Chanakya's Chant Read online

  ‘I understand your sentiments, sir. May I make a humble suggestion?’

  ‘Go on,’ said the agitated minister.

  ‘Why not round up his known associates instead? We'll release them on bail later. It will send a signal that you will not tolerate insubordination, and yet you'll stop short of lashing out at him directly. You'll take the wind out of his sails, sir. He won't have a leg to stand on.’

  The home minister of Uttar Pradesh smiled. He was an old man of seventy-five. His teeth had been replaced by dentures, which moved in every direction other than the one he wanted. Giving the police chief a dentureinspired grin he said, ‘Why the fuck aren't you in politics? God knows you're devious enough.’

  He had stopped rocking his chair.

  ‘Look at these warring criminals, my friends. They say that they're serious about your safety and security. The truth is that they're busy protecting each other—your safety be damned!’ exploded Ikrambhai to the sound of applause.

  ‘Why is that rascal, Rajjo, free to roam about in spite of twenty-six pending criminal cases?’ he thundered. There was applause.

  ‘Why is he allowed to thumb his nose at the home minister by roving around the home minister's own constituency? Doesn't it tell you that they're thick as thieves?’ There was louder applause.

  ‘Why is this home minister protecting known criminals? Our efficient police commissioner has rounded up hundreds of Rajjo's associates. In each instance, he has been pressured by his political masters to release these men on bail. Why shouldn't we demand the resignation of this spineless creature that dares to call himself home minister?’ Thunderous applause and hoots of approval followed.

  ‘You have made an instant hero out of Ikram,’ commented Agrawalji. ‘He could quite easily be a claimant for the position of chief minister if the ABNS performs decently in the elections.’

  ‘That's precisely my problem,’ said Gangasagar. ‘He's not the right man for the job.’

  ‘Are you mentally unstable, Ganga? You've created him from scratch. Now when he's on the verge of capturing the reins of power in Uttar Pradesh, you want him to back off? Unbelievable!’ muttered Agrawalji.

  ‘Have you heard of atropine?’ asked Gangasagar.

  ‘No. What is it?’

  ‘It's a poison. It is extracted from a plant called Deadly Nightshade.’

  ‘You plan to poison Ikram, Ganga? Isn't that overdoing things?’

  ‘I'm simply telling you that this dangerous poison—atropine—is also used as an antidote to nerve agents. Even though it's a poison, it can fight a bigger menace when it's used in small doses.’

  ‘So Ikram is the poison that's to be used in small doses?’

  ‘Unfortunately, he's now past the expiry date on the label.’

  She walked towards her shanty, satchel slung over her shoulder. Her pocket money for the day had been spent on a bag of spiced peanuts—tangy lemon-and-red chilliflavoured peanuts were her favourite snack. As the teenage girl hummed a tune from the latest Bollywood flick that her father had splurged on the previous week, she thought about flying away to a new world—one in which there was no poverty, disease, decay, and squalor. Chandini did not notice the inebriated goon who had been following her.

  She was a few minutes away from home and took a right turn that led her into a windowless alley between two tenements. She was nearing the bend of the isolated stretch when he reached out and grabbed her by her shoulders from behind. She spun around and faced him, the peanuts falling to the ground, scattering around her.

  He lunged forward in an attempt to grab her breasts. His stinking breath repelled her and she screamed, but something prevented her voice from carrying. It was his hand. He had managed to spin her around, clamp down a hand on her mouth from behind, leaving his other hand free to molest her. He pressed his hardness into her from behind and she struggled, desperate to free herself from his lecherous clutch.

  She opened her mouth and bit down hard, capturing some of the flesh of his fingers. He screamed in anguish and instinctively let go of her. She swung around, looked him in the eyes, smiled at him, took aim and kicked him right between his legs. He doubled over in agony, holding his balls, muttering curses at her.

  Chandini smiled. The weak little girl had vanished for that solitary moment. She said, ‘The next time you try to touch me, I shall be so powerful, I shall simply order your castration.’

  She then ran home sobbing.

