Of the Pūrus, a Short Story

###### Year 908, 7th Mv. Young Prince Kaushika was in a fine mood.  It had rained heavily a day before, and today was cool and pleasant.  The morning’s sun had dried the mud, and chased away the many insects that come with rain and humidity.  It was shining bright and was a great day to be out on a hunt.   At the age of seventeen, Kaushika could shoot an arrow as well as the best, and he was determined to bag at least two deer today.  Vishvaratha was only a year elder, and had already lost count of how many deer he had hunted.  Kaushika on the other hand, could count his kills within five fingers.  He spied movement among the trees ahead, and signalled for his party of five men to stop.  The soldiers obediently stopped and crouched, spotting the same movement their prince had. This was forest around Kanyakubja, a centuries old stronghold of the Grand Bharata Kingdom.  It was the only river-crossing from the east of the Ganga, making it a crucial component in the functioning of Bharatvarsha.  King Gathin of the Kushambha Bharatas ruled the city, spending half the year in Kanyakubja and the other in Kaushambhi.   Kaushika brought out an arrow and primed it on his bow, his eyes keenly searching for the animal that made the movement.  With perfect poise and silence, Kaushika moved a step to his right, and thought he caught the brown skin of a deer between the leaves.  He loosened the arrow, and it pierced its target in a flash, deadly accurate.   But the moment the arrow hit its mark, it became clear that Kaushika had not really killed a deer. A loud moo of pain was accompanied by confused shouts of several men in the distance, and Kaushika paled when he realized that he had actually shot a cow.  He ran towards the wounded animal, the soldiers following.  The arrow was wedged deep within the cow’s gut, bringing the creature down to the ground in agony.  It’s pained mooing continued as Kaushika bent down to examine the injury, feeling deeply guilty and ashamed.   A number of rshis had gathered around now, scandalized at the sight in front of them.  Kaushika knew from their coiled hair that this was a Vasishtha School- official priests to Prayaga.  Their leader stepped out and looked to Kaushika accusingly.  “You did this,” he said, anger ominous in his tone. Kaushika was already repentant.  “I am sorry,” he said sincerely, “I thought it was a deer.”  His gut was heavy with remorse, and he knew that he would pay severely for the crime. “And so we are supposed to accept your violation?”  Asked the Vasishtha. “It was only a mistake, Vasishtha rshi,” said one of the soldiers accompanying Kaushika.  “The young prince is not the only one who was fooled.  We all thought it was a deer.” “Young prince!”  Exclaimed the rshi.  “So is this Putakritu, Vishvaratha or Kaushika?” “Kaushika,” Kaushika replied.  Some of the other rshis pushed him away from the dying cow and murmured soft, soothing mantras in its ear.  He looked at the cow sadly and said, “I am truly sorry, rshi.”  He bent down and caressed the animal’s back, knowing from the severity of its wound that it could not be saved. “Not good enough,” said the rshi decisively.  “For many years we have tolerated your brothers’ penchant for taking the lives of innocent animals.  But this goes too far, today you have taken the life of a cow- our most sacred animal.  This time there must be a penalty, and it must come from the King himself.” *** King Gathin looked at his son, who could not bring himself to return the gaze.  The King was not angry at Kaushika, he saw that this was only an error.  But he did not fault the rshis for being infuriated.  What was mere hunting and game for a royal prince had intruded into their lives in the most violent, blasphemous of ways. “The cow is to the sage what the horse is to the warrior,” said the rshi, taking the King’s silence as his cue to continue.  “Is this how seers are treated here in Kanyakubja?” King Gathin waved his hand in annoyance.  “Let us not make this out to be more than what it is, rshi Vasishtha.  The boy made a mistake, but that is how we learn.  I understand what the loss of that cow will cost you, and I will donate a hundred cows to your ashrama as repayment for the error.” The rshi stubbornly shook his head in refusal.  “That will not suffice, King Gathin- for the offender goes away unpunished in your proposal.  The boy made a mistake, but he will learn from it only if he is penalized for it.” “Then what would you have me do?”  King Gathin asked with mild irritation.   “Thirty years,” said the rshi, “That is how long the average cow lives.  