Chanakya's Chant Page 4

  He was in heaven. He was quite certain that he had died and was now floating above the clouds in Indra's heavenly abode. It was only when he looked over and found Mohanlal floating alongside him that he realised that they couldn't possibly be in heaven if Mohanlal was around. Both their parachutes had successfully deployed and Gangasagar felt the wind in his face as they gently floated towards mother earth.

  Thud! The impact was anything but gentle. Weren't parachutes supposed to soften the impact? There was no time to ponder over the harshness of their collision with the ground. Less than a hundred yards away, the groaning mass of Mohanlal's Hawker plunged, shrieking a pierce, chilling scream, as it crashed into terra firma and exploded into a fireball. Both Mohanlal and Gangasagar braced themselves and hit the ground for protection from the heat blast that emanated from the wreck.

  It was several minutes before either man raised his head. Their faces were covered in black soot and their clothes torn. Gangasagar's hair was standing straight up, almost as though an electric current had been passed through it. Cuts and bruises covered his arms, legs and face. Despite his weakened condition he had an overwhelming urge to strangle Mohanlal and fervently prayed that he would restrain himself from attacking the pilot.

  He looked around him. The ruins of Pataliputra were like a ghost town at 5.30 in the morning. It was almost as if on a given day, Chandragupta's bustling empire had simply ground itself to a halt. At the centre of the Kumhrar site stood eighty massive pillars, probably once part of Magadha's great audience hall. Of course, there was no roof, no polished floor, no tapestry, no rich furnishings, which would once have embellished the court of the world's richest king. Some distance away stood the ruins of a Durakhi Devi temple, a Buddhist monastery as well as an ayurvedic hospital. ‘This must have been one hell of a kingdom,’ thought Gangasagar to himself, allowing his passion for history to take over.

  ‘Hello? Which world are you in?’ asked Mad Mohanlal, waving a hand in front of Gangasagar. ‘We need to get near the crash site and ensure that there was no one in the vicinity. There could be casualties,’ said Mohanlal as they started waking towards the fuel vapours and flames.

  The ground had caved in at the crash site. Black acrid smoke puffed from the infernal machine, which had landed nose down. The ruins of the great assembly hall of Pataliputra lay a hundred yards to the west. ‘Shall we walk towards Patna?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘No point making the effort. We're bang in the middle of the tourist circuit. Sit here for an hour or two and we'll have all the buses rolling in. We'll simply hitch a ride back into town,’ suggested Mohanlal.

  They sat down away from the circle of wreckage and watched the flames die down. Gangasagar dusted off the soot from his clothes, spat in his hand and used the saliva to clean his eyes. Mohanlal offered him a swig from his hip flask. Gangasagar ignored the pilot and continued to poke a twig he had found into the soil before him. It was soft red alluvial soil—rich in iron ore. Agrawalji, look sir, I found your fucking ferrous fields, thought Gangasagar.

  The twig encountered an obstruction that prevented it from sinking deeper into the soft soil. Curiosity piqued, Gangasagar stabbed at it unrelentingly. Mohanlal drank some more in an effort to make Gangasagar bearable. Gangasagar got down on his knees and started digging with the twig. He needed to know what was obstructing it. A few minutes of digging by Gangasagar and a few pegs of whisky downed by Mohanlal, and the source of the blockage was discovered.

  It was a small squarish block of black granite. Although it had remained buried in a few feet of soft soil for some time, it seemed polished and smooth. As Gangasagar used his palms to clear the soil that covered the face of the slab, he felt indentations along the smooth fascia—this was no ordinary rock formation, it was a rock inscription!

  ‘Come on! Get up and help me!’ shouted Gangasagar at the pilot. A visibly irritated Mohanlal got up, screwed back the cap on his hip flask and tucked it away inside his baggy flying pants. ‘We need some metallic pieces of the wreckage that we can use as shovels,’ Gangasagar told him. The intimidated pilot did not want to face the wrath of Elvis-sideburns. He found a metallic shaft, probably one of the wing supports, and touched it gingerly—it wasn't flaming hot. He picked it up and brought it over to Gangasagar who snatched it and began shovelling frantically.

