Chanakya's Chant Page 5

  The next day, the boys were shocked to find that large patches of the grass had disappeared. ‘Hey Chanakya! What was in that milk you sprayed here yesterday?’ asked one of the boys, curiosity piqued.

  ‘The kush was too abundant and vast for me to destroy, so I figured—if my enemy's enemy is my friend—what is this kush's biggest foe? The answer was fungus and ants, both of which attack the grass and feed on it. What I poured yesterday was not milk. It was sweetened whey, my friends. The protein in the whey caused the fungus to grow and the sugar content attracted the ants,’ explained the canny youth to his disconcerted companions who were even more surprised to note that Chanakya had brought with him yet another pitcher of whey and was repeating the previous day's procedure.

  ‘You've already killed the grass, Chanakya. What's with the second pitcher?’ enquired one of the preceding day's mocking sons of nobility.

  ‘A debt should be paid off till the last pana, and an enemy destroyed till the very last trace,’ reasoned the unrelenting Chanakya for the benefit of his new admirers.

  ‘It's unfortunate that the concept of Bharat—the common abode and cultural heritage of us Indo-Aryans—has been subjugated by petty rulers and kingdoms. Our scriptures, traditions, culture, prayers, and deities are common. Why is it, then, that we refer to our homes as Magadha, Gandhar, Kashi, Kuru, Kosala, Mallayrajya or Panchala? Why don't we say that we're citizens of Bharat? It's this fundamental divisiveness that will bring about our downfall in the future,’ debated Chanakya while tilting his head so that he could partially align his face with that of his host. He was in Sage Dandayan's hut on the outskirts of Takshila. The sage was a yogi and had been standing on his head for the past few days, hence the valiant effort by Chanakya to adjust his own visage with that of the upside-down yogi.

  In the past six years, Chanakya had not only excelled at every subject in his curriculum at Takshila but had also been on the merit list each year. His stellar academic performance had earned him the position of upacharya—teaching assistant—in his favourite subjects, political science and economics. The meagre but adequate income from the job had allowed him to repay the debt to his guru, Pundarikaksha, in accordance with his sentiment that ‘a debt should be paid off till the last pana’, although Pundarikaksha had joked that the interest was still due and payable, not in cash, but through the realisation of a united homeland.

  Pundarikaksha had introduced Chanakya to the insightful yogi, and Chanakya enjoyed visiting him at his hermitage every once in a while. Dandayan liked the bright young man who seemed to have an opinion on almost every major issue. ‘Solitary candles remain centred on their own flames until one applies heat to the vessel that holds them. In the face of a common enemy—heat—they coalesce into a single candle,’ revealed the inverted sadhu, his long grey locks and beard forming a pool around his head on the floor.

  The sacred ash-smeared yogi continued nonchalantly, ‘Unlike the sun which awakes in the east and falls asleep in the west, the Hellenic star has arisen in the west and is travelling eastwards. The fair-skinned god eradicates everyone and everything that confronts him. Your real enemy is not Dhanananda, O learned offspring of Chanak, but the Macedonian divinity whom they call Alexander the Great!’

  ‘What shall I do, guruji? My anger towards Dhanananda has not abated. How can I disregard my objectives?’ asked a perturbed Chanakya.

  ‘Chanakya. One does not need to pluck fruit from a tree that is about to be chopped down. The fruit will fall by themselves. Focus on the bigger purpose and the rest of your manifesto will follow as a matter of course.’

  Chanakya's fame and reputation as a teacher grew. Students vied with one another to be in his class. Every once in a while, Chanakya would break away from learning-by-rote and allow his students to ask him rapidfire questions which he would answer in his most witty and penetrating manner with little regard for political rectitude.

  ‘Acharya, you're the most learned of teachers. Why shouldn't you become a king?’

  ‘Honestly speaking. I don't mind that I'm not king. I just have a problem that someone else is.’

  ‘Acharya, what is the reason for secrecy in government?’

  ‘If citizens don't know what you're doing, how on earth can they possibly tell what you're doing wrong? That's why secrecy is essential, my boy.’

  ‘Acharya, why do people seem to get away with not respecting the law of the land?’