And that is the amount of time that must be taken from your son’s life.  Exile him for thirty years, disallow him from Bharatvarsha for that time, and the punishment would have been meted fairly.” King Gathin frowned.  This rshi was asking for too much, and a King need not bear arrogance of this kind.   “That is too severe, rshi Vasishtha,” he said.  “And I will not have you dictate terms to me.” The rshi’s eyes widened with indignation.  “I dictate no terms to you, Bharata King!”  The rshi shouted in a booming tone.  “You have agreed that this boy deserves a punishment- I have suggested a just reparation.  Thirty years of life lost, for the thirty years of life taken.” “It’s okay, father,” said Kaushika, before his father could reply.  He did not want his family to begin a dispute with the Vasishtha School on his account.  “Brother Vishvaratha is due to take throne after you, and his son will succeed him.  My exile will disrupt the royal line in no way.  I will do as the Vasishtha rshi asks.  But the rshi has calculated incorrectly, as the cow was already around ten years old when I committed the crime. I will return home no later than the twenty years of life I have destroyed.” To himself, Kaushika added- And I will return a far greater rshi than any Vasishtha has ever been. *** Kaushika’s first destination was the Himalaya- learning grounds to the greatest Maharshis.  He took a north-bound caravan from Kanyakubja and reached Ahikshetra a week later.  A trek of four days brought him to the village of Varanavati, deeper into the Himalayan foothills.  Varanavati was a small, flat tract of lush land nestled between small, round hills on one side and high, jagged peaks rising on the other.  From here, Kaushika began his ascent into the Himalaya, lugging a comprehensive travel package consisting of ropes, bandages, ayurvedic herbs and sparking flints.   It was noticeably colder the moment he began his climb.  There were isolated pockets of huts and dwellings for a long way up, but soon he left the last vestiges of human civilisation behind, and his journey was well underway.  He was a little concerned about food- while he had no compunction in eating flesh, he also knew that the greatest rshis were all completely vegetarian.  Yet none had truly bothered to explain the reason for it.  Even rshis who were of warrior tribes- Kashyapa, Medhatithi and others- abstained once they took the spiritual path.  The memory of his cow slaughter was still fresh, and Kaushika’s arm hesitated when he tried throwing his knife at a rabbit.  Figuring he could enjoy the flora of the lower Himalaya while it lasted, he stuck to peaches, apricots and apples.  The climb got colder and tougher as he ascended, and it was snowing by the second day.  Strong, piercing winds blew through his robes, and numbed his fingers and toes.  On the fourth day both his little fingers were swollen, and he was unable to get a fire going at night.  He found no cave for shelter, and slept huddled in the cavity between a huge boulder and the ground. By the time the moon finished a full phase in the night skies, he was high amid the Himalaya, where snow and ice were his constant companions, and only a few mountain goats and rabbits were to be found.  He wandered aimlessly for several months, wavering between climbing higher still and descending into valleys.  Yet he knew intuitively that he was closer to Haradvara now than he was to Ahikshetra.  After six months of lonely, harsh existence Kaushika found a strange calm descend upon him.  His mind did not ramble on with its thoughts anymore, his breathing was temperate and more easily perceived, and his body felt a strength that could not have come from the gaunt, old rabbits he had for food.   Kaushika decided that the time to begin his meditations had finally started.  He chose a high, well sheltered cave for himself and established a dwelling- full with a replenished stock of twigs, flints, herbs and wood sticks.  Then he decided a routine for himself.  He would wake up at dawn every day, and bathe in the pool of water by the glacier nearby- not minding its near-frigid waters.  That was followed by a set of exercises and military postures, which he kept up only to keep his body fit.  Had he been back home, this would be the time when he began gaining weight and muscle, becoming as burly and strong as his father and elder brothers.  Without the same royal diet though, his frame was lean and wiry, with mildly distinct sculpts of muscle.   He intended for the physical exercises to be followed by hours-long sessions of meditation, but Kaushika had never received the sort of spiritual education his cousins in Prayaga or Kashi did.  