‘Since the past sixty years, the kingdom of Kalinga has been a vassal state of Magadha. They were conquered and subdued by Mahanandin and have since been paying hundreds of thousands of gold panas each year as war repatriation. The king and his people would love an opportunity to teach Magadha a lesson,’ suggested Chanakya softly.
‘So you'll offer the king of Kalinga the bait that you'd make him emperor of Magadha?’ asked Sinharan.
‘No. Why tell big lies when small ones can be just as effective? I shall tell him that if Dhanananda is overthrown, Kalinga shall be freed from the unfair war treaty for sixty years. Nothing more, nothing less. I shall then leave greed and ambition to take their majestic course!’
‘We have a problem,’ said Jeevasiddhi.
‘Now what is it?’ asked Bhadrashala irritably, draining the tumbler of prasanna and wiping his mouth.
More than two thousand horses had been clandestinely swapped. Jeevasiddhi would send him halfbreeds and non-pedigree horses; these would be substituted for the Magadha cavalry's purebreds in the middle of the night. The next day, Jeevasiddhi would arrange to sell the thoroughbreds quietly. The arrangement had made Bhadrashala entirely solvent and he was once again a preferred customer at the gambling dens and watering holes of Magadha.
‘It seems that around half the horses that I gave you to switch had small tattoos on their backs. It skipped my attention because the horses would always be draped in saddle-cloth,’ revealed Jeevasiddhi.
‘What sort of tattoo?’ asked Bhadrashala nervously.
‘The royal insignia—a very small one, though—of Chandragupta Maurya,’ said Jeevasiddhi.
‘Cuntfucker! I'll have your balls for this,’ hissed Bhadrashala. ‘Do you know what would happen to me if they found that horses belonging to Chandragupta Maurya were in the Magadha cavalry?’
‘You'd be executed?’ asked Jeevasiddhi rhetorically.
‘If I go down, I take you down with me!’ snapped Bhadrashala.
‘I understand your predicament, Bhadrashalaji. I sincerely do. You have my word that this information shall remain secret between us. Nothing shall ever be done to put your position in jeopardy,’ assured the smooth Jeevasiddhi, ‘provided that a few small requirements of mine can be met from time to time’.
It made him sick to the stomach! Rakshas had been allowed to escape and those sons of whores, Chanakya and Chandragupta, had been left free to roam all over Bharat brewing a revolution to uproot him—the indomitable Dhanananda.
The indomitable Dhanananda sat on his throne, shifting uncomfortably. The palace cook had been turning out terrible food, which gave him indigestion and flatulence. He would have to execute the miserable chef for serving crap to him—the mighty Dhanananda. Sitting inside the opulent hall were his council of ministers—a bunch of yesmen. Let me have men about me that are scared, thought Dhanananda. It kept revolutions and revolts to a bare minimum. He laughed when he thought back to the days of Shaktar, a prime minister who considered it his duty to correct his king every now and then. And then there was Rakshas—the lovable pimp. Ah! Even though he had run away to Takshila, one couldn't help missing the rogue. He had always ensured that Dhanananda's nights were filled with forbidden pleasures, a more exquisite one each night. Obtaining Suvasini had turned out to be worthless. She was one of those women who appeared desirable as long as they belonged to someone else. Strange how women instantly depreciate in value the moment one acquires them, thought Dhanananda. An impudent fly buzzed around his head and was swished away by one of the maidens waving the whisks behind him.
‘Is Magadha adequately defended?’ asked Dhanananda.
The venerable Katyayan arose. ‘My lord, the question is not whether we're defended or not. The more relevant question is whether we can make our enemies believe that Magadha is defended.’
Dhanananda sniggered. Why did he have to put up with these bloody intellectuals? ‘Katyayanji, I had put the question to Bhadrashala, our commander of the armed forces. I think this question is better answered by him.’ Bhadrashala looked around him warily as Katyayan took his seat. He hated these council meetings. He felt as though all the other council members present were scrutinising him. Katyayan, in particular, seemed to stare at him for long stretches, as though he were a biological specimen under observation.
‘My lord, our army's on full alert. However, it's my suggestion that the bulk of our men should remain here, within the fortified city of Pataliputra. If and when the enemy attacks, we should lure them into Pataliputra and then massacre them. This should be easy, given our overwhelming strength.’
