The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (28 page)

Unable to resist the darkness that sucked him into its folds, Partha slumped down and buried his head in his hands. ‘How can I explain my fears, my pain, Govinda? How can I explain to you what I feel… No. Enough!’

Partha’s body wracked with silent sobs, as Govinda watched, open-mouthed. A thick stillness settled over the battlefield, and it seemed to him that he could hear every question, fear and hope that hung heavy around him and he knew what it was to be each living creature that gazed upon the moment. Then, breaking clear through the silence, he heard his own voice, first as speech and then as song.

‘Despair, doubt, fear, yet none of these – that is how you feel, is it not, Partha?

‘Search, for

the reason why

the meaning to

the meaning of

all that is within

without the

boundless bordered

by Illusion.

‘Lose, yourself to find

yourself in what you are

not, where is the truth

of who you are,

when you are not? Which is

the ocean, what is

the drop, where is

the ocean within the drop?’

Govinda laughed. ‘Ah, Partha. You can take the boy out of the vraja, but I guess you can’t take the gwala out of the man. I once used to sing more than I spoke. I feel like that lighthearted boy again, after so many years…’

Partha whipped his head up, aghast. ‘Light…lighthearted? Look around you, Govinda. This is a battlefield, not some hillside pasture!’

But Govinda did not heed him. He sang again:

‘Die, to live, to not

live, to not die, to

speak wordless

truth, use tongues of

silence. I, a word, is

every word that is and is

not, the mirror to the

mirror image of shadows.’

Govinda paused, the agony in Partha’s eyes reminding him of the gloom he had battled an instant ago. Then he watched with renewed conviction as the agony turned to doubt and, finally, to determination.

At length, Partha wiped his eyes and said, ‘And what of my kinsmen, Govinda? What of the entire Kuru clan that now stands thirsting for the blood of its own?’

Govinda said, ‘And what of those who have gathered here in Dharma’s name to wage his war? Have you asked them why they have come here, what they want? Or are their lives and wishes yours – yours and your brothers’ – to do with as you wish; to gamble away once again? This is the greater tyranny, Partha. We are part of the tyranny if we go forward on this path. Everything, everything I have done to bring us, all of Aryavarta, to this has been for one reason – so we may say that there is a quality inherent in each of us that no ruler, no emperor, no lord can take away with or without due cause. There is something sacred in us that must be respected and worshipped, if divinity is to have any meaning of relevance. Call it freedom, call it self-respect, self-determination…words are but bodies for us to house ideas in. But the nameless soul, the idea, is what I ask you to fight for!’

‘That is politics. I need principle. Give me one good cause, Govinda.’

‘Principle? Cause? I could give you four, Partha.

‘I could tell you to fight because it is your duty, because there is no greater sin in the world than to walk away and do nothing when something is ours to be done. To surrender now would set you free from responsibility but it would be the most selfish act. Fight, then, without fear of consequences, be selfless in your duty.

‘I could tell you to fight because reason demands it. Life and death are just illusions. We stand here on this field because Time has brought us to this juncture. We are but the product of millennia, the result of an efficient universe that we perceive through our capacity for reason. And reason demands that the world around must now change. Be the instrument of that change, Partha.

‘I could say fight out of compassion, for that is what makes us both human and divine. To stand against what is wrong, to protect the weak simply because we can and must, to say “Enough!” and stand up for what we believe in – that is how we live on from age to age.

‘I could say fight for any of these reasons, Partha. Better than inaction is action guided by duty, greater than duty is reason, and greatest still is compassion. But these are simply the means to the ultimate reason of them all. And so I would tell you: Fight, not because we are human, but because we are humanity, we are creation itself; because duty and reason and compassion are just different ways in which we seek that oneness and act in concordance with it. If you know that oneness, if you are that oneness, what need then of explanations, of scripture and moral code, of Divine Order and hierarchy? Reach into the oneness inside you. Surrender to the force of creation that flows within, and do what you will without fear or favour, without bond or obligation, with detachment and yet with love. Fight!’

Still, Partha hesitated.