King Gathin was not a man who pandered much to rshis, nor to the Veda.  He passed on the same indifference to his sons, and as a result, on his first day itself Kaushika found that he did not know more than three prayers.  Nor did he know any ritual ceremonies or protocols- there was nothing to guide him as far as meditation was concerned.  So he let prayers flow out of him on their own, drawing from his own young wisdom, and motivated by the queries that interested his mind.  The first hymn was simple, dedicated to Indra: May He stand by us in our need, in abundance for our wealth; May He be close to us with His strength. He, whose horses when yoked in battle the foes challenge not; Indra, to Him we sing our song. It took him hours to come up with it, to get its syllables and metre just right, so that it felt and sounded like a prayer.  He made another one the next day, and another the day after that.  Day after day, week after week and month after month, Kaushika composed prayers to the Devas- they formed unbidden in his mind, sometimes fully composite, and other times broken and unfinished.  He spent countless weeks letting them ebb out of him, and then countless months meditating over their layers and implications.  His exercises continued, his routine was sustained, and soon the cold mattered none to him.  He became impervious to the elements, and found he needed only the sparsest of diets to keep his strength.  His heart beat slower, and he needed to inhale lesser air.  The seasons changed around his cave and the glaciers melted and refroze, but Kaushika was consumed only by the prayers that flowed out of his consciousness.   Three years and hundreds of prayers later, all of which were now committed to his memory, Kaushika decided that it was time to begin the next phase of his exile.  He had spent enough time alone in the Himalaya- braving the elements, the high peaks, predators and his own mind, starved as it was of human company and conversation.   There were no belongings left with him, save the tattered robes he wore out of Kanyakubja on the day of his exile.  Casting away the few twigs and herbs in the cave, and leaving it in the same condition he found it in, Kaushika started descending down the Himalaya with the next destination in mind- Haradvara, holy city of the Puru tribe.  On the journey down, he trained his mind on the Purus, revisiting everything he knew about them.   *** ###### Year 412, 7th Mv. “We can build walls that no army can climb, and you’re telling me we can’t build a bloody dam?”  Demanded King Ahimyati, King of the towns around the banks of the Sarasvati.  “Sivobheda, Viratpuri, and Madra- how many cities do we lose before we can reign the Sarasvati in?  And yet the rshis sing praises of it, chanting its name in their prayers.”  Distaste was clear on Ahimyati’s face. “The problem begins far north,” said King Bahugava, Ahimyati’s nephew, and King of the Puru Kingdom in Ahikshetra.  “The Sarasvati often dries up north of Plaksha and around Khandakvana.  The southern waters have no pressure to rush them along the existing river bed, and so the river keeps changing course.” “The result is that entire swathes of land are moist and marshy, making it impossible to build anything on them, let alone a large dam,” added Minister Abhaya. Ahimyati growled in frustration.  “We are sitting ducks like this,” he said.  “The Suryavanshi haven’t forgotten that the Purus facilitated passage to Yadava armies during the battle of Vitabhya.  If Mandhatra gets even the whiff of weakness, he will strike.” “He dare not,” said Bahugava arrogantly.  “He would effectively be taking on several Kingdoms at once- Tamsu in Pratisthana, Haryabala in Plaksha, the Yadavas in Ekachakra and Ujjayani, and Anavas in Girivraja.  It would have to be a battle against all of Aryavarta, and only a fool would venture that.” “Do not count upon the aid of Yadavas and Anavas so easily, nephew.  And the Suryavanshi can still muster immense strength, you know that.  King Mandhatra’s army is at least ten thousand men strong.  Even combined, we can only field a maximum of nine thousand warriors in all.” “What makes you think Mandhatra can afford to send all his armies in one direction?”  Bahugava challenged.  “The Suryavansha has enemies wherever it looks.  All along the north, they are surrounded by tribes that claim descent from the other sons of Manu.  In the west, the Dasas are growing stronger and are allied with the Druhyus- another tribe that would love to see the Suryavansha destroyed.” Ahimyati frowned.  “You underestimate the situation,” he said.  “The Suryavansha’s Ashvaka colonies alone are enough to protect their north and west borders.  The horse people have lived in those mountains for countless generations, they are the perfect guardians.  Mandhatra’s attention is fully turned east, and he must at least suspect that the Sarasvati’s floodings are taking their toll on us.  Do not forget- the fertile and bountiful lands of Ganga and Yamuna entice him as well.” Bahugava took a deep breath.  “What does Tamsu have to say?”  He asked. “Tamsu is comfortably seated in Pratisthana, far from any real threat.  He will send us men if we need it, but I do not expect him to be of much help.  Pratisthana is too far away from us and the Suryavansha- and Tamsu knows this.  As long as the Yadavas hold sway over Ekachakra, no enemy army can cross east of the Yamuna.” “It seems to me, my Kings,” Minister Abhaya said, “That we must choose one of two decisions.  We can either take measures to reign the Sarasvati, and in doing so alert King Mandhatra to our vulnerability.  Or we can accept that the Sarasvati is no longer conducive to civilisation, yield all these regions to the Suryavansha, and fold within the Ganga and Yamuna.” “In either case, we need to know if the Tamsu has our backs,” said Ahimyati.  “Without that assurance, any step we take will make us susceptible to enemy attack.” *** Soma certainly altered his perception, but it never affected Rajarshi Kanva in the manner the ancient hymns described.  Great seers like Kashyapa, Atri and Vasishtha had sung praises of Soma, and the legend even went that Maharshi Vasishtha discovered the Sacred Syllable while under its effects. But Kanva only saw strange, amusing fractals and colours- never the profound penetration into deep sub-consciousness.  He wondered whether he was doing something wrong, whether there was a process to it that he failed to grasp.  It would be simpler if he could travel to lands like Sringara and Avisari, where some of Maharshi Kashyapa’s original Soma schools still functioned.  But this was a time of suspicion between Suryavansha and Puru- all existing trade and travel routes lay abandoned.   He felt a tingle begin on his cheeks and crawl up his forehead, and smiled in pleasure.  Soma was agreeably an interesting substance; it opened his mind to introspection and introduced him to new sensations.  But it did not fulfil his purposes, it did not bring to him the revelations it once brought to the Maharshis.  His head growing light from the entheogen, he took his mind to the past- recalling his journey down the path of a Rajarshi. King Apratiratha Puru, his father, brought him up as a Crown Prince.  He was given martial training through the ages of ten to fifteen, and at seventeen he commanded his own contingent.  Things would have continued in that direction, had Kanva not met a wandering ascetic when he was twenty.  He remembered that day vividly now, its colours shining brighter in his drugged memory than they did on that day.  It was a routine scouting campaign through the dense forests east of Pratisthana, inhabited by small groups of crannog men, Rakshasas, and Gandharvas.  After several hours, the forest gave way to a clearing by a tiny stream, and Kanva stopped there to give his men and horses some rest.  Halfway during the night, he was awoken by commotion outside his tent, and emerged to see his men holding an ascetic captive. He wore faded, dirty tigerskins, and his hair was tightly bound in a coil on top of his head.  Hirsute, red-eyed and ash-smeared, the ascetic looked back at him with eyes that spoke nothing of fear or anxiety; and Kanva’s curiosity was piqued.  The entire event played out inside his Soma-affected mind now, and Kanva forgot what memory was and what reality was. “A fine welcome you have, King,” the ascetic said to him coolly as Puru soldiers held his arms and shoulders. “Who are you?” Kanva demanded to know.  “And why have you ventured into our camp?” “I am Angirasa, a seer and ascetic.  Wild animals stay away from the fire, and your camp has several torches lit.  I came here to escape any predators that may have caught my scent.” His words sounded sincere, and Kanva gestured for his men to release Angirasa.  The ascetic was surprisingly tall- taller than the tallest soldier in Kanva’s contingent.  He looked severely emaciated though, bony and pointy all over.  In the dark, Kanva could imagine Angirasa’s silhouette being indistinguishable from any random, bent tree.  But perhaps he had not done so in his memory, and only perceived it now under the effect of Soma. “Forgive my men for their caution,” Kanva heard himself say.  “There are other dangers here than wild animals, my men were only being thorough.” “Quite understandable,” Angirasa said.  “I will sleep by the edges of your camp, and will be gone before sunlight.  Your men will not find me to be a nuisance.” “No, no,” Kanva protested, abashed.  “We will prepare a tent for you, you may rest comfortably. That night, Kanva knocked at Angirasa’s tent and stepped in, curious to hear more from the ascetic.  He asked Angirasa which Deva he prayed to, and whether he even conducted rituals in the usual way. “I pray to all Devas,” Angirasa replied, and then proceeded to elaborate the ritual processes with complete accuracy.  He knew of all the Maharshis, had the great prayers memorized, and possessed an immense store of his own commentaries and modifications, along with what he called an anukramani- an index.  “It is all a Collective,” Kanva remembered Angirasa saying.  “It is knowledge, a Supreme Knowledge.  All these scattered investigations into the nature of our world and its elements form a single, unbroken thread.” That thread consumed Kanva from then on, and Angirasa even supplied its name: “The Veda- the unbroken, distinct thread of Eternal and Supreme Knowledge.” *** ###### Year 415, 7th Mv. Nature had always provided Pratisthana the protection it needed.  Two grand rivers needed be crossed to reach it from the west, and the traveller from the east had to navigate through unchartered forest.  Yet nature was now bringing danger to Pratisthana’s doorstep.  The Suryavansha had finally declared war- bringing their full strength and population upon the Purus.  Plaksha was already destroyed, and Suryavanshi contingents were said to be headed for Vinasana and Ahikshetra.  But for Crown Prince Dharmanetra, the most worrying report was that a Suryavanshi fleet was headed downstream on the Ganga- right for Pratisthana.  The mighty river’s flow was on their side, and even the Sarasvati had helped by being dry and easy to cross.   “I don’t understand it,” protested Ilina, Dharmanetra’s son.  “Their northern territories are now open to the Pramshavas, Dasas and Shakas.  Why would Mandhatra do such a thing?” “I do believe he has decided to abandon those areas,” speculated Dharmanetra.  “This is not a mere attack, it is the migration of an entire tribe.” “But how will the entire Suryavansha Kingdom migrate?”  Ilina asked.  “Or does Mandhatra intend to abandon them?”   “There is precedence for it,” Dharmanetra countered.  “The Druhyus migrated en masse, after the death of Mohandvara and Sivobheda.  The Suryavansha themselves migrated back north, abandoning the cities of Kashyapura, Harayupa and Sakala.  This is no different.” “Still foolish,” Ilina insisted. Dharmanetra ignored that.  “Kanva has been speculating on this for years,” he said, thinking aloud.  “He has often said that the next era of prosperity will come along the Ganga and Yamuna; that the days of the Sindhu-Sarasvati are towards an end.” *** He was hacking wildly now, swinging his axe as fast and strong his arm could bear.  With the shield arm, he constantly kept pushing and blocking, clearing an arc around him big enough to swing his axe through.  As he spun round and round, he counted at least seven Suryavanshi trying to get into his circle, and smiled despite the situation.  War and death had never troubled Ahimyati; he was born ready for it.   The soldiers saw his smile, and one of them mistook it for a grimace.  Sensing weakness he pushed in, and in a flash Ahimyati’s axe slashed through his chest.  The others backed up, wary of the swinging axe.  He sensed movement to his right, but he dared not lift his eyes from the immediate threat.  Swinging his shield behind him, he charged and thrust the axe’s blunt end forward, digging it into a soldier’s gut.  As the Suryavanshi doubled up out of breath, he swung the shield around and crashed it into the second soldier.  Wood and splinter scattered out and the soldier fell back, bruised but not wounded.  Ahimyati spun a full hundred-and-eighty just in time to see two soldiers charging at him together.  He crouched low and then sprang up, slamming his axe upwards in a graceful curve.  The axe barely reached the pinnacle of its swing when he brought it sharply down, slanting it down to the right and sticking it into one’s shoulder.  He tried to yank his axe back out, but it was stuck.  Frustrated, he threw away his shield and pulled with both hands.  When the axe finally broke through, the inertia pushed him back and a sharp pain burst through his stomach.  