  ‘If we want people to have respect for the law, then we must first make the law respectable, son.’

  ‘Acharya, isn't the king actually a servant of the people?’

  ‘Correction. In order to become master, a ruler must profess to be a servant of the people.’

  ‘Acharya, how can the prime minister reduce the king's burden in times of crisis or panic?’

  ‘Why do that? Rulers must be allowed to panic. They need to be kept busy with lots of crises. It's their measure of achievement!’

  ‘Acharya, is it the sacred duty of the king to always speak the truth?’

  ‘Hah! The king doesn't need the truth. What he most needs is something that he can tell the people, dear lad. After all, a good speech is not one in which you can prove that the king's telling the truth, it's one where no one else can prove he's fibbing.’

  ‘Acharya, which are the freedoms that should be guaranteed to a citizen by the state?’

  ‘Hmm… let me see. It's well known that a hungry man is more interested in four pieces of bread rather than four freedoms.’

  ‘Acharya, why should Brahmins like you be involved in politics?’

  ‘Politics is far too serious a matter to be left to politicians, son.’

  ‘Acharya, is war the only solution to political differences?’

  ‘Wise pupil, politics is war without bloodshed and war is simply politics with bloodshed.’

  ‘Acharya, don't citizens have the right to know how their tax revenues are being used?’

  ‘Dear me. No, no, no. People don't want to know how tax revenue has actually been spent. Does any worshipper ever ask the temple Brahmin what happened to the ritual offering made to the gods?’

  ‘Acharya, isn't good government about acting on principles?’

  ‘Absolutely. Government is about principles. And the principle is, never act on principle.’

  ‘And are principles greater than money?’

  ‘Remember one central tenet, lad. When anybody says, “It isn't the money, it's the principle”, they actually mean that it's the money.’

  ‘Acharya, what's the ideal amount of time that should be spent by the king's council debating an issue?’

  ‘Well, if you don't want the council to spend too long over something, make it the last item on their agenda before refreshments.’

  ‘Acharya, should a king go to war to uphold law and justice?’

  ‘The king should always be on the side of law and justice, as long as he doesn't allow it to come in the way of foreign policy.’

  ‘Acharya, what should the punishment be for a prime minister who keeps the king ignorant of happenings in the kingdom?’

  ‘My son, kings are ignorant not because prime ministers do not give them the right answers but because they do not ask their prime ministers the right questions. And here endeth the lesson!’

  The witty repartee and humour masked an inner melancholy and sense of desolation. Chanakya had left his mother in Magadha on the mere promise of Katyayan. Was she in good health? Would she be missing her son? How would she be coping with the loss of both husband and son? Over the years, he had tried to send several messages to her through various merchant caravans and wandering bards. No reply had ever come back. It could mean either that the messengers had been unable to locate her... or worse.

  It had been over ten years since that dark amavasya night, under the cover of which he had abandoned Magadha. His mentor, Pundarikaksha, had passed away the previous year. On his deathbed, the compassionate dean had urged Chanakya to return to Magadha a
nd bring back his mother to Takshila, so that she could be better cared for. ‘Your mother as well as your motherland need looking after, Chanakya, but one's mother comes before one's motherland.’

  Pundarikaksha had died leaving three possessions to his beloved disciple—his house, his manuscripts and his loyal manservant. Chanakya quickly installed three of his favourite students, Sinharan, Mehir and Sharangrao in the house to look after his affairs while he was away. Sinharan was the son of the governor of Mallayrajya, one of the handfuls of republics in the region. He had been cheated out of the throne by his uncle who had usurped the throne of Mallayrajya from Sinharan's father. Mehir was a Persian student who had fled his homeland owing to the Macedonian invasion. Sharangrao was the brightest Brahmin boy in the university. All three were his endeared disciples, although they remained consistently at odds with Ambhi, the crown prince of Gandhar—an arrogant and brash freshman in the university. ‘Keep him in check, Sinharan,’ advised Chanakya, and then having taken permission for a sabbatical from the university chancellor, started preparations for the long march to the city of his birth.

