Chankya's Chant (68 page)

Suvasini got up from the bed and rushed over to him, tears streaming down her cheeks and her hair spilling over her face. ‘Vishnu! I am so relieved to see you. You’ve come to set me free, haven’t you? I always knew that you would be my ultimate saviour!’ she wailed, falling to her knees before him.

‘Rise, O Suvasini,’ said Chanakya, clasping her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. ‘I apologise for having had you locked up in this room, but I knew that if you were visible, you would have had no alternative but to leave the city in exile along with Dhanananda,’ he explained.

‘I understand, Vishnu,’ she said gently. She hugged him, nestling her face to his chest. Her heart was beating wildly as she lifted her gaze towards his eyes, silently begging for his love as she continued to mentally pray for the victory that was already his.
Om tryambhakam yajamahe, sugandhim pushtivardhanam; urvarukamiva bandhanam, mrityor mukshiya maamrital
.

‘Can I now leave this confined space? I want to be free again,’ she murmured, holding him tightly in her embrace.

‘Alas, Suvasini, although I love you, I cannot do what you ask of me. It’s in Magadha’s interest that I keep you here,’ said Chanakya, controlling the emotion in his voice as he conveyed the news.

‘What? Dhanananda has died and you still wish to keep me locked up? What has happened to you, my dear Vishnu? Doesn’t a normal human heart beat inside you anymore? How can you do this to the only woman that you ever loved?’ she asked, angrily withdrawing from the embrace.

‘I may have loved you, my sweet Suvasini, but I love Bharat much more. I’m duty-bound to protect it in whatever way that I can. For the moment my concern is Rakshas. Rakshas holds nothing more dear than you, Suvasini. Do you understand my predicament?’ asked Chanakya.

‘You would hold a woman that you love as prisoner because she’s a pawn on your chessboard?’ she howled. ‘O lord of anger and incarnation of death! I consign you to hell for a few thousand years—to suffer tortures for the murders and villainies committed by you in the name of politics! You shall have no lineage to carry forward your name and the knowledge that you so lust after shall have no useful application for anyone. Both you and your accursed philosophy be damned into oblivion!’ she cursed him as she flung herself down on the bed and wept.

‘I don’t believe in your curse, Suvasini. There are indeed people—sorcerers and physicians—who can kill others by incantations, become invisible or turn themselves into werewolves. There are black magic spells and chants that can cause blindness, consumption, madness or even death. But the curse should be heartfelt, not feigned. You still love me and would never want your curse to come true,’ said Chanakya sadly.

‘I do love you, Vishnu, but I hate the Chanakya in you!’ she said, crying. ‘And as for the efficacy of chants and curses, let me tell you the power that you so covet would never have been yours had I not prayed to Shiva for your victory every day!’

‘I have no option but to keep you prisoner, Suvasini,’ said Chanakya. ‘As God’s my witness, there’s no one that I’ve ever loved more than you!’

‘If my confinement stands, then so does my curse. However, because I love you, I shall offer you a means to redemption. Several thousand years from now, if someone meditates upon a mantra, he shall be able to use Chanakya’s knowledge once again, but only if he uses it to advance a woman!’ she said, pointing an accusing finger at her captor.

‘And the mantra?’ asked Chanakya.

‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah
,’ said Suvasini. ‘If the chant is recited four hundred times a day for over four thousand days, the orator shall have Chanakya’s powers to actualise another leader—so long as it’s a woman. In the new age, Shakti must trump Shiva!’

Chanakya regarded her gravely. ‘As you wish, my only love. Now I have a greater duty to still others, and other ages, and I must leave you one last time. My wisdom and experience must not fade in my lifetime. History, that fickle art, may neglect to record my thoughts for the greater benefit of rulers to come—and the greater wealth of their nations. I must write it all down.’

He backed into the shadows and softly left the room. ‘I must write it all,’ she strained to hear him whispering to himself as he walked away. ‘My
Arthashastra—
my own invention—the science of wealth.’

Chanakya sat down in his austere hut as he recited the mantra to himself.
Primal shakti, I bow to thee; allencompassing 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.