Govinda understood. He reached out to embrace Partha, and his voice shook as he spoke, his tone holding love, not only for the man before him but also for the truth in the words he said. ‘Compassion is the meaning of action, as are reason and duty, but it is an illusion that we, or our motivations, cause things or are affected by the consequences. If passion is free of attachment to cause or consequence, isn’t that reason, even duty? Let go, my friend. Let go of the ego but claim yourself. Be one with everything, float on the sea of illusions but remain untouched by its depths like a leaf on the waters. Resistance, too, is maya, an illusion that comes from thinking that we are the cause of things or their effect. Can you see yourself as more than Partha? Then you will see the Universe not as a thing, but as a living being that balances itself.’

Partha’s eyes held surreal wonder, as though the blackness within him blossomed, as he watched, into myriad colours. His eyes flickered, uncertain, over the world around him. It was the same, yet it was not. The darkness now held light, just as the meaning of light emerged from the beauty of darkness, and somewhere beyond battlefields and cities and rolling pastures there was a space neither empty nor filled, where opposites played like children while the truth of what lay beyond watched over them, a proud, doting mother. Slowly, he pulled himself up on his knees, his gaze now fixed on the man before him. ‘Who are you, Govinda? Who are you that you can speak this way, that you can be both the Eternal Universe and Govinda Shauri?’

Govinda laughed, the sound ringing over the battlefield. He breathed in deep of the indescribable sensation that filled his pores – an ecstasy so pure and real that it made the greatest joy seem like a pale shadow in comparison. He saw himself reflected in Partha’s eyes as large as the Universe and as small as an atom; he was all of the elements at once: wind, earth, sky and water. He was fire, a force with the splendour of a thousand suns, and he knew it to be the force of creation, of the eternal Brahman, of infinity, as though he were a creature with a multitude of eyes and ears and stomachs but a single heart and a collective soul – the force of humanity housed in a million bodies.

Immeasurable, indestructible, he was that which lived on beyond death, everlasting – for the compassion he embodied was a quality that creation could never be bereft of. And so he was incorporeal, without beginning, middle or end, but he was also human, only human, many humans, beyond creed or identity, beyond race and nationhood and birth and nobility. He was at once the million drops that made up humanity and also the single ocean that was humanity itself; an ocean that was ablaze, like the great conflagration that burned at the end of every age in which all was destroyed and reborn. He was the Primordial Being, manifested here and now as Time, the inevitable and the external. This was his true form.

Govinda’s next words were neither speech nor song, nor a chant. They were truth; eternal, inexorable.

‘I am the substance. I am the instrument through which I seek to serve the substance.

‘I am also the reason why I fight for that substance…

‘We, eternal, a fleeting

moment, finite body

battlefield fears

consequence. Embrace

the dark to end

tyranny of light

and begin all time,

endless existence.’

Govinda quietened down as he realized Partha was staring at him in alarm. ‘Our choices make us who were are, Partha,’ he said. ‘That, which exists is Reality. That which doesn’t exist is Potential. When Vasudeva Narayana awakes at the end of the age, it is said that things as we know them must come to an end, for he is the unknown, he is unfettered Potential. For all that is known, there’s something as yet unknown even to Existence itself. And that is why Narayana fascinates us – Nara-ayana, the sleeping man, is nothing but the awareness of balance, of the process of balancing that is the living Universe. And under those illusions sleeps the preserver who protects all that exists, the Universe with all its good and bad in balance…

‘We act, Partha, because we
are
the living Universe, we are change itself. Through aeons and aeons, I will be there, and so will you. This is greater than you or me; it is as great as Brahman itself. But that incomprehensible vastness is the atom, the spark inside you as you make your decisions now, as you act. We make choices, choices that lead to this, and this leads to that, which leads to this other and thus to change, to a new balance. The new balance in its own time will result in yet another imbalance, and so on. In every era, epoch and age, the cycle goes on. This is not the last battle that Partha and Govinda will fight!’

Partha remained still, though his mind churned with Govinda’s words. Slowly, he became aware of the rising sound of jeers from the enemy’s ranks. ‘The only thing I understand now,’ he confessed, ‘the only trust I have is in you, Govinda.’