‘And leave Indraprastha and other border towns undefended?’ asked Dhanananda incredulously. Bhadrashala gulped apprehensively. Why had he allowed himself to gamble and drink, thus giving that arsewipe Jeevasiddhi leverage to instruct him on what to say at these meetings?
‘There is merit in what Bhadrashalaji is recommending,’ said Katyayan, jumping in at the very moment when the sweat from Bhadrashala's forehead had started to slowly drip onto the floor beneath him. Katyayan knew that Bhadrashala's words were actually those of Chanakya. Bhadrashala looked on in amazement as Katyayan took over the argument. ‘Your Highness, the royal treasury is located inside the fortifications of Pataliputra. Of what use is it to defend Indraprastha and other border towns when the wealth of the kingdom is right here? Moreover, we're likely to be attacked from different directions. Paurus is likely to attack from the west, the king of Kalinga from the south and the king of Nepal from the north. On how many fronts should we divide the army? I think Bhadrashala has come up with a masterful strategy. Lull the enemy into complacency. Let him walk into Magadha. Pulverise him once he reaches Pataliputra!’
Dhanananda looked at Katyayan. He then let his gaze wander over to a relieved Bhadrashala. He then burst out laughing. ‘I tolerate fools gladly, but indulge intellectuals even more. Let it never be said that the mighty Dhanananda was too pompous to take the seasoned advice of his counsellors. Have it your way— we wait for the enemy right here!’
‘Ambhi knows that Paurus is going after Magadha,’ said Mehir, ‘and he sees it as an opportunity to attack Paurus's kingdom—Kaikey—while his attention is diverted. How can we prevent that?’
‘The answer lies in keeping Ambhi occupied. He should not have the time to look beyond his own borders,’ counselled Chanakya.
‘How?’
‘Stir up internal strife. Keep him busy controlling law and order.’
‘Easier said than done. His subjects are happy. What would make them revolt?’
‘Make them unhappy. Think, Mehir. Which is the most powerful community in Ambhi's kingdom of Gandhar?’
‘The Brahmins.’
‘And what's the source of their power?’
‘Divine sanction. It's written in the Vedas. They're needed to communicate with the gods on behalf of ordinary human beings.’
‘And does everyone accept the supremacy of the Brahmins?’
‘No. The Buddhists seem to think that Brahmin rituals and prayers are hogwash.’
‘So, what would happen if Ambhi was seen to be promoting and encouraging Buddhism?’
‘The Brahmins would be up in arms!’
‘Will you still have happy and content people in the kingdom, dear Mehir?’
Mehir smiled, defeated. ‘But how do I get Ambhi to encourage Buddhism in his kingdom?’
‘The answer lies in Takshila University. It's presently the fiefdom of Brahmins like me. If part of the university were to be converted into a Buddhist centre of higher learning, the Brahmin community would feel extremely threatened.’
‘But Ambhi would never spend his own money for a Buddhist cause,’ argued Mehir again.
‘I agree. The idea would need to be framed in a way that Ambhi gets the credit without having to spend either his time or his money in getting the project off the ground.’
‘But acharya, even if we find someone else to finance it, is it wise to use religious differe
nces?’
‘My dharma tells me that I need to unify Bharat under Chandragupta. If I need to use religious differences to create unity, so be it. The ends justify the means.’
‘But doesn't it go against your conscience?’ asked Mehir.
‘Mehir, a clear conscience is usually a sign of bad memory. In any case, in the world of politics you can ill afford luxuries such as a clear conscience!’
‘Acharya, you're a Brahmin yourself, yet you advise a strategy which may have dire consequences for the community?’
‘The only community that I belong to is the community of Bharat. My only loyalty is to the notion of a unified Bharat.’
‘So which side are you on?’
‘The winning side,’ replied Chanakya.
‘But why don't we get Chandragupta and Sasigupta to simply attack Ambhi?’ persisted the perplexed Mehir.
‘Our Chinese neighbours have an execution method that's used for perpetrators of the most heinous crimes. The method is called death by a thousand cuts. The condemned person is killed through very slow cuts on different parts of his body. It's a terrible death in which the convicted man is allowed to bleed to death. I plan to bleed Ambhi to death.’
