Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  J.E.S. August 2010

  Ashoka: The Wild Prince

  * * *

  Book I

  1

  THE WILD PRINCE

  he young horseman raced furiously down the road, leading from the army camp of the Mauryas to the royal capital Pataliputra, shimmering from afar in the dazzling light of the Indian sun. All scurried aside humbly, until the rider’s wide fluttering cloak vanished in the cloud of dust that whirled behind him in the burning air. The face of the audacious young rider was of a darkgolden bronze, his sharp features powerful and energetic. His brilliant black eyes flashed like lightening below the shiny white turban of Chinese silk, greeting the fortified city whose five-hundred towers crowned the walls of sturdy palisades. The stallion’s hooves clattered over the bridge to the South Gate. The guards snapped into submissive attention for the ‘Wild Prince’. Without glancing aside, he rode up the broad King’s Road. Yonder rose up from behind the dark trees in the park the bright palace of the Mauryas; not until crossing the bridge he slackened his pace, galloping through the gate into the vast gardens, before finally reining in. With one vault he stood besides his sweaty steed, flocky with foam. Lovingly, he patted the horse’s neck, before tossing the reins to a hastily approaching slave. Jubilant laughter of girls and young men rose from the boating lake in the middle of the wide lawn, bordering a lush and exotic park. He walked up briskly, riding-strap still in hand, till he reached the bank where clear water flowed from the mouth of a huge stone dragon’s head. Stunned, he halted, his keen eyes catching the sumptuously decorated boat with its deckhouse of finely carved teak. The oarsmen rested on command. Nubile young maidens in wispy Kashi muslin, their glossy black hairs adorned with colourful flowers, skipped lightly over the gangways and through the roomy deckhouse, chattering, laughing. What was it that brought forth such youthful excitement?

  At the rear of the boat, towering above all, stood Prince Sumana, his eldest brother. The young beauties squabbled cheerfully as to who would be seated beside him as ‘Rani’, or queen. Sumana, ever susceptible to the charms of young female beauty, watched amused, curious to know who would win the game. The young horseman, too, looked interestedly at the enchanting scene, though his face betrayed neither amusement nor annoyance. His eyes twinkled when he noticed Aradi among the bevy of beauties, more excited than the others, her voice of a higher pitch, her bearing more confident … Suddenly, one of the partygoers sees him.

  ‘Prince Ashoka!’… Startled and unpleasantly surprised eyes turn towards the bank, peeking frightened at the silent young man. Aradi’s upper lip curled haughtily.

  ‘Why don’t you ride over here?’ Young Kunti called out with a mocking smile in her dark eyes. ‘Yes, come! Come here! Tell us who the Crown Prince’s queen should be!’ The others now, too, scoffed and joined in the fun: ‘Yes, come! Ride over!’ It was impishness since ‘the heir-apparent poser’ had begun to surface in the capital.

  Ashoka took a leap, and to the great consternation of the merrymakers, swam directly towards the boat, gripped one of the heavy oars and with his muscular arms hoisted himself onto the vessel while a slave supported the oar. Sumana, irked by his brother’s untoward presence, ordered Vatsa, the boat’s helmsman, to punish the oarsman. A harsh blow with a bamboo stick landed ruthlessly on the black back. Ashoka calmly grabbed Vatsa by the neck and, with one quick movement of his arm, tossed him overboard; and there he stood, wet and dripping, in the midst of the horrified group that seemed to scatter like a haze before a gust of wind.

  ‘So, beautiful maidens, who shall be Rani?… May I suggest the beautiful Aradi!’ He chased the girl, who ran away frightened, hiding first behind one, then another of her companions. Just as she was about to slip away towards an enraged Sumana, the Wild Prince wrapped her in his arms and amidst much indignation swept her up the steps to Sumana’s elevated seat.

  ‘You, my Rani, my lovely Aradi.’

  ‘Let go, let go!’ Prince Sumana, help! Oh, Usha, Goddess of Dawn, save my precious dress! How wet and soiled. And my flowers…’ she entreats, half-weeping. Ashoka smiled, the struggling girl clasped easily in his arms.

  ‘Let me go! I do not wish to be your Rani!’ Aradi shrieks angrily at him.

  ‘Why not? I am the strongest, and the strongest shall be the king and choose his queen.’

  ‘I do not wish it because you are ugly!’ she hisses now ‘The Crown Prince is far more handsome than you.’ In that utterance she had wielded her sharpest weapon against the impetuous young man; yet Ashoka did not show how much it wounded him. His wild soul ached with tender feelings for this charming daughter of a highly placed minister. But he knew her feelings tended towards Sumana, or at least she was not insusceptible to his amorous glances. Ashoka seated himself on the bench while Sumana, dressed in a beautiful silken cloak embellished with flowers of gold and gems, fled away from the still dripping figure who had so unceremoniously broken up his charming play.

  ‘Aradi is my queen!’ cried Ashoka, triumphantly.

  ‘Never!’

  ‘But I love you, my Aradi,’ his voice, though, weakens more than he wished.

  ‘But I do not love you!’

  ‘Do you love Prince Sumana, Aradi?’

  ‘Yes, the Crown Prince,’ she snaps at him offensively.

  ‘Because he will be the Crown Prince?’

  ‘Because he is beautiful!’