  ‘What's the big deal?’ asked Mohanlal. ‘Why're we getting horny looking at a block of fucking granite? It doesn't even have tits!’

  Gangasagar ignored him and kept digging. Within fifteen minutes he had cleared away most of the soil and exposed the face of a block of stone, around the size of a tombstone lying flat on its back. It was perfectly polished granite and bore inscriptions in a script that Gangasagar could not understand. He knew that it was probably Brahmi—the calligraphy used in Mauryan times—but could not be certain.

  ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ said the old teacher as he washed the stone with water and a ghiya-tori, a loofah. ‘It's an ancient Sanskrit mantra extolling the virtues of feminine energy,’ said Gangasagar's old headmaster.

  Gangasagar and Mohanlal had taken the help of a couple of tourist guides to pry the block out of the ground, lift it into one of the buses that seemed even more dangerous than the aircraft that had just crashed, and take it into Patna city. From there Gangasagar had taken the train—no more flying—back into Kanpur.

  Agrawalji had been happy about his safe return but had been even happier about the magnetometer readings that would allow him to bid with greater confidence for the mining concessions. Gangasagar's mother had been hysterical with worry and fear. She hugged and kissed him a hundred times, running her hands over his head and face, wanting to reassure herself that her son was indeed alive. His sisters had cooked kheer to celebrate his safe return. Ganga's mother was also celebrating the engagements of her daughters, dowry having been helpfully provided by Agrawalji.

  Gangasagar, after a few days of rest, had taken the granite block—loaded on a bullock cart—to his old schoolmaster, who was the only person who would know how to interpret the rock inscription. ‘You know, Ganga, it was always assumed that all rock inscriptions in Pataliputra were commissioned by Ashoka—the greatest of the Mauryan kings—the grandson of Chandragupta Maurya. But this cannot be an Ashoka inscription!’ exclaimed his old headmaster.

  ‘Why?’ asked Gangasagar, curious as usual.

  ‘Because the use of Sanskrit had almost entirely disappeared by Ashoka's reign. Ashoka became an avowed Buddhist after he massacred one hundred thousand people in Magadha's war with Kalinga. Buddhists shunned Sanskrit. They saw it as a language of the elite Brahmins and wanted their prayers to be understood by the common man. Ashoka's inscriptions were thus written in Prakrit, the language of the masses, not Sanskrit. But this is Sanskrit!’ said the excited teacher.

  ‘I thought this was Brahmi?’ asked the confused Gangasagar.

  ‘Brahmi is the script, not the language. Irrespective of whether you were writing Sanskrit or Prakrit, the script would have been the same—Brahmi.’

  ‘So what does this chant mean?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow,’ he said smiling. ‘It's the ultimate recognition of female power.’

  ‘But there seems to be an inscription on the other face of the block too. Is it a repetition of the same chant?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘Ah! No, I took a look at it. It contains instructions on the manner in which this mantra should be recited and its effects.

  Gangasagar was wide-eyed in amazement. ‘Tell me what it says,’ he asked eagerly.

  His old schoolmaster smiled. ‘I've done better than that. I've translated and written down what it says on a sheet of paper for you.’

  Four thousand days you shall pray

  F
our hundred chants every day.

  Chanakya's power is yours to take

  Chandragupta, to make or break.

  If there's a lull, start once more.

  King must be queen, to be sure.

  Suvasini's curse shall forever halt

  If you can cure Chanakya's fault.

  CHAPTER THREE

  About 2300 years ago

  Takshila lay at the crossroads of two great trade routes, the royal Uttarapatha highway between Magadha and Gandhar, and the Indus route between Kashmir and the fabled Silk Road. Takshila was nestled in the valley kingdom of Gandhar—the Sanskrit word for fragrance. Surrounded by hills, orchards and wild flowers, Gandhar was a cornucopia of nature's abundance.

  Shivering from the biting winter winds blowing in from the Himalayas and the Hindukush mountains and with nothing more than his worn-out robes for protection, Chanakya found himself standing before the dwaar pandit—the gate principal—of Takshila University. Dawn had just about broken and the air was filled with the smells of temple incense and the sounds of morning recitations of the Vedas. The well-planned streets were being swept and watered and the breakfast taverns had started preparing for their first customers.

