Chankya's Chant (9 page)

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 and 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.’

‘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.

‘Be careful of what you say and do today, Chanakya,’ advised Katyayan, although Chanakya had no intention of participating in any competition. He was far too distinguished a scholar for any such event. He simply wished to observe the proceedings of Dhanananda’s court and better understand the equation between the king and his new prime minister, Rakshas. He ensured that he remained suitably hidden within the throng of the palace guests and out of the direct line of sight of Dhanananda. His error, however, was to stand alongside Katyayan and to remain within the sight of Rakshas. Rakshas recognised the ugly Chanakya instantly. Seeing an opportunity to let some sparks fly, he sombrely announced, ‘Magadha is honoured to have present here among us today, her illustrious son, Chanakya, who is a revered professor at the renowned Takshila University. The court shall be delighted to kick off today’s competitions with a discussion by the acharya.’ Polite applause followed and Chanakya reluctantly took centre stage. ‘Measure your words and hold your temper,’ Katyayan whispered urgently as Chanakya walked away from him.