Of the Kurus, a Short Story

###### Year 916 of the Seventh Manvantara Fifteen days into the forest, the exiled Bharata prince discovered a city. He had never heard its name, and came upon it only by chance. He had to stay here a while- he had to learn more about these Kurus and their city, Kurukshetra.   The Kurus painted their faces in the fashion of the old tribes- the first Suryavanshi, Somavanshi and their precursors. Dark reds and bright yellows were smeared in intimidating, angry angles that accented the eyebrows and chin. The left cheek was reserved for insignia that represented some sort of hierarchy, the Bharata prince guessed. The Kuru sentries that caught him had all painted the same design on their cheeks, but the men they transferred him to sported larger and more intricate artworks. Inside the Kuru king’s attendance hall, the Bharata prince saw altogether a different design; and the only Kuru king’s was unique. He had been treated cordially so far- a display of civility that would have been absent in Kanyakubja or Kaushambhi. Within hours of being within Kurukshetra, he correctly surmised that he was not among savages. There was neither the characteristic stench of flesh, liquor and blood nor the statutory snarls, growls and abuses. Instead, he was offered fresh clothes and refreshments, though that was after they searched and disarmed him.   Only that distinctive design on his left cheek differentiated the Kuru king’s face-paint from the others of his tribe. His frizzy beard was the same ochre colour as the rest, but the eyes were striking brown- much like the brown of Bharata eyes. Despite the fierce paint and his burly appearance, the Kuru king broke into what was unmistakably a smile.   “Welcome to my poor city, outsider,” he said to the Bharata prince. “Kurukshetra- Land of the Kurus. I am Janmejaya- son of Parikshit, seventh King of the line and descendant of the great Kuru. And what is your name? Where are you from?” King Janmejaya’s dialect was perfect, his pronunciation exactly like that of any citizen of Aryavarta. The exiled Bharata prince replied- “I am Kaushika, citizen of Kanyakubja in Bharatvarsha. And I have no luminous titles to distinguish my name, King Janmejaya.” Eight years into his exile, the Bharata prince had long learnt that it was better to keep his royal identity secret. King Janmejaya continued to smile widely. “Kanyakubja,” he said, his pronunciation again perfect. “City of the Hunched Maiden- that is what it means, does it not?” “It does,” Kaushika replied. “Funny name for a city,” Janmejaya commented amiably. “But I am sure there is a lovely tale to it. Why would a place come to be named such, Kaushika of Kanyakubja?” Kaushika Bharata liked King Janmejaya’s genial curiosity. “There are many tales, Kuru King,” he said. “My favourite is the one about prince Suhotra and the maiden Akshita.” Janmejaya frowned in thought before saying excitedly- “Suhotra, elder son to the First King Bharata!” Kaushika was impressed by King Janmejaya’s knowledge. He mused at his Bharata uncles’ and cousins’ arrogance- here was an entire kingdom that knew much about them, when they knew naught about it. “You are correct, King Janmejaya. Should I then assume that you also know of First King Bharata’s ashvamedha, and his son Suhotra’s part in it? Janmejaya nodded eagerly, and Kaushika continued. “During the ashvamedha, Suhotra and his contingent came to rest near what is today the city of Kanyakubja. There, his company came upon a poor, ragged bunch of travelers who were migrating away from old city Pratisthana. One of them was the maiden Akshita- who was a hunch-backed, pock-faced young woman. She pleaded Suhotra to save Pratisthana, to rescue it from the barbarity and chaos it had been reduced to.” “After the Suryavanshi attack on the Purus,” King Janmejaya added. “And the consequent earthquake!” Kaushika nodded and resumed his tale. “Akshita’s destitute state and the genuine entreaty upon her face melted Suhotra’s heart, and he vowed to gift her a Pratisthana that was prosperous once again. Then his Ashvamedha journey recommenced and he got his men to settle Akshita and that group of travelers by the Ganga. Once the Ashvamedha was over and the new city of Prayaga was established, he returned there to bring her back, but by then Akshita was dead to disease. It is in her honour that Crown Prince Suhotra named that region Kanyakubja, and today it is a city larger than even old Pratisthana was at its peak.” “A fine story!” Janmejaya exclaimed happily. “The history of Bharatvarsha never ceases to awe me. And it has been a while since one of your nation ventured into these forests.” “Khandakvana is still considered unchartered and dark territory,” Kaushika said. “And we on the outside believe that it is uninhabited, save a few bands of Rakshasas and Gandharvas. As a trader I have never heard of your lands. No goods flow from here and none of my goods reach here.” “We are half-bloods, Kaushika the trader,” King Janmejaya replied. “We are both- people of Aryavarta and also not. Our great patriarch is Kuru. On his mother’s side, Kuru was descended from Karusaka- son of the Vaivasvat Manu and brother to Ikshvaku. And from his father- King Samvarna of the Forests, he was descendant to First King Bharata.” Kaushika worked hard to conceal his look of surprise. Samvarna Bharata was his ancestor, connected to him through their common forefather Suhotra. And though King Samvarna was said to have died in battle, his body was never found. An old saying came to his mind, something he had heard in the lanes of Ahikshetra- *Samvarna will return one day with a thousand sons and reclaim his throne.