  ‘Whom do you wish to meet, boy?’ asked the dwaar pandit. Chanakya replied that he needed to meet Acharya Pundarikaksha, the dean of the university. Following the gate principal's directions, Chanakya reached a small cottage surrounded by fruit trees. The dean was in his garden, sitting bare-chested in the biting cold for his morning contemplation and prayers. Chanakya knew better than to disturb him and simply sat down in a corner of the nursery, trembling from the chill. A few moments later Pundarikaksha opened his eyes to find a rather dark, gangly-limbed, ugly and awkward-looking boy sitting in his garden, shaking in the cold.

  ‘Who are you, my son?’ he enquired. ‘Sir, my name is Chanakya. I'm the son of Acharya Chanak of Magadha. I have here a letter for you from Katyayanji, a minister in the Magadha cabinet. He said that he knows you,’ explained Chanakya.

  Katyayan's name brought an immediate beam to the dean's face. It was quite obvious that the two had been childhood friends. He took off the shawl that was casually thrown on his right shoulder and covered Chanakya with it. He put his arm around the youth in a comforting gesture and took him inside where the warmth of the kitchen hearth was inviting. He quickly instructed his servant to get the boy a tumbler of hot milk and some laddoos. Chanakya realised he was ravenous and wolfed them down between gulps of warm milk.

  Pundarikaksha was busy reading the letter Katyayan had written. It spoke of the fact that Chanakya was one of the brightest students of Magadha and was the son of Acharya Chanak, the leading authority in the field of political science and economics. ‘Katyayan wants me to get you admission in the university,’ said Pundarikaksha. Doesn't my friend know that princes from all over the world wait for years to get accepted into these hallowed portals? wondered Pundarikaksha as he continued reading the letter. His mind wandered to the days when Katyayan and he were students in Takshila. Pundarikaksha had been a poor orphan and Katyayan's father had financed his education. The dean knew that his old friend Katyayan was calling in the favour. Refusal of admission for this boy was not an option.

  ‘You must be fatigued, Chanakya. You should rest. I shall ask my manservant to prepare a warm bed for you. I shall be meeting the admissions director to discuss this matter. I may send for you later in case he needs to test your knowledge,’ said the perspicacious dean as he rose to leave.

  ‘What is the purpose of good government, Chanakya?’ asked the admissions director. They were seated on the floor in his office, a sparsely decorated room filled with musty scrolls, parchments and manuscripts. The room smelt of the eucalyptus oil lamps that illuminated the area in the evening.

  The reply from Chanakya was prompt and confident. ‘In the happiness of his subjects lies the king's happiness and in their welfare, his own welfare,’ he replied emphatically.

  ‘Son, what are the duties of a king?’

  ‘A ruler's duties are three. Raksha—protecting the state from external aggression; palana—maintenance of law and order within; and finally, yogakshema—welfare of the people.’

  ‘O son of Chanak, what are the possible means by which a king can settle political disputes?’

  ‘There are four possible methods, sir. Sama—gentle persuasion and praise; daama—monetary incentives; danda—punishment or war; and bheda—intelligence, propaganda and disinformation.’

  ‘What is the difference between a kingdom, a country, and its people?’

  ‘There cannot be a country without people, and there is no kingdom without a country. It's the people who constitute a kingdom; like a barren cow, a kingdom without people yields nothing.’

  ‘What constitutes a state, wise pupil?’

  ‘There are seven constituent elements, learned teacher. The king, the council of ministers, the territory and populace, the fortified towns, the treasury, the armed forces and the allies.’

  ‘Why does a king need ministers at all?’

  ‘One wheel alone does not move a chariot. A king should appoint wise men as ministers and listen to their advice.’

  ‘What is the root of wealth?’

  ‘The root of wealth is economic activity, and lack of it brings material distress. In the absence of fruitful economic activity, both current prosperity and future growth are in danger of destruction. In the manner that elephants are needed to catch elephants so does one need wealth to capture more wealth.’