‘Why?’ asked Mehir.
‘Because attacking him openly isn't an option. We must continue to officially maintain that we're friends even though we're not. He must feel comfortable enough to allow us to stay behind him.’
‘Why, O acharya?’
‘Because you can only stab someone in the back if you're standing behind him, Mehir. That's why!’
The monastery nestled within the forests outlying Takshila was quiet except for the chant, Buddham Saranam Gacchami, Dharmam Saranam Gacchami, Sangham Saranam Gacchami. The thatched huts were simple and sparse. The grounds surrounding the little dwellings were clean and tidy. The sangha—the monastery—was a perfect study in simplicity, cleanliness and quietude. The one hundred bhikshus—Buddhist monks—and bhikshunis—nuns—walked in single file, their shaved heads glistening with sweat in the hot sun, the bhikshus segregated from the bhikshunis. They wore the usual antaravasaka skirt, uttarasanga shirt; samghati cloak and kushalaka waistcloth, stitched together from rags and dyed maroon. Worn-out wooden soles strapped to their feet completed the ensemble. They each owned very little by way of possessions—a begging bowl, razor, toothpick, stitching needle and walking staff. As they walked, they chanted the mantra that meant, I take refuge in the Buddha, I take refuge in the Dharma, I take refuge in the Sangha.
Hinduism, with its increasing intolerance of the lower castes, undue privileges for the Brahmins and Kshatriyas, rigidly defined rituals, and emphasis on Sanskrit scriptures, was suffocating those who lay at the very bottom of the caste hierarchy. These were the very first converts to the great new philosophy of Gautam Buddha, a philosophy that preached universal equality.
The man watching them from the treetop wore a short-sleeved tunic, a topknot turban, chin band and earflaps. A sickle hung from the right side of the sash around his waist and an axe was tucked away into the left. A heavy cloak was draped over his left shoulder. He wore no jewellery except for his gold earrings and bajubandhs—armbands in copper and semiprecious stones. On his forehead was a large vermillion tilak— the proverbial third eye—his good luck charm. He was dressed for battle like a Kshatriya but was actually a Brahmin bandit. He had with him around fifty other dacoits who had surrounded the monastery and were closely observing it. The bandit chief was angry. These mischief-makers—Buddhists—adopted and converted Hindu untouchables, asked ordinary people to shun Brahmanic rituals to worship God, and even had the temerity to write their scriptures in Prakrit instead of sacred Sanskrit. How dare they convert Hindus to some new-fangled faith of hypocritical equality! They were now being extended rights and privileges in the sacred Takshila University too. They needed to be taught a lesson so that they would tuck their tails between their legs and run. Run like dogs! Of course, it helped that the fair-skinned Persian, Mehir, was willing to finance the bandits’ expedition and defray other costs.
He silently nodded to his deputy crouched on a branch beneath him. The skies turned dark and birds of prey began to circle the monastery as the carnage began.
Ambhi was incensed. How dare they! If anyone and everyone could take justice into their own hands, what would happen to the rule of law? These Brahmin bandits thought they could murder Buddhist monks and get away with it? They would now see the merciless side of their king!
Upon his orders, the thugs responsible for the monstrous slaughter were rounded up by his pradeshtra—magistrate for law and order. This was not about punishment but about retribution. A hundred innocent Buddhists had been killed in order to satisfy the bloodlust of butchers. How could he justify not punishing the perpetrators?
‘Line them up stark naked along the street of wisdom, and let everyone see them suffer the worst indignities that can possibly be inflicted on a human being. A red hot iron nail should be hammered into their tongues, their right hands should be dipped in hot frying oil, hot wax should be poured into their left eyes and the toes of their left feet should be hacked off. Thus mutilated, their faces should be blackened and they should be seated on donkeys and paraded through the streets in utter humiliation! They will live, unlike the Buddhist monks who died—but their lives shall be living hell!’ ordered a frustrated Ambhi. He did not know that he was sitting on a volcano.
‘Tell Chandragupta that I need him to pamper the Brahmins of his kingdom. He should be seen as the greatest saviour of the Brahmin community,’ instructed Chanakya as he dispatched one of Siddharthaka's pigeons to Chandragupta.
‘O wise master, isn't it only just that the Brahmin bandits who murdered innocents should be punished by Ambhi?’ asked Siddharthaka naively.