* Could these Kurus truly be the descendants of Samvarna? ###### Year 655 of the Seventh Manvantara Dvishani. For twenty-two years it had been his home- gentle, safe and serene. The river Vakshu lay some distance south, barely a day’s ride by horse. He had heard of the great rivers further south- Sindhu, Sarasvati and more. But he could not imagine anything surpassing the majesty of Vakshu. It flowed strong and deep during the summer months, with its waters gushing loud. Horses refused to cross it then, and passage south was possible only through the two, narrow bridges constructed long before his time. During winters, the Vakshu was half a glacier, and its waters impossibly cold. The night sky was grand- full of countless constellations whose names he had learnt before he was even fifteen. Here at Dvishani, the endless mountain ranges that began with the Himalaya in the south finally ended. North of it was fertile, unbound grassland that the people of Kapisa or Harautii could only dream of. Not that Dvishani was unique in this respect- the residents of Aspasoi to the west found themselves similarly located. But he had left it behind now, on a journey he may never return from. The large, fat figure of Skada walked into his vision and he sighed- knowing what was to come. “They call it Uraga,” Skada grunted. talking of the village they set camp by. The man had the blood of at least six different tribes in him. His father was the product of a Dasa and Shaka union. And from his mother’s side Skada connected to four northern, nomadic tribes. This was the blood he was carrying back to the place of his forefathers, Kuru thought to himself. “Takes resilient folks to make a living out here,” Kuru commented. This was a cold, dry and harsh place. Tall, imposing mountains stood on all sides, channeling piercing frost and ice right to Uraga. But this was the only village they had found after months of journey south from Dvishani. The people of Uraga were tall and hardened with clear signs of Ashvaka and Suryavanshi blood, speaking a dialect that Kuru was sure came from further south.   The next morning Skada had disappeared by the time Kuru woke up, no doubt to find passage among the mountains. It was evening when he returned and there was a grim, angry look to the beefy man. “No passage,” he said bluntly. “What do you mean, no passage?” Kuru asked. The night before, he sampled some of the wares and tools in Uraga, finding enough evidence of trade with Avisari and Sikardu. And there could be no trade without at least one clear passage through the mountains. “No passage to Avisari,” Skada insisted. “I search up and down, passes blocked.” It took many more hours of frustrating conversation with the people of Uraga to confirm that the passes to Avisari and Sikardu were blocked by snow. He would have to take a detour, he was told. “Off to Kapisa,” he said to his companion, who returned an emotionless stare. “From there, the Ashvakas can take us into Aryavarta,” he added. Kuru had heard enough about the rivers of Aryavarta, but no one told him about its mountains. They stretched as high as he raised his vision, and almost as far. A bright carpet of snow was spread raggedly across the mountain-scape. To his right, the range extended into Ashvaka lands and then Dasa, where it was called the Hemakuta. To the left it was truly endless- the great Himalaya. It was in the Himalaya that he expected to find the Suryavansha cities of Avisari and Sringara. *Founded by the First King Ikshvaku, the Suryavansha are Aryavarta’s strongest tribe*, his father had once instructed him. *Their capital is Avisari, and the southern city of Vitabhya is another powerful stronghold.*   But at Kapisa, he learnt that Avisari was an abandoned city, as were Sringara, Rajavasa, Vitabhya and all the Suryavanshi settlements. The Ashvakas at Kapisa were recalcitrant, unwilling to share any further with two outsiders who spoke their dialect with a strange accent. Kuru imagined that Skada and he looked very much the foreigners too. Their skin had a distinct, reddish tinge to it. And though their hair shined copper as well, it was quite different in hue to Ashvaka hair. The Ashvakas’ generosity ended at giving Kuru and Skada three horses, and some general directions leading up to the Vitasta river. If they followed those directions right, then soon these tall mountains would end and they would step onto fertile river-lands. From there, Kuru guessed it was only a matter of time before he ran into civilization. “Come on, my friend,” he said to Skada, who became only more grim and somber once they stepped deeper into the Himalaya. “Soon I will show you the country of my forefathers- the noble land of Vaivasvat Manu.” How many rivers could one land hold? Kuru’s mind struggled to fathom this. They had crossed five rivers so far, including the Sindhu and Vitasta. It was a journey that took two, long months while they circled back and meandered across unfamiliar terrain. They encountered some inhabitation only after crossing the fourth- Iravati. The villagers called their settlement Sakala, and Kuru found communication with them far easier than with the people of Uraga or Kapisa. When he brought up Vaivasvat Manu’s name, the people proudly declared that Sakala was the Manu’s place of birth. Skada looked up at him curiously, but Vaivasvat Manu had travelled far and wide and his progeny had spread even further. It would be no surprise if every small village in Aryavarta claimed to be his place of birth, only to gain some importance.   