  ‘I want her,’ said Gangasagar. ‘I need her badly.’

  ‘But Gangasagarji, little Chandini is already sixteen. I must now get her married. How can I leave her with you?’ asked Gupta.

  ‘Haven't I delivered on all the promises I made?’ asked Gangasagar, pointing to the new school and hospital in the distance. ‘Moreover, she will become immensely powerful one day. You shall be proud of her. I promise!’

  ‘What work will she do within the party?’

  ‘At this moment I want her to complete her education abroad. When she returns she'll be an ordinary party worker. She'll visit constituencies where natural calamities—floods, famine, drought or earthquakes—have displaced populations. She will work along with the party workers to endear herself to them. She must build a political and social platform she can stand on.’

  ‘What else do you want from me, Gangasagarji?’

  ‘I need you to allow her to be adopted.’

  ‘Are you out of your mind, Gangasagarji? She has living parents and you want her to find new ones? What's wrong with the ones that she has?’ shouted Gupta, paanstreaked spittle spewing from his mouth.

  ‘I want Ikrambhai to adopt her.’

  ‘You are mad! Allow my darling daughter to be adopted by a Muslim? No! A thousand times no!’

  ‘She shall be adopted in name only. She shall continue to be your daughter.’

  ‘But why this outrageous plan?’

  ‘If Ikrambhai adopts her, I shall achieve three significant things. Firstly, the cost of her education abroad shall be borne by Ikrambhai. Second, Ikram will see her as a daughter and natural political successor. And third, it will give her universal acceptability in India—a Hindu girl with Muslim parents. Wonderful political combination,’ he mused.

  ‘But if he adopts her, then she will cease to be my daughter!’ wailed Gupta.

  ‘Shariat—Muslim Personal Law—does not recognise adoption.’

  ‘So how would he adopt her if his own law does not validate it?’

  ‘He must prove in civil court that the adoption is a custom allowed by his specific regional community.’

  ‘And is it allowed?’

  ‘No. Adoption is prevalent amongst many classes of Muslims in Punjab, Sindh, Kashmir, Rajasthan and Madhya Pradesh. But it isn't common among Muslims of Uttar Pradesh. Ikram won't be able to prove anything in court.’

  ‘I don't get it. You want him to adopt her so that his own religious law as well as the civil court can overrule the adoption?’

  ‘Absolutely. The adoption cannot be legalised, so she stays your daughter. But the sentiment is there and politics is all about sentiment and symbolism. She will symbolically represent a union of two great faiths—Hinduism and Islam.’

  ‘Why would Ikrambhai adopt her in the first place?’

  ‘Because she would get him Hindu votes just as he gets her Muslim ones! It shall be a symbiotic relationship.’

  ‘No, no, and no. A thousand times—no! I refuse to be adopted by Ikrambhai.’

  ‘Chandini. Listen to—’

  ‘No. Uncle Ganga, I know he's your political ally, but I have a decent father and a caring mother. I will not be adopted by Ikrambhai.’

  ‘I am not asking you to renounce your parents. Your parents will remain your parents. No one can ever change that. I am simply building up your political resumè, my girl—’

  ‘But how can I give up my parents? It's too high a price to pay!’

  ‘You were lucky that you did not get raped, Chandini,’ said Gangasagar quie
tly.

  ‘Luck had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘But what if it had been someone else? Do you know that a woman gets raped every half an hour in India?’

  ‘No. I never—’

  ‘Do you know that a woman gets killed every two hours—usually for not bringing in a large enough dowry?’

  ‘Yes—I mean—no—I don't know—’

  ‘Do you want to be one of those statistics, Chandini?’ ‘No, Uncle Ganga.’ ‘Don't you want to rule the country? Be powerful? Never have to be at any man's mercy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don't you want to get away from this filth and poverty that surrounds you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don't you want the very best international education that could propel your career? Make your life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then do what I say! Let Ikram adopt you!’