Shocked, Ahimyati stared down to see a spear thrust from his belly.  Blood gurgled out of his throat, and he creaked his neck back enough to look behind.  A Suryavanshi faced him, smiling triumphantly.   A surge of adrenaline powered him, and despite the agony he spun around, spear still sticking through.  The Suryavanshi backed off, eyes wide in surprise.  The Puru King of Vinasana roared in a final battle cry, snapped the spear’s front end off and jabbed it into the soldier’s eye.  In the process he ripped his stomach further- blood, tissue and flesh sprayed out of him.  He fell to the ground, right at the blinded soldier’s feet.  The Suryavanshi vengefully slashed his sword through Ahimyati’s neck, ending the Puru King’s life in an instant. *** Sravasta looked at him with cold, emotional eyes.  There was no mercy in them, only stone and determination. “You would execute a King who is in your custody?”  Bahugava asked.   “Yes,” Sravasta replied plainly, his tone as emotionless as his gaunt eyes.   “But I have surrendered,” Bahugava protested.  “Ahikshetra is yours for the taking.  It would only be honourable to let me go now.” “Ahikshetra is of no interest to me,” Sravasta said, waving his hand dismissively.  “It is the Puru bloodline that brings me here.” Bahugava frowned, trying to hide his grimace.  “Puru bloodline?  What is that to you, what do you have against it?” “Everything,” Sravasta replied instantly.  “The five tribes of Yayati’s sons have troubled the Suryavansha for far too long.  My forefathers spent their entire lives fighting the plots you lot constructed against them.  Long before them, Prithu defended Vitabhya to the end even as Yadavas, Dasas, Druhyus and Purus kept coming at him.  Now, it is time for vengeance.” “Vengeance sows vengeance,” Bahugava warned.  “In a few generations, Puru descendants will come to avenge my death.” “I fully expect them to,” Sravasta said.  “That is why my brother and I will leave none alive.”  He signalled to the guard, who unsheathed a long, wide sword.  Bahugava’s eyes widened in alarm.  He tried to rise, but another guard held him firmly down.  A powerful hand pressed down on his head and pushed it forward, exposing his neck from behind.  The Puru King of Ahikshetra cried out in protest, but the cry was cut short in half as the blade descended upon the neck, cleanly chopping through.  The last thing that Bahugava ever heard was the deadly whoosh of metal against wind. *** ###### Year 416, 7th Mv. Kanva had just begun to share a new prayer with his son, when the sound of an arriving horse disturbed them.  He looked towards the distance and saw only a huge mass of dust.  The rider was clearly travelling fast, and he reached them in a short amount of time.  He was dishevelled and tense, Kanva did not recognize him. “Rajarshi,” the man greeted immediately upon dismounting.  “I bring terrible news,” he lamented.  When he approached closer, Kanva noticed the scratches and wounds upon him, and then the hungered state of his horse.  Kanva’s ashrama was deep in the Himalaya- closer to the Lake Mansarovara than to Ahikshetra.  The man had clearly made the months long journey as fast as he could. Kanva took a deep breath.  A part of him had known this was coming, for somewhere during a Soma trip he once witnessed the death of his brethren.  He prepared himself and said, “Tell me.” “Our lands are lost,” the man said helplessly.  “Plaksha, Vinasana, Ahikshetra and Pratisthana have been destroyed by the cursed Suryavanshi.  The Kings Ahimyati, Bahugava and Tamsu are no more, neither is Crown Prince Dharmanetra.”  He broke down weeping, clearly distraught.   Kanva placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  “What of Ilina?  Did he make it out alive?  And what about Ilina’s son?” “No, Rajarshi.  The Princes Dharmanetra and Ilina died side by side.  But young Dushyanta was smuggled out safely.  He is now being taken to a location not revealed to me.” Kanva nodded, finding comfort from the fact that the main Puru line still continued.  “What of Ahimyati’s son?”  He asked. “King Mandhatra was unable to kill the four-year old,” the man said.  “He has taken young prince Bhuvamanyu captive.  The entire royal family at Ahikshetra was murdered however, and none of King Bahugava’s descendants survive.” “So the United Puru Kingdoms are no more,” Kanva observed gravely.  His son had already expressed the desire to take a celibate part, and if the Puru lineage had any chance of survival, then it hinged on the infant Dushyanta.  Rajarshi Kanva sent a silent prayer to his ancestors, and charged them with keeping the dynasty secure.