‘And that, Partha, is no less an act of choice or divinity than when the Primordial Being chooses to come into Existence. To be human is to trust in the Divine, and to be Divine is to believe in humanity’s potential. Trust in me, and fight.’

Partha stood up, but his bow remained lying in the dust of the battlefield. Govinda smiled, leapt off the rig and bent down to pick up the weapon. He handed it to the archer with a wink that belied the depth of all that they had just shared.

‘Fight.’

With a long, meaningful look at Govinda, Partha Savyasachin took up his bow.

When the Gandiva sounded again, it did so in clear challenge.

Syoddhan looked up as the twang of Partha’s bow rang across the field. Partha’s posture, his movements left no further room for ambiguity or hope of his surrender. Syoddhan’s gaze moved once again to fall on Govinda as he wondered once more what sort of a man was Govinda Shauri that he could lead thousands towar, shoulder the responsibility for so much death and bloodshed? The answer came at once, stunning him with its simplicity. Men and women, with their limited sense of self, their egos and the duty it bound them to, were capable of such impunity. Govinda was more, and yet less. He was an instrument of time and humanity.

As am I
.

It was all Syoddhan needed. He asked Bhisma Devavrata. ‘Grandfather, are you still with me? From this point on, there can be no turning back.’

Bhisma seemed to have reached some personal conclusions of his own, for he briefly considered the battlefield before saying, ‘I am with you, Syoddhan.’

‘Acharya?’ Syoddhan turned to Dron, then to Kripa. ‘Brothers? Friends?’ He met their gaze one by one, waiting till each of them nodded. He did not care what the causes for their convictions were, only that they had them.

‘All right,’ Syoddhan said, ‘then war it is. Enough of politics and posturing. Reassemble the troops and return to camp. At daybreak tomorrow, we fight. Kill them. Kill them all. Remind the world what it means to be Arya. Remind the world what it is to walk with the gods.’

Part II

1

THE SUN WAS A BALL OF FIRE, ITS HEAT BRINGING FORTH NO CHEER
– only memories of old hatreds and past grievances. A constant rumble filled the air; the incessant twangs from thousands of bows, some in tandem, some in succession, the collective sound adding to an eerie symphony that at once evoked dread and thoughts of great deeds.

War.

Those who said the word made it sound like an emotion, not an event. It was a word that distilled human failing and sanctified it into a sensation of power and honour until it coursed through one and all, commander and foot-soldier, old battle-hand and untested youth alike.

War.

It was a smell, the kind that seeped in through the pores, lay on the skin and hovered, as omnipresent as a mist. It was the reek of sweat mingled with the scent of bloodlust; a primal contagion that drove men and animals alike to rampage till there was little left to distinguish one from the other. Elephants trumpeted, horses neighed, men screamed in animal voices. There was never stillness, there was never silence. Dust rose, spurred by living feet to form storm-like clouds, but then soon settled as the blood of the dead turned the field to red-brown sludge. In that thick mud, a mixture of rent flesh and rubble stirred now and then by vultures and crows, the eviscerated and limbless thrashed in the last throes of death, splattering their putrid remains on stoic friends and delighted foes alike.

Govinda and Partha weaved in and out of the battle-storm like a lightning bolt, their horses’ legs and underbellies slathered red with slime.

‘What in Rudra’s name is that?’ Partha asked, as a curiously shaped arrow shot overhead.

Before Govinda could reply, an explosion of sound and fire ripped over the battlefield. Even the immaculately trained Balahak whinnied and snorted in fear. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Partha, once he had managed to regain control of the horses.

‘Yes, but what demon was that?’

‘No demon,’ Govinda replied, but the scene that greeted them once the rain of ash and dust left by the weapon cleared contradicted his words.

Where the weapon had hit the ground the red earth of Kuru’s Fields had turned into a circle of blackness, smooth like the night. Around it, in more concentric circles than Partha could count, lay red and grey and colourless death, mangled forms of what had once been hundreds of living creatures. In its wake, the sound of flesh sizzling in its own fat and blood on scalding bone, rose in invitation to scavengers. But even the vultures seemed to know not to wheel in for the feast. Not yet, not while the acrid smell lingered.