganguli (The
Mahabharata of Krishna-
Dwaipayana Vyasa, Volumes
1–12, Calcutta: P.C. Roy/
Oriental Publishing Co.,
1884–96; Republished, Delhi:
Munshiram Manoharlal,
1970) available online
through www.sacred-
texts.com. I read this in
conjunction with J.A.B. Van
Buiten’s three-volume
translation which goes up to
the Udyoga Parvan
(Mahabharata, Volumes 1 to
3, Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1975–78); P.
Lal’s lyrical transcreation of
the epic (Mahabharata of
Vyasa, New Delhi: Vikas
Publishing House, 1986); and
Ramesh Menon’s more
contemporary retelling (The
Mahabharata: A Modern
Rendering, Volumes 1 and 2,
Lincoln: iUniverse, 2006).
I have relied also on Pandit
Ramachandrashastri
Kinjawadekar’s version of the
Harivamsa (Poona:
Chitrashala Press, 1936), as
translated by Desiraju
Hanumanta Rao, A.
Purushothaman and A.
Harindranath
(http://mahabharata-
resources.org/harivamsa), and
on M.N. Dutt’s version of the
text (The Harivamsa,
Calcutta: Elysium Press,
1897). H.H. Wilson’s Vishnu
Purana (Calcutta: Punthi
Pustak, 1961; original
copyright 1840) was
invaluable especially when it
came to cross-checking
genealogies and timelines, as
was the Bhaktivedanta Book
Trust International’s version
of the Srimad Bhagavatam,
available through the
Bhaktivedanta Vedabase
Network website
(www.vedabase.net).
 The subsequent analysis,
such as it is, was not without
method. D.D. Kosambi notes:
‘Against the hypothesis of
“pure invention”, one must
ask why the invention took
these particular forms …’
(‘The Autochthonous
Element in the Mahabharata’,
1964, Journal of the
American Oriental Society,
84–1, pp. 31–44). This has
been the dominant principle I
have chosen to hold on to,
focussing on the why.
Two stalwarts have
influenced my approach to
this issue. First, I have
borrowed liberally from
Bankimchandra
Chattopadhyay’s deductive
principles in his
Krishnacharitra (trans. Alo
Shome, New Delhi:
Hindology Books, 2008).
Chattopadhyay’s analysis is
based on a categorical
rejection of supernatural
events, interpolations and
‘events that can be proved to
be untrue in any other way’
(p. 27). A similar perspective
is evident in K.M. Munshi’s
series Krishnavatara
(Volumes 1–7, Mumbai:
Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan,
1990). While Munshi admits
to using his creativity freely
in filling what may be gaps in
the facts, he remains true to
the notion that Krishna-
Govinda was a man who
eventually became a legend.
In his view Govinda was not
god, but a (near-perfect) man.
I have gratefully followed his
lead in beginning with the
premise that this is the story
of human beings, exemplary
ones who are well-deserving
of their consequent elevation
to divine status. But it is not a
story of gods.
Alf Hiltebeitel, a leading
Mahabharata scholar, is one
of those who speaks of a
symbolism-rich Mahabharata;
that is, the idea that many
expressions in the
Mahabharata cannot be
literally interpreted (‘The
Mahabharata and Hindu
Eschatology’, 1972, History
of Religions, 12–2, pp. 95–
135). Hiltebeitel’s Rethinking
the Mahabharata: A Reader’s
Guide to the Education of the
Dharma Kings (Chicago:
Chicago University Press,
2001) also deserves mention
for fuelling many ideas; as
does James L. Fitzgerald’s
broad piece covering many
topics on the Mahabharata,
including the historical
evolution of the text itself
(‘The Great Epic of India as
Religious Rhetoric: A Fresh
Look at the Mahabharata’,
1983, Journal of the
American Academy of
Religion, 51–4, pp. 611–630).
Mary Carroll Smith’s analysis
of the variation in meter,
narrative structure, and the
subtle moves from Vedic to
Classical Sanskrit in the text
as we have it today, to
identify possible additions
and interpolations (‘The
Mahabharata’s Core’, 1975,
Journal of the American
Oriental Society, 95–3, pp.
479–482) was central to my
reconstruction of the story.
Such a reconstruction also
requires political, social and
even psychological
explanations. For this, I have
drawn on ideas from many
analytical and creative works,
first among them being
Irawati Karve’s Yuganta: End
of an Epoch (Hyderabad:
Disha Books/Orient
Longman, 1991). Karwe is
particularly notable for her
critical approach to the
question of Dharma
Yudhisthir’s father.
Buddhadeva Bose in his
Mahabharater Katha/The
Book of Yudhisthir (trans.
Sujit Mukherjee, London:
Sangam Books/ Hyderabad:
Orient Longman, 1986)
attributes to Dharma
Yudhisthir’s character the
many frustrations and
exasperations that I find
likely, and though I am less
inclined to glorify Dharma as
the protagonist of the epic I
cannot deny that I benefitted
from reading Bose’s book.
Alf Hiltebeitel’s work on
Panchali (The Cult of
Draupadi: Volumes 1 and 2,
Chicago: Chicago University
Press, 1988, 1991) and Pradip
Bhattacharya’s essay on the
Panchkanyas of lore (‘She
Who Must Be Obeyed –
Draupadi: The Ill-Fated One’,
2004, Manushi, 144–Sep/Oct,
pp. 19–30) provides deeper
insights into her compelling
character and even the
intricacies of her
relationships. Panchali is
symbolically and overtly
equated to Sri – the consort of
Vishnu in terms of the
pantheon and the symbol of
nature at a deeper level. This
clearly places her as the
heroine of a story which has
Govinda as its hero; an
idealized symmetry that is
alluded to in Prathibha Ray’s
Yajnaseni (trans. Pradip
Bhattacharya, New Delhi:
Rupa, 1995.)
The tale, however, unfolds
in a different way. The
consequent asymmetry,
anomaly even, is explained
away in canon Mahabharata
and its derivative tales (many
of which speak of Panchali’s
preference for Partha) using
the concepts of rebirth and
divine manifestation. But, if
we do away with such
interpolated justifications,
what might it mean?
I do not have the answer to
this riddle, but only a
question. Behind the implied
and admitted romances, is
there a story of affection so
obvious that it is easily
overlooked? Is it a kind of
Freudian transference,
whether in the original itself,
or perhaps created post-hoc in
the interests of sanitizing and
legitimizing the epic but
nevertheless hinted at by the
triangle of three dark-skinned
Krishnas – Panchali, Partha
and Govinda? Or is the
asymmetry itself the story –
the tale of a world where
many such things are not
right? To borrow Govinda
Shauri’s words: ‘The world
as we know it would not
make sense unless Ahalya
were turned to stone.’