Chanakya chanted—his eyes closed in prayer— knowing that he had achieved his ambition of uniting Bharat under Chandragupta. But to achieve that he had sacrificed his one chance for love.

Suvasini went on to live till she succumbed, at the overripe age of thirty-eight, to sexual hyperactivity and lovelessness. Even though Chandragupta’s deputy prime minister—Rakshas—was ready and willing.

T
he corridors of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences were deserted at this hour. The doctor had requested Gangasagar to meet him just before midnight so that he might run the tests without anyone else being any the wiser. They now sat in his office—Gangasagar and Menon—like accused awaiting the final order of a judge or jury.

‘You have lung cancer, Gangasagarji,’ said the doctor sympathetically.

‘But I don’t smoke,’ complained Gangasagar, almost hoping his usual powers of persuasion would get the doctor to agree that he didn’t have the dreaded disease.

‘It isn’t only smokers who get it. You live in a highly polluted atmosphere. The black exhaust fumes of autorickshaws can be just as deadly. It can be any number of things that could cause it—smoking, passive smoking, air pollution, asbestos—’

‘I never had any symptoms till now,’ said Gangasagar, defending his life.

‘Around twenty-five per cent of patients will not feel anything till it’s too late,’ explained the doctor gently.

‘Will I live?’ asked Gangasagar, suddenly aware of his mortality.

The doctor shook his head slowly. ‘Miracles do happen, Gangasagarji. Unfortunately, we did not pick up any symptoms until the cancer had metastasised. At this stage, neither surgery nor chemotherapy will be of much help.’

‘How much time do I have?’ asked the old Pandit.

The doctor shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to predict these things. My guess would be a month—at most.’

‘That’s long enough to make her prime minister,’ declared Gangasagar, leaving the doctor puzzled. ‘You’re to keep this information completely confidential, doctor. I’m leaving now. I have too much to do.’

‘But Gangasagarji, we must admit you to hospital. We need to monitor your—’

‘Listen, doctor. There’s nothing glorious about dying—anyone can do it. Menon will bring me in when I’m about to meet my reluctant maker!’ he said as he briskly walked out of the doctor’s office.

Menon hastily followed and found that his master was murmuring softly under his breath ‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah
.’

‘She’s about to become prime minister and we’re about to expose her love child,’ said Somany to Gangasagar. ‘The newspapers are going to love it.’

‘I would think very carefully before doing any such thing,’ said Gangasagar speaking softly to prevent another coughing spasm.

‘You have no leverage on us, Gangasagar. In any case, why are you bothered? She’s ditched you for good,’ said Rungta.

‘When thousands of people pray to a stone idol, they vest in it their own power. It’s irrelevant what the idol thinks. Chandini is the idol and I don’t care what she thinks of me. My single-point agenda is to make her prime minister.’

‘Your agenda is screwed! A conservative country like India will never allow a woman of loose moral character to become prime minister, Gangasagar,’ said Somany.

‘Speaking of women with loose moral character,’ said Gangasagar, ‘I’d like to introduce both of you to a very dear friend. She’s been a great pillar of strength to the ABNS,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Who?’ asked Somany curiously.

Anjali, the Bollywood siren, looking positively delicious in a black body-hugging saree walked out. She ignored the men in the room and sat down on the sofa and proceeded to light her cigarette seductively.

‘As you know, we were most grateful when you gentlemen requested Anjali to endorse Chandini during the Uttar Pradesh state assembly elections. To express our gratitude our party nominated her as a Rajya Sabha member from our state. Anjali has been updating me quite regularly regarding a special nocturnal friend who visits her almost every night at her elegant sea-facing Mumbai mansion,’ said Gangasagar.

Somany’s face turned red. Gangasagar continued. ‘This special friend is apparently affluent, but it seems that his wife is unable to meet his needs. The question in my mind is this: is a conservative country like India— more particularly Somanyji’s charming wife—ready to hear of the bedroom frolics of a tycoon?’

A livid Rungta glared at Somany. ‘I’d told you to keep your pants zipped up—that it was essential to play safe,’ he shouted.

‘I agree. You see, one must always be safety-conscious,’ said Gangasagar, nodding his head. ‘It seems over eighty per cent of the people in this world are the result of accidents.’