  ‘What is an appropriate level of taxation on the people of a kingdom?’

  ‘As one plucks fruits from a garden as they ripen, so should a king have revenue collected as it becomes due. Just as one does not collect unripe fruits, he should avoid collecting revenue that is not due because that will make the people angry and spoil the very sources of revenue.’

  ‘To what extent should a king trust his revenue officials?’

  ‘It is impossible to know when a fish swimming in water drinks some of it. Thus it's quite impossible to find out when government servants in charge of undertakings misappropriate money.’

  ‘How important is punishment in the administration of a kingdom?’

  ‘It is the power of punishment alone, when exercised impartially in proportion to the guilt, and irrespective of whether the person punished is the crown prince or an enemy slave, that protects this world and the next.’

  ‘How should a king decide which kings are his friends and which are his enemies?’

  ‘A ruler with contiguous territory is a rival and the ruler next to the adjoining is to be deemed a friend. My enemy's enemy is my friend.’

  The admissions director looked at the boy in amazement. He then turned to Pundarikaksha and smiled. ‘I have no doubts regarding his knowledge, analytical skills and intelligence, but who will pay his tuition?’ he asked. The dean grinned sheepishly. ‘My childhood chum Katyayan has called in a loan, my friend. I shall bear the cost personally,’ he revealed.

  Chanakya prostrated himself before Pundarikaksha and requested him to accept the ten gold panas that remained from the fifty that Katyayan had provided for his trip. ‘Keep it, Chanakya. I will call in the loan as and when I deem appropriate,’ declared Pundarikaksha. ‘You shall unite the whole of Bharat; your brilliance shall be a flame that attracts kings like fireflies until they are humbled into submission; arise, Chanakya, our motherland needs you,’ pronounced the dean. The grateful lad touched Pundarikaksha's feet wordlessly and left.

  ‘I wonder whether this one really needs a Takshila education,’ whispered the admissions director to the dean as Chanakya left.

  Chanakya's awry front teeth, his gangly limbs, his blemished and cratered face, his charcoal complexion and his patchy skin caused him to stand out as the most ill-favoured of Takshila. Princes and sons of nobility, most of whom placed a premium on being aristocratic and handsome, filled the university. Chanakya's raw intellect and audacious opinion
on almost every subject did little to win him friends.

  One day, when he was walking from his dormitory to his classes, he yelped in sudden pain as one of the blades of dry kush grass growing along the riverbank pierced his right foot. He mechanically lifted up his foot and pulled out the thorny blade of grass that had ventured to challenge him. Having pulled out the thorn and washed away the blood in the river, Chanakya bent down to examine the offending turf. He began uprooting clumps of kush and hurling them into the river.

  ‘Look at Chanakya, friends! He harangues us with accounts of how he will destroy the enemies of the country and look, he cannot even suppress mere grass that attacks his foot!’ shouted one of his classmates. Chanakya remained absorbed in the problem before him and ignored the jibes. He continued to pull out the wounding blades of tough kush, oblivious to the laughter and merriment around him. Several minutes and handfuls later, though, he realised that he was not going to be successful in eliminating the adversarial weeds using as unrefined a method as this. He made a mental note of what needed to be done and hurried to class. ‘Defeated already!’ crowed his compatriots. ‘If that were real battle it would have ended without bloodshed. Chanakya would simply have laid down his arms before the enemy,’ suggested a young prince. Chanakya had nothing to contribute by way of retort.

  The next day, Chanakya's classmates were surprised to see him carrying a pitcher containing a clouded solution. While his compatriots hurried along, Chanakya drizzled the whitish liquid over as wide an area of the turf as possible. Some more sarcastic remarks followed. ‘This is Chanakya's new battle strategy. If you can't defeat the enemy, give him milk so that he can become even stronger and decimate you effortlessly,’ said one. Another remarked caustically, ‘No, no. You don't understand… this is kush grass, revered by our Vedas. Chanakya is making offerings to the grass so that he may please the gods and they, instead of him, may do the dirty work of annihilating the adversary.’ As usual, Chanakya did not offer any explanations.