‘Every snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty, Siddharthaka. Which snowflake should you punish?’ asked Chanakya, his eyes narrowing. ‘This is the time for Chandragupta to be seen as a protector of the faith.’
The note that had been attached to the pure white pigeon that was already fluttering its wings impatiently, instructed Chandragupta on how he could acquire the halo of a benefactor, defender, rescuer and preserver of the Brahmin way of life. Chandragupta was to ask a thousand Brahmins to perform a great big yajna—a Vedic fire sacrifice in which rich oblations including clarified butter, milk, grains, honey and soma would be poured into a massive sacred fire. The king was to then hold a great Brahmanic council to discuss the scriptures. Without exception, every participant was to win an entry prize. This was to be followed by a feast for a thousand Brahmins. The programme was to end with each Brahmin receiving further gifts—gold coins, clothes, grain, and a cow.
‘Instead of performing rituals, shouldn't Chandragupta attack Ambhi and finish him off once and for all?’ asked Siddarthaka.
‘No. I shall let Sasigupta do that instead,’ replied Chanakya.
‘But acharya, isn't it possible that Sasigupta may wish to take over Gandhar? After all, he's just as powerful as Chandragupta. Chandragupta is now monarch of Simphapura and also controls Mallavrajya through Sinharan, Kshudraka, Saindhava, Alor, Brahmasthala, Patala and Maha Urdha—but Sasigupta now controls Ashvakans and Sindh—two extremely large and strategically important kingdoms,’ said Siddharthaka.
‘He will definitely try to take over Gandhar. And that's what I want him to do. While he's doing that, I want Chandragupta to be busy praying to Brahmins and their gods!’ said Chanakya.
‘Why?’ asked the bewildered Siddharthaka.
‘The early bird catches the worm but it's the second mouse that gets the cheese,’ said Chanakya cryptically.
‘Did you know that Ambhi maimed and killed a thousand Brahmins in Gandhar?’ asked the local barber. His patron—the goldsmith—looked at him. The barber was busy trimming the goldsmith's moustache. He waited patiently till the trimming was done and then spoke up.
‘I heard not only that, I also heard that Sasigupta, the great king o
f Ashvakans and Sindh, will attack Gandhar to avenge the honour of the Brahmins,’ said the goldsmith.
‘Hah!’ blurted the customer-in-waiting. Neither the barber nor the goldsmith knew him. He seemed to be a stranger in these parts.
‘Who are you and what do you wish to contribute to this private conversation, dear sir?’ asked the barber. The stranger let out a little burp, an acknowledgement of the sweet and sour apple he had just consumed.
‘I am Tunnavaya, a tailor from Sindh, here to sell my wares. I'm familiar with the one you call the great Sasigupta, but do you know that Sasigupta eats beef?’
‘He eats meat of the sacred cow?’ asked the goldsmith, scandalised. ‘How can such a man be a benefactor of Brahmins?’
‘Ambhi has donated thousands of gold coins to the Buddhists to set up a university adjacent to Takshila. Did he ever think that he should spend some of his treasury on upgrading the existing Brahmin schools?’ asked the local schoolteacher, sipping lassi as he talked to his friend, an ayurvedic doctor.
His greying friend, the physician, took a swig of his own lassi before he spoke. ‘I heard not only that, I also heard that Sasigupta, the Ashvakans chief, is planning to overrun Gandhar and restore Brahmin pride,’ said the doctor.
‘Hah!’ blurted the customer seated at the table next to them. Neither the schoolteacher nor the doctor knew him. He seemed to be a stranger in these parts.
‘Who are you? Do you have something to say, my friend?’ asked the schoolteacher. The stranger let out another little burp, an acknowledgement of the spiced rice platter that had just been consumed.
‘I'm Charana, a wandering minstrel from Sindh, here to entertain. I am familiar with the one you call the great Sasigupta, but do you know that Sasigupta's wife is a Shudra?’
‘He cohabits with a lower-caste woman?’ asked the doctor in a shocked whisper. ‘How can such a man be the protector of Brahmins?’
‘Ambhi first sold himself to the Macedonians and now to the Buddhists! Does the man have no shame?’ asked the astrologer indignantly while reading the palm of his client, an accountant.
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