ALTERNATE
MAHABHARATAS
At this point, I shall admit
that I was occasionally
surprised, perhaps even
shocked, at the alternate
theories that seemed to
suggest themselves,
particularly since I had been
brought up on strong doses of
canon Mahabharata. The
ideas, however, were not as
‘alternative’ as I had first
thought – I discovered the
existence of alternate versions
of the Mahabharata, many of
which were equally canonical
in their own right. These
included the Bhil
Mahabharata and the
Indonesian Kakawain
versions, both of which I
highlight for a reason – The
Bhil Mahabharata was (in my
view) the nearest I could get
to a subaltern version of the
epic, and took a very different
view of the socio-political
status quo (for variations and
tales from the Bhil
Mahabharata see Satya
Chaitanya’s blog, based on
his research of this folklore:
http://innertraditions.
blogspot.com).
The Indonesian Kakawain
version
(http://www.joglosemar.co.id/b
was equally exciting, since it
was possibly shipped out of
Aryavarta and to Indonesian
islands in a form that was
closer to the ‘core’ or original
Mahabharata – that is, an epic
with fewer interpolations. A
list of resources and essays on
the Mahabharata variations
across Bengali, Bhil, Oriya,
Tamil, Malayalam and
Rajasthani cultures (to name
a few) is available at A.
Harindranath’s stunning
website: (http://mahabharata-
resources.org). Essays on the
Oriya Sarala Mahabharata
are available on B.N.
Patnaik’s site:
http://saralamahabharat.blogspo