  ‘What does my lovely nymph call beautiful?’ mocked Ashoka, his voice now laced with regret.

  ‘Whatever is the opposite of the Wild Prince!’

  ‘Do you refer to the inner or outer person?’

  ‘Both!’

  ‘Your insults are stinging, beautiful Aradi.’

  ‘Much less than your oafishness! Who else but you would dare soil my precious dress and expose me to the ridicule of my friends and the Crown Prince! I detest you!’

  ‘Forgive me, Princess.’

  ‘I will not!’

  ‘Go then to Sumana. Who knows…’ Then he let her go.

  In a few short leaps Ashoka reached the gangway, jumped straight into the water and with swift and powerful strokes swam around the boat towards the bank to disappear into the park.

  He noticed that behind him the merriment had stopped; silence followed his foolish deed. However, when he once again glanced back at the lake, he saw how Aradi had taken place next to Sumana on the elevated seat, just as Maharajah Bindusara used to do at times with one of his Ranis. Play! He realised how his impetuous act had only weakened his chances of gaining Aradi’s love; his face tightened.

  ‘Will you tell me, my Guru, about the secret doctrine of the Veda? You have long taught me the sacred hymns of the Rig Veda1, the dharma sutras and shastras2, the grihia sutras3 for domestic life and the Arthashastra for statecraft. I know now of the gods and the offerings they demand, the tasks I must perform for my bodily and spiritual welfare, and also the duties of a king. My pupilage will soon end. My wish now is to learn the deepest secret of the doctrine.’

  ‘You yourself, O Prince, have a great respect for Shiva.’

  ‘Certainly, my Guru. Shiva, the Lord of Knowledge, who imparted wisdom to the rishis, and music and art. He is the Lord of the Universe who, seated in his glistening Himalayan palace, governs earth and heavens by his powerful manas4; he is the Lord of Death, the destroying power of the All, and Tamagnah, destroyer of the darkness of ignorance, the Lord of the setting sun and the steer towards death and killing. This is what I realise daily from all that you taught me, it shines upon me, clear and lucid as a moonlit night. Shiva-Rudra, Shiva, the great Guru, the creator and destroyer. Neither Agni, nor Brahma, nor Varuna speak to me through their actions, but Shiva does! Will you initiate me in the secret end doctrine5 of the Brahmins, my Guru? Or, was it said of my grandfather, Chandragupta, that he was a Shudra? Then I would be as well.’

  ‘Shudra is a stinging term of abuse coined by your grandfather’s enemies, or … other interested factions. As long as your grandfather was
convinced that he was inferior to them, they, the vanquished, were inclined to acknowledge him as king. Furthermore, the Brahmins from Magadha and Madhyadesa call anyone not twice-born of the three varnas, a Shudra. Perhaps, the denigration began with suta, that is: offspring, the seed of a Kshatriya man and a Brahmin woman. In their envy they probably sought the most venomous snakebite…’

  ‘So teach me then, my Guru, on the secret of the Veda.’

  Kullika slowly stroked his hands over his eyes and gazed along the wide road leading southwards from Pataliputra towards Gaya. The rainy season had passed; Asvina, the first month of autumn, was over and the wintry sun of Karttika had dissolved all the mist.

  ‘Just like a fully burgeoning lotus pond, good fortune covers the earth. Human laughter and the happy calls of the animals clamour through fields and forests. All that is alive shakes off rain and dust. The palm trees shiver with renewed energy, the acacia glows in golden splendour, the sala spreads its blossoms as if it were a young maiden. What is the force that drives all of this to rise out of nothingness, O Prince. What is this power?’

  ‘Life, my Guru.’

  ‘And life?’

  ‘That is … the consciousness … no, more.’

  ‘That is Brahman; that is you, that is me, O Prince.’

  Ashoka pondered for a long time.

  ‘Brahman is life … you are life … I am life …’

  ‘No, Brahman is the spiritual power that unfolds itself in all that lives; the power which creates worlds and preserves and absorbs them again to unfold itself ever anew before our senses. Atman is the delicate remainder, when all that is external falls away; it is our true inner being, our own self, our soul6. And the deep knowing, the teaching of the secret doctrine is, that Brahman and Atman are one, one indivisible unity. The forms, plants, animals, people, gods: all are of maya, illusion, deception, the veiling of the truth. The essential, the real is Brahman, is Atman, the Vast, the All-God and All-Spirit. He who seeks to know Brahman can only experience it in his own self, his atman. ‘Brahman’ … ‘Atman’ … These are the sacred syllables … Tat Tvam Asi, That Thou art … Aham brahma asmi, I am Brahman … Brahman atman aikyam, Brahman and Atman are one … It is the unity, the oneness of things, O Prince.

  It is called Indra, Varuna and Mitra,

  Agni, the beautifully winged bird of heaven;

  Many names the Rishis gave for what is only one,

  It is called Agni, Yama, Matarisvan,

  So sings Dirghathama at the closing of his ‘Oneness hymn.’7

  ‘And Shiva…?’ hesitated Ashoka.

  ‘Atman.’

  ‘And a Brahmin… and a Kshatriya …?’

  ‘Atman.’

  ‘And a Vaishya… and a Shudra… ?’

  ‘Atman.’

  ‘And snakes… sacrificial animals?’

  ‘All are of Atman, unfolding itself in all living forms of nature, which we can only find, feel and know