Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles) by Krishna Udayasankar Page B
Authors: Krishna Udayasankar
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serious. ‘Do you remember anything from, you know, before …?’ she asked him.
Dhrstyadymn regarded her critically. ‘What does it matter?’
‘I need to know,’ she confessed. ‘I need to know if I am even half the person that I long to be. Don’t you wonder?’ Panchali
keenly considered her brother. Their stark resemblance had earned them the label of twins, but she was the younger of the
two by a couple of years or so. As best as they could tell, Dhrstyadymn was hardly twenty-three or twenty-four, but right
then he looked so much older. Older and tired. Or, perhaps, she wondered, she just felt that way because things were no longer
the same between them.
Once, Dhrstyadymn had been her best friend. These days, though, he had grown distant. Panchali could not understand whether
he was trying to protect her from the many burdens she knew he carried, or if they had truly grown apart. She had thought
many times to ask him directly, to force him to share his life with her for his own sake. But to her that was the ultimate
admission of estrangement. Her brother would have to bare his soul of his own will or not at all.
‘What time is it?’ Dhrstyadymn suddenly asked, looking out of the window at the stars. The skies of Aryavarta served well
to keep track of the sidereal day, which all its nations followed. The day, which began and ended at sunrise, was divided
into thirty periods, or muhurttas. As though looking for a way to ignore what he would soon have to do, Dhrstyadymn allowed
his mind to abstractedly ponder the significance of the number thirty, which so dominated chronology: Thirty kashtiha made
up one kala, thirty kalas made one muhurtta, of which there were thirty in a day, and, finally, thirty days made a month.
Each kashtiha itself comprised fifteen nimisha, or blinks of the eye. The measurements then went into factors, rather than
multiples, with three lava making up a nimisha, three vedha making a lava. A vedha was measured as a hundred thruti, a thruti
being the time it took to integrate three trasarenu, or molecules, eachmade as a combination of six celestial atoms, the most fundamental unit of existence itself.
Oblivious to her brother’s ruminations, Panali followed his gaze and noticed that it was late. ‘Six muhurttas to sunrise,’
she estimated.
Dhrystydymn thought for a while longer and then said, ‘Come with me.’
A trusted attendant brought them their horses, discreetly saddled and retrieved from the stables. The two set out, leaving
Kampilya unseen through an inconspicuous gate between the palace wall and the army garrison.
Panchali kept quiet till they were a fair distance from the city and among open fields. She then pulled on the reins, making
her horse rear up and whinny in challenge. ‘Care for a race?’
‘Go!’ Dhrstyadymn instantly cried out and spurred his horse into a gallop.
‘Not fair!’ Panchali shouted and set off after him, laughing.
Their melancholy dispelled by the magical stillness of the moonlit
night, the two rode at a steady pace, heading south-east from Kampilya. They occasionally stopped to let their horses catch
their breath or slowed down to a serene canter in the moonlight as they conversed, but for the most part they rode in silence.
Panchali found herself enjoying the unspoken companionship that she had regretted as lost just a while ago and felt happier
than she had all day.
A little before dawn, Dhrstyadymn turned due south and into the large forest tract that formed a border with their westward
neighbours, Kuru and Surasena. Panchali followed without question as he led them into the deepest part of the woods. The soft
twitter of birds and the gentle susurrus of awakening forest life helped dispel the heavy, somewhat ominous, air. Beams of
sunlight shone through the occasional gap between the trees, trapping eddies of fresh mist and forest-dust in fragile sculptures
of light and shadow. For the
Dhrstyadymn regarded her critically. ‘What does it matter?’
‘I need to know,’ she confessed. ‘I need to know if I am even half the person that I long to be. Don’t you wonder?’ Panchali
keenly considered her brother. Their stark resemblance had earned them the label of twins, but she was the younger of the
two by a couple of years or so. As best as they could tell, Dhrstyadymn was hardly twenty-three or twenty-four, but right
then he looked so much older. Older and tired. Or, perhaps, she wondered, she just felt that way because things were no longer
the same between them.
Once, Dhrstyadymn had been her best friend. These days, though, he had grown distant. Panchali could not understand whether
he was trying to protect her from the many burdens she knew he carried, or if they had truly grown apart. She had thought
many times to ask him directly, to force him to share his life with her for his own sake. But to her that was the ultimate
admission of estrangement. Her brother would have to bare his soul of his own will or not at all.
‘What time is it?’ Dhrstyadymn suddenly asked, looking out of the window at the stars. The skies of Aryavarta served well
to keep track of the sidereal day, which all its nations followed. The day, which began and ended at sunrise, was divided
into thirty periods, or muhurttas. As though looking for a way to ignore what he would soon have to do, Dhrstyadymn allowed
his mind to abstractedly ponder the significance of the number thirty, which so dominated chronology: Thirty kashtiha made
up one kala, thirty kalas made one muhurtta, of which there were thirty in a day, and, finally, thirty days made a month.
Each kashtiha itself comprised fifteen nimisha, or blinks of the eye. The measurements then went into factors, rather than
multiples, with three lava making up a nimisha, three vedha making a lava. A vedha was measured as a hundred thruti, a thruti
being the time it took to integrate three trasarenu, or molecules, eachmade as a combination of six celestial atoms, the most fundamental unit of existence itself.
Oblivious to her brother’s ruminations, Panali followed his gaze and noticed that it was late. ‘Six muhurttas to sunrise,’
she estimated.
Dhrystydymn thought for a while longer and then said, ‘Come with me.’
A trusted attendant brought them their horses, discreetly saddled and retrieved from the stables. The two set out, leaving
Kampilya unseen through an inconspicuous gate between the palace wall and the army garrison.
Panchali kept quiet till they were a fair distance from the city and among open fields. She then pulled on the reins, making
her horse rear up and whinny in challenge. ‘Care for a race?’
‘Go!’ Dhrstyadymn instantly cried out and spurred his horse into a gallop.
‘Not fair!’ Panchali shouted and set off after him, laughing.
Their melancholy dispelled by the magical stillness of the moonlit
night, the two rode at a steady pace, heading south-east from Kampilya. They occasionally stopped to let their horses catch
their breath or slowed down to a serene canter in the moonlight as they conversed, but for the most part they rode in silence.
Panchali found herself enjoying the unspoken companionship that she had regretted as lost just a while ago and felt happier
than she had all day.
A little before dawn, Dhrstyadymn turned due south and into the large forest tract that formed a border with their westward
neighbours, Kuru and Surasena. Panchali followed without question as he led them into the deepest part of the woods. The soft
twitter of birds and the gentle susurrus of awakening forest life helped dispel the heavy, somewhat ominous, air. Beams of
sunlight shone through the occasional gap between the trees, trapping eddies of fresh mist and forest-dust in fragile sculptures
of light and shadow. For the
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