BUILDING THE WORLD

OF THE EPIC
W.G. Archer (The Loves of
Krishna in Indian Painting
and Poetry, New York:
MacMillan, 1957) points to
the small but immeasurably
important link in the
Upanishads that has opened
the door to a larger story-
world that revolves around
the group of scholar–sages
known as the Angirasas. With
that in mind, the Vedic–
Upanishad symbolism in the
epic pointed out by Alf
Hiltebeitel (‘The Two Kṛṣṇ as
on One Chariot: Upanisadic
Imagery and Epic
Mythology’, 1984, History of
Religions, 24–1, pp. 1–26)
begins to make sense. Many
reinterpretations and
interpolations fall into place
and can be logically
identified, keeping in mind
the basic symbolic themes, as
well as the body of
philosophical knowledge that
the epic seeks to encompass.
Most importantly, the
Mahabharata starts becoming
a story of technological
evolution and the associated
social change.
I turned to the broader
Vedic and Upanisadic
literature in an attempt to
decipher what the astra-
incantations might have
meant in a secular and
scientific sense, and to
understand the technology
that hid behind metaphors.
For this, I have relied
strongly on Karen Thomson
and Jonathan Slocum’s work
on ancient Sanskrit, available
from the Linguistics Research
Centre at the University of
Texas at Austin; particularly
their translations of Barend
A. van Nooten and Gary B.
Holland’s version of the Rig
Veda (Rig Veda: A Metrically
Restored Text, Boston:
Harvard University Press,
1994). Also deserving
reference are Subhash C.
Kak’s ‘Science in Ancient
India’ (In Ananya: A Portrait
of India, S.R. Sridhar and
N.K. Mattoo (eds.), 1997,
AIA: New York, pp. 399–
420); Aurobindo’s The Secret
of the Veda (Pondicherry: Sri
Aurobindo Ashram, 1993)
and Shatavadhani R.
Ganesh’s audio commentary
on the PurushaSuktam and
the NarayanaSuktam (K.V.
Raman, Vedic Chanting,
Bangalore: Sagar Music,
1999.)
The Vedic texts have also
been of relevance to
understanding the socio-
political-economic context of
the epic itself. For example,
M.B. Emeneau and B.A. van
Nooten approach the notions
of Niyoga and polyandry in
the Mahabharata from the
broader Vedic context (‘The
Young Wife and Her
Husband’s Brother: Rgveda
10.40.2 and 10.85.44.’, 1991,
Journal of the American
Oriental Society, 111–3, pp.
481–494). Also deserving
mention here is Janet
Chawla’s feminist reading of
the Rig Veda (‘Mythic
Origins of Menstrual Taboo
in Rig Veda’, 1994,
Economic and Political
Weekly, 29–43, pp. 2817–
2827).

LIFE AND WAR IN EPIC

TIMES
In terms of setting the
descriptive stage for the story,
my first stop was Romila
Thapar’s The Penguin
History of Early India: From
the Origins to 1300 AD (New
Delhi: Penguin Books/Allen
Lane, 2002). City
descriptions are based mainly
on details in the epic
narrative, but I also referred
to marine archaeologist S.R.
Rao’s The Lost City of
Dvaraka (Goa: National
Institute of Oceanography,
1999); David Frawley’s
Gods, Sages and Kings:
Vedic Secrets of Ancient
Civilization (Salt Lake City:
Passage Press/Morson
Publishing, 1991) and A.S.
Gaur, Sundaresh and
SilaTripati’s ‘An Ancient
Harbour at Dwarka: Study
Based on the Recent
Underwater Explorations’
(2004, Current Science, 86–9,
pp. 1256–60) for ideas on the
layout of Dwaraka city,
particularly its fortifications
and defences. Gaur,
Sundaresh and Tripati’s
‘Evidence for Indo–Roman
trade from Bet Dwarka
Waters, West Coast of India’
(2005, International Journal
of Nautical Archaeology, 35,
pp. 117–127) inspired the
notion of Dwaraka as a
maritime power.
The military history of
India, from the
AllEmpires.com historical
information website,
Sushama Londhe’s page on
war in Ancient India
(http://www.hinduwisdom.info
htm), S.A. Paramahans’s ‘A
Glance at Military
Techniques in Ramayana and
Mahabharata’ (1989, Indian
Journal of History of Science,
24–3, 156–160) and The
Sarasvati Web (http://www.
hindunet.org/hindu_history/sar
also deserve reference.