  The arduous journey to Magadha brought flashbacks not only of his parents but also of dear Suvasini. She was the daughter of the imprisoned prime minister Shaktar and had been his childhood friend. As a little girl, she had been delicately built, like an exquisitely carved statue. Her rosy cheeks and piercing brown eyes had driven Chanakya quite mad. He had always remained in love with her but had never plucked up the courage to tell her. He knew that she knew, but she had derived mischievous fun from pretending she didn't. As he inched his way towards Magadha, he found himself reminiscing more frequently about his adolescent infatuation.

  Pataliputra had not only grown in size but also in indulgence, licentiousness, corruption and debauchery. Betting and gambling halls were on every street corner and it was not uncommon to observe disputes breaking out over claims of loaded dice, sleight of hand or doctored animal fights. Alcohol was consumed to excess and it was a familiar sight to see wine-soaked men staggering out of madiralays, having overindulged in kinva, asava, maireya, medaka, madhu or prasanna—the wide assortment of cocktails that Magadha pubs had on offer. The other wide assortment consisted of ganikas, rupajivas and pumsachalis—prostitutes, independent escorts and concubines. Magadha's courtesans offered the finest talent—singing, playing musical instruments, conversing, dancing, performing massages, preparing perfumes, stringing garlands, shampooing, bathing and, of course most importantly, the art of lovemaking. A celebrated guru of Magadha, Vatsyayana, had just published a bestselling treatise, the Kama Sutra, with over twelve hundred verses detailing seventy-seven different positions for making love.

  When Chanakya arrived at the gates of the capital, Pataliputra, the inebriated immigration officer at the city gates could barely bring himself to cursorily examine his travel documents, leave alone ask him any relevant questions, even though it was only noon. The guards at the city gates seemed dishevelled and red-eyed after heavy drinking the previous night. Magadha was a kingdom in denial—it seemed to be refusing to acknowledge the threat of a Macedonian invasion that loomed large for the bordering kingdoms of Bharat. Both the king and his people simply did not want the party to end even though the night was over.

  Most of the city seemed to be unchanged, though, and it was not too difficult for Chanakya to navigate his way to Katyayan's house. The streets, the houses and even the street corner oil-fired lamps looked unchanged. What had changed was the appearance of Katyayan. Ten years had aged him by twenty-five. He instantly recognised Chanakya approaching the house and rushed outside to meet him even though he had last seen him as a mere runt. Tears welled up in his eyes as he hugged Chanakya and refused to let go. As they went inside, he instructed his manservant to wash Chanakya's hands and feet and to have the cook organise the noon meal.

  The two men sat down on the floor of the kitchen as the servant placed banana leaves and earthen tumblers of water before them. In Brahmin tradition, they each sprinkled a little water around their leaves, a ritual purification of the earth. Next, the servant brought rice, lentils and vegetables, which he proceeded to place on their banana leaves. As was the custom, both men—before commencing to eat with their hands—removed small morsels of their food from the leaves and left them as symbolic charitable offerings for animals—cows, dogs, crows and ants—to please the gods. Even though they had not seen each other for over a decade, the meal was consumed in silence following Vedic custom.

  It was only after they had risen and retired to the courtyard that Chanakya spoke. ‘I have come to Pataliputra to take back my mother, Katyayanji. How is she?’ he enquired. The silence that followed was protracted and deafening. Finally, Katyayan spoke. ‘Vishnu… Chanakya… how do I tell you this? After your father's brutal execution and your departure for Takshila, I did everything to keep her in good stead. At my insistence, she was sent to Kusumpur, your family's ancestral home near Pataliputra. I reasoned that she would be better off away from Pataliputra—a place that she associated with the murder of her husband and the disappearance of her son. I would send her money and provisions regularly and would visit her whenever possible but, my dear Chanakya, she was pining for you and mourning the death of her beloved husband. She stopped eating, and withered away. She passed away around six or seven years ago. Forgive me, Chanakya. I have now been the bearer of bad news twice in your life.’

  The blank and distant look that Katyayan had witnessed in Chanakya's eyes when he was told about the slaying of his father seemed to have returned. The old man held Chanakya's hand and tried his best to coax a reaction but failed. The armour of dispassionate determination had once again enveloped Chanakya and he quickly changed the subject, almost as though the demise of a parent was just one among several equally relevant topics for discussion.