He found the other, current reports far more relevant. It was apparent that the Aryavarta he had come to was of a different character than what his distant forefather had left. The people of Sakala sadly lamented that the Suryavansha was no more, even as a young boy in their group insisted that they survived to the east of the Ganga. But there was also hope and excitement- Kuru asked after it to learn of the Grand Bharata Kingdom. Its western borders were not too far from Sakala, he was told. All he had to do was cross east of the Shatadru, and continue in that direction till he hit the frontier town of Trigarta.   That was precisely what he did, and now that Trigarta was within sight even Skada seemed happy. The big fellow had enjoyed a proper meal at Sakala after months, although Kuru knew that his heart longed for meat and tendon. Hopefully, that would be in attendance at Trigarta. From the distance it seemed like any other large settlement- only a little smaller than Dvishani itself. At closer view, some of the individual structures became discernible and Kuru saw the unambiguous shapes of garrisons and archer outposts. Skada noticed them too, and grunted. “Easy, my friend,” Kuru said softly. They approached cautiously. Men were clearly visible in the outposts. Even closer, it was apparent that the men were staring right back at them, observing as the two approached. When within earshot, Kuru heard a man call out, “Halt! State your names, place of origin and purpose of entry!” Kuru chuckled. Countless miles away from Dvishani and further even from Aspasoi, the military ways and protocols were the same. He brought his horse to a stop, and so did Skada beside him. “I am named Kuru, son of Bansi,” he shouted back. “This is my companion Skada, son of Sikkata. We are riders from Dvishani- far north of the town of Kapisa. We seek passage to explore the Grand Bharata Kingdom.”   “Do you carry arms?” The same voice asked. “No,” Kuru replied honestly.   “Are you spies?”   “No,” he replied honestly again. Two soldiers emerged from a garrison, and as they approached Kuru was able to note their armour and weaponry. He glanced to Skada, whose eyes were glazed in admiration. Gleaming, strong and clean- this was unlike armour the two had ever seen. The Shakas made good armour, but it was mostly leather and hooves placed together. The Dasas made only doable armour, and the tribes north of Dvishani had never even heard of the concept. If simply the armour of two frontier soldiers was any indication, Kuru thought to himself, then the Bharata Kingdom promised to be Grand indeed. “Dismount!” One of the approaching soldiers commanded. Skada grunted once more, and Kuru gave him a reassuring look that again said- *Easy, my friend*. He had anticipated this. Skada was a wild and free man- concepts such as Law, Authority and Army were alien to him. They would be alien to Kuru too, had his father not religiously transmitted the knowledge to him- maintaining the ancient family tradition of passing on the knowledge of their forefathers. Together they dismounted their horses. The soldiers reached them and searched them roughly, looking through the layers of their leatherskins with intrusive hands. Kuru feared for Skada, afraid that the hefty savage would explode at any moment and bring arrows upon them. Fortunately, that did not come to pass. Once the search was over, one of the soldiers said, “You can enter, but be warned. While inside the borders of Bharatvarsha, you are not allowed to take up arms, accept the claim of pretender Kings, break any of the local Law or foment general unrest. If you are caught involved in activities of this nature, your lives are forfeit to the King’s Law. If you are found to be spies- which you have denied to be, you will be executed on the spot.” Kuru nodded, accepting the rules of entry. He mounted his beast and rode in with Skada following. For once, he was thankful that his companion was a tacit fellow, for Kuru wanted this moment for himself. All around him he felt the spirits of his ancestors. They were blessing him and taking his blessings- both. Blessing him, for he had finally achieved what they had always dreamt of- bringing their blood back into Aryavarta. Taking his blessings, for it was his spirit that was hallowed now. He remembered his father’s face, gaunt and hungry but determined. *You will make that journey, my son. I know it*, Bansi had said countless times.   It took more than seven hundred long years, but it finally happened. A lone tear sloped down Kuru’s cheek. He was the son of Bansi, who was son of Rikata before him. Rikata in turn, had descended from Samvarna. And on his mother's side, his distant ancestor was Karusaka, who was exiled from Aryavarta by his brother- King Ikshvaku. Kuru imagined that Karusaka was also around him now, his spirit finally free to ascend to the heavens.