GENEALOGIES
In constructing genealogies, I
have relied on the texts of the
Mahabharata and Harivamsa
mentioned above, as well as
the Srimad Bhagavatham. My
tables were supplemented and
cross-checked against two
sources: Desiraju Hanumanta
Rao’s genealogical tables of
the Yadu and related
dynasties
(www.mahabharata-
resources.org) and the tables
in Irawati Karve’s Yuganta.
Vettam Mani’s classic
Puranic Encyclopaedia
(Delhi: Motilal Banarasidas,
1975) has filled many gaps
and provided essential details.
THE CONSTRUCTION OF
TIME
My approach to Time has
been a mix of the literal and
the symbolic. Myth suggests
that lifespans were much
longer in the previous yugas,
lasting perhaps up to three or
four hundred years in the
Dwaparayuga – the era of the
Mahabharata. However, these
figures take on a different
meaning if we apply the
notion of ashrama or stages of
life. K.N.S. Patnaik (The
Mahabharata Chronology,
Pune: Annual Research J. of
the Institute for Rewriting
Indian History, 1990)
compares how childhood
(baalyam) lasted forty years
in the times of the
Mahabharata, whereas it lasts
approximately 15 years in the
current age of Kali. Similarly,
youth or youvanam lasted till
the age of 120 years in the
past, as compared to about 45
years in today’s age. We are,
in essence, dealing with a
different basis of
measurement of time and age.
Time, in the Chronicles, is
therefore scaled down to
contextualize the main actors
as the middle-aged
individuals they were,
relative to the period of the
epic. As a result, the age of
the characters is given in
contemporary terms.
Interestingly, ancient units
of measurements ran by
seasonal and sidereal time,
along with the common solar.
The possibility, therefore, of
a year as we know
constituting a shorter period
of time, cannot be discounted.
Subash Kak (‘On the
Chronological Framework for
Indian Culture’, Indian
Council of Philosophical
Research, 2000, pp. 1–24)
mentions how one of the
bases for variation in the
dating of the events of the
Mahabharata may be the
calendar system used (more
precisely, the number of
stellar constellations in a
given cycle).

LANGUAGE
My work would have been
near-impossible but for these
amazing dictionaries and
glossaries, accessed primarily
through the Cologne Digital
Sanskrit Dictionaries website
(http://www.sanskrit-lexicon.
uni-koeln.de). Included in this
database are the well-known
Monier-Williams, Apte and
MacDonnell dictionaries, as
well as Kale’s work on
Sanskrit grammar. I also used
the simpler but wonderful
Spoken Sanskrit Dictionary
(http://spokensanskrit.de) and
relied on the Sanskrit
Heritage Site
(http://sanskrit.inria.fr/sanskrit.
for grammar reference.
Acknowledgeme

‘Imagine that you

have nine men
struggling to lift a
large rock. Strong as
they are, they fail.
Then you have
someone like, say,
Bhim here, who
decides to give them a
hand. And the rock
moves. Would you
say that Bhim is the
reason it does?’
‘But of course!
Without him, the nine
men could not have
lifted the rock.’
‘Without the nine
men, without even
one of those nine,
Bhim could not have
lifted the rock.
Doesn’t that make
each one of them as
important as him?’
‘What do you
mean, Govinda?’
‘No one person is
the cause for or
consequence of all
that happens. I am just
the tenth man, the
threshold, the turn in
the tide. I stand here
 on the shoulders of
humanity, a mere
instrument of time.’

– The Aryavarta
Chronicles Book 3:
Kurukshetra

To all those who helped lift

my rock and made this book
possible, though you may
know it not: Thank you.