  The girl nodded silently in acquiescence and Gangasagar smiled. He would need to ensure that Ikram's goon, who had been given the assignment of following and terrorising the girl, kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ he muttered softly to himself.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  About 2300 years ago

  The smell of human excrement was overpowering. The harsh stone floor was slick with a thick slime of blood, sweat, urine and faecal matter. The fetid bowels of Dhanananda's prison complex heralded the arrival of the new visitor with the bloodcurdling screams of tortured inmates. The dim light provided by a few flaming torches revealed little of the roughly-hewn rock walls with an assortment of chains and restraints bolted to them.

  As the gate to the filthy cell slammed shut, Chanakya felt something slither over his foot, probably a snake. He instinctively slammed down his other foot on the slippery creature and held his foot down until he felt the reptile lying motionless. He stood glued to the spot for quite some time, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. As his pupils dilated, he was able to discern a couple of rats fighting over a piece of flesh, quite possibly human.

  ‘One may wash one's anus a hundred times and it will still be vile,’ thought Chanakya, ‘and Dhanananda may hand out a thousand endowments to Brahmins but he will still remain corrupt!’ Chanakya set about finding himself a corner that was least polluted and eventually sat himself down with his back against a damp wall. The cell did not have any windows. There was a complete absence of ventilation. He closed his eyes and began his pranayama—the yogic breathing exercises taught by the venerable sage Dandayan—to help him cope with the unhealthy conditions.

  Unexpectedly he heard a click and saw a thin dancing sliver of light emerge through the gate. It was a dwarf holding an oil lamp in his hand. He quietly raised his finger to his lips, signalling to Chanakya for complete silence. With a quick jerk of his head he motioned Chanakya to get up and follow him.

  The little man led him to an extremely constricted cavity along one of the walls. The midget did not seem to mind the narrow space as he efficiently tied a rope firmly around Chanakya's waist. Chanakya did not know where the other end of the rope was located. Suddenly he felt a tug and found himself being lifted off his feet. He was in some sort of chute that was extremely tight and claustrophobic. During the upward ascent, Chanakya's face, thighs and hands grazed the duct surfaces and either burned from friction or bled from gashes. After what seemed like an eternity, he felt cool air and heard the sound of running water. He was back along the banks of the Ganges.

  He was startled to see an entire band of dwarves pulling the rope that held him. Their leader stepped forward and explained. ‘Do not be alarmed, acharya. Katyayanji asked us to help. He needed us gnomes to access the ancient escape duct leading from the prison. As you've observed, the passage is very narrow—and that's after we've widened it for you.’

  ‘I am grateful to you and to Katyayanji, but who are you? What is it that you do for a living?’ asked Chanakya, intuitively inquisitive even in distress.

  ‘Dwarves have always had a very important function in Magadha, acharya. We've usually been guarders of the royal kosh—the treasury. As you know, most royal treasuries are established in concealed spots and have secret corridors not accessible to thieves and bandits. We small people are ideal guards.’

  ‘But you're servants of the king. Why would you help me?’

  ‘Our greater wish was to help our beloved former prime minister, Shaktarji, who created the royal kosh in the first place, and the system of dwarves guarding it. He has remained a prisoner here for many years. We have quietly and determinedly been working on extending this passage for several months now and were able to get him out just moments before you. Getting you out was our next move. Katyayanji and Senapati Maurya assembled us for this mission.’

  ‘Senapati Maurya—the commander-in-chief of Magadha's army? He's working against Dhanananda?’

  ‘It's better that he tells you himself, sir.’

  ‘Where is Prime Minister Shaktarji?’

  ‘He's already been taken to Pipplivan where Senapati Maurya awaits him. He needs to be kept secure from the king and there's no safer place than the camp of Senapati Maurya. Acharya, you're also to proceed to Pipplivan immediately. The alarm will have been sounded and the royal guards will be searching for you. I have a horse waiting.’

  ‘But what of Katyayanji? I have to meet him and apologise for having unleashed my temper in Dhanananda's court,’ said Chanakya.