  ‘Is prime minister Shaktar alive? How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘He's still in prison. Dhanananda destroyed his family. Rakshas and I regularly bribe Girika to keep him alive. You know that it's impossible to leave Nanda's Hell—the prison complex and torture dungeons managed by that monster Girika—alive and well. I'm told by my informants that Shaktarji's life is a living hell and that he dies a thousand deaths each day!’

  ‘So Shaktarji's daughter—Suvasini—is also dead?’ asked Chanakya, hesitatingly.

  ‘I know that you always had a soft corner for her, Chanakya. But what can I say? Her life is worse than death. She survived due to the benefaction of that adulterer Rakshas, but ended up his mistress.’

  ‘My dear beloved Suvasini, a harlot? My mother dead! The prime minister in a hellish dungeon! Where is justice in Magadha?’

  ‘The only recompense is that the persecution of Brahmins has ceased. Ever since Rakshas took over as prime minister, he has succeeded in keeping Dhanananda immersed in wine and women. The result has been royal lethargy in the anti-Brahmin policy. Rakshas, being a Brahmin himself, has even convinced Dhanananda to establish an endowment that provides grants to learned Brahmins. Who could have thought that a Shudra would ever do anything to even remotely favour Brahmins?’

  ‘So Dhanananda and Rakshas have succeeded in buying the silent acquiescence of the Brahmins through endowments, have they? Mother earth is weeping at the betrayal right now—Brahmins were supposed to be her guardians, the protectors of righteousness, devoutness, godliness, honesty, fairness, truth, virtue, dignity and integrity. Instead we have become common whores, available to the highest bidder for the night!’

  ‘Sshh… Chanakya… not so loud, my son… even walls have ears. Yes, you're right, we're no better than concubines. I also stand guilty before you. It's just that I saw what happened to your father—the illustrious Chanak—when he tried to speak up for what was right. I'm still witnessing the horrors that our erstwhile prime minister Shaktar has to endure for having sought to put the monarch on an appropriate course. There's no point brandishing a bow if your quiver holds no arrows, Chanakya. That's harsh reality for you.�
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  ‘I don't blame you, Katyayanji. If it weren't for you, I would never have survived. I shall remain indebted to you for the rest of my life. My anger is due to the hopeless situation. It isn't directed at you.’

  ‘I understand, Chanakya. Let's try to direct this rage to some productive use. If you want Dhanananda ejected from his throne, you need men, materials, allies, and planning… and as you're well aware, at the root of all these is wealth. You need money if you hope to achieve the purge of Magadha.’

  The Feast of Wisdom was the annual banquet hosted by the king for learned Brahmin gurus from all over his kingdom. Their feet would be washed, they would be fed, provided with gifts of gold and, in turn, they would bless the king and his kingdom. Pataliputra Palace was festooned with marigolds and banana leaves for the grand event. Hundreds of cooks slaved within the royal kitchens to prepare choice dishes as offerings to the Brahmins. Outside the palace gates, drummers beat their skins in a frenzied rhythm to announce that the feast of wisdom had begun. Before the feast commenced, however, the list of winners who would be fed by the king and honoured with endowments had to be decided. This was done through a series of open debates in court, with the sovereign in attendance. Those who performed well in these open debates would earn distinction through royal recognition and favours.

  Dhanananda was in court, but reluctantly. He was in a foul mood. The fat oaf, the rajpurohit—the court astrologer—had been looking at the king's horoscope, and had found his second star, Venus, conjunct with deceptive Ketu in the sixth house, to be in close proximity to Saturn. He had warned Dhanananda that the day was not an auspicious one for him and that he should expect trouble. ‘You've been in your Rahu Mahadasha for the past year, my lord. Mars is the eighth planet, representing death, transformation, and change, from the ascendant, Moon, and Sun. Saturn, the sixth governor of court battles, has also been trailing your Sun and Moon's tenth aspect, and ascendant's third aspect by transit. Be careful of what you say and do today, O King!’ exclaimed the astrologer.