Poulomi Saiswaroopa Iyer

Chatterjee
Jaishankar Sukanya
Krishnamurthy Venkatraghavan
Shobana Sachin Dev
Udayasankar
Boozo Iyer and Pradip
Zana Iyer Bhattacharya
Jaya and K.S. Murali Neelakantan
Krishnamurthy
Alvin Pang Zafar Anjum
Jayapriya Vinod George
Vasudevan Joseph
Aravind N.V.

Helen Mangham and the

entire team at Jacaranda.
Thomas Abraham, Sohini
Bhattacharya and the team at
Hachette India.
Kunal Kundu and Gunjan
Ahlawat for yet another
fantastic cover.
The entire ‘gang’ at #TSBC
(special call-out to Sudha,
Rahul and Raghav).
All the regulars on The
Aryavarta Chronicles FB
page.
Many known and anonymous
reviewers – I’ve tried my best
to learn from the feedback.
The reader – who brought
Aryavarta to life.

And finally, always, A.R.

Udayasankar.
 THE ARYAVARTA
CHRONICLES
continue in

BOOK 3
KURUKSHETRA
There will be war.
The empire that was
Aryavarta fades under the
shadow of doom. Ancient
orders lie shattered. Krishna
Dwaipayana, the Vyasa of the
Firstborn, watches as his own
blood, his own kin, savage
and kill on the fields of
Kurukshetra.
At the heart of the storm
stands Govinda Shauri,
driven by fickle gods and
failed kings to the very brink
of darkness. Victory is all that
matters, and he no longer
knows restraint. As he
manipulates, schemes and
kills with abandon to win, he
will change Aryavarta
forever, reforging the
forsaken realm in the fire of
his apocalyptic wrath,
destroying all that he loves
and making the ultimate
sacrifice of them all.
One last hope remains… But
will the last Secret Keeper of
the Firewrights finally reveal
himself to save Aryavarta
from the greatest danger it
has faced yet – Govinda
Shauri?

COMING SOON!
For more on The Aryavarta
Chronicles log on to
www.aryavartachronicles.com
Krishna Udayasankar is a
graduate of the National Law
School of India University
(NLSIU), Bangalore, and
holds a PhD in Strategic
Management from Nanyang
Business School, Singapore,
where she presently works as
a lecturer.

Govinda, Krishna’s debut

novel and the first in the
Aryavarta Chronicles series
of mytho-historical novels,
received critical acclaim and
featured on a number of
bestseller lists. She is also the
author of Objects of
Affection, a full-length
collection of poetry (Math
Paper Press, 2013), and is an
editor of Body Boundaries:
The Etiquette Anthology of
Women’s Writing
(forthcoming, The Literary
Centre, 2013).
When she is not watching
Rajinikanth movies first-day,
first-show, complete with
applause and whistles, or
hanging out with her fictional
characters, Krishna can be
found with her family, which
includes two book-loving
Siberian Huskies, Boozo and
Zana.
 The Aryavarta Chronicles
Book 2

Kaurava
Nothing left to fight for is
nothing left to lose...

Emperor Dharma Yudhisthir

of the Kauravas and Empress
Panchali Draupadi rule over a
unified Aryavarta, an empire
built for them by Govinda
Shauri with the blessings of
the Firstborn and by the
might of those whom
everyone believes long gone
– the Firewrights.

Now the Firewrights rise

from the ashes of the past,
divided as before in purpose
and allegiance, and no one, it
seems, can stand in the way
of the chaos about to be
unleashed on the land – not
the Firstborn, not the kings of
Aryavarta, and not Govinda
Shauri.

As sinister plans are put in

play and treacherous alliances
emerge, Aryavarta transforms
into its own worst enemy.
Dharma Yudhisthir gambles
away his empire, the
tormented empress is forced
into a terrifying exile and the
many nations of the realm
begin to take up arms in a bid
to fight, conquer and destroy
each other.

His every dream shattered,

Govinda is left a broken man.
The only way he can protect
Aryavarta and the woman in
whose trusted hands he had
left it is by playing a
dangerous game. But can he
bring himself to reveal the
terrible secrets that the Vyasa
has protected all his life –
secrets that may well destroy
the Firstborn, and the
Firewrights with them?
www.hachetteindia.com