  ‘He knows you too well, sir. He's also on the side of truth and justice. He believes, however, that he can do much more to eradicate Dhanananda and his abominable government by being inside rather than outside. He says that you're the tiger that will attack Dhanananda from the outside while he's simply the germ that will create a storm inside Dhanananda's stomach!’

  In the quiet of the dark night—not unlike the dark night when Chanakya had cremated his father and fled—they set off for Pipplivan on horseback.

  It was still a few hours before dawn when they reached Pipplivan—not much more than a cluster of huts and mud-brick houses located along the banks of a stream. The Lilliputian horsemen led him to one of the slightly larger houses. The senapati was awake and conferring with someone who got up and left the moment their party arrived.

  Senapati Maurya was relieved to see Chanakya safe. He bowed before the acharya and said ‘Magadha needs you, O wise teacher. Help me rid my motherland of the leeches that are sucking her dry!’

  ‘The time's not yet ripe, Senapati. The only great achievements that make it to the pages of history are those to which tremendous thought and preparation have been given.’

  ‘I await your guidance, revered teacher. But come, you must be tired. And your wounds and scratches need to be cleaned. I'll ask my wife to provide clean garments and some breakfast. Please follow me, I'll show you where you can bathe.’

  ‘Better treatment than I would have expected at the hands of a vrishala,’ thought Chanakya to himself. Maurya was considered a vrishala—an outcaste Kshatriya—by upper-caste Brahmins such as Chanakya. Maurya's father had abandoned the strict caste hierarchy of Hinduism to adopt the ways of the great teacher, Gautam Buddha. The senapati had eventually returned to the folds of Hinduism but would permanently bear the mark of Hindu indignation towards the prodigal by being branded a vrishala.

  Bathed, dressed, and morning prayers concluded, Chanakya sat on the little terrace outside Maurya's hut. The senapati's wife had placed before him a simple breakfast of millet porridge and hot milk. The sun had just risen and peacocks were dancing in the garden outside, their iridescent blue-green plumage fanning out to reveal their mysteriously beautiful feathered eyes. This was the land of peacocks, and Maurya derived his own family name from them—mor—peacock.

  Outside the house, a group of young boys was busy in a game of role-playing. One of them had tied a scarf around his head and had tucked a peacock feather into his headband. He wa
s the make-believe emperor, sitting atop a large rock. The other boys standing around him were either subjects or court officials.

  ‘Attention! The court of the wise and benevolent Maharaj Chandragupta, Emperor of the world, is now in session. Come and be heard!’ droned a boy playing the role of prime minister and standing by the king's side.

  ‘O great King. I'm in trouble. My neighbour sold me his well but he continues to draw water from it. Please stop him,’ pleaded a boy acting the part of the aggrieved.

  ‘Who is the seller of the well?’ asked the miniature king.

  ‘I am, my lord. But I sold him the well, not the water inside it. Please let your justice prevail,’ replied another boy, slightly older.

  Addressing the senior one, the king grandly pronounced, ‘You're right. You sold the well, not the water. This would mean that you're wrongly keeping water in someone else's well. Please empty it! Next case!’

  Chanakya chuckled to himself. He was watching this little drama with great interest. He decided to join the fun. He got up from the terrace where he was seated, walked up and stood before the king with folded hands.

  ‘Yes, Brahmin? What is it that you want?’ asked the boy seriously.

  ‘O illustrious King, I'm a poor Brahmin. I need milk and ghee for the yajnas—the rituals—that I perform but I have no cow. Please assist me, O protector of the land,’ said Chanakya earnestly.

  ‘Treasurer! Give this Brahmin a cow,’ commanded the king as the mock official came forward to hand Chanakya a pebble—the substitute cow.

  ‘But I don't have any money to pay for it, my king,’ explained Chanakya.

  ‘O Brahmin. If your offerings to the gods are inadequate, how will the bounty of my kingdom be adequate? And if my kingdom is not prosperous, from where will I collect taxes? And if there are no taxes, what will happen to the treasury and the army? Who will defend the kingdom if there is no army? So, you see, I am not doing you a favour. I'm simply guaranteeing my own prosperity!’ explained the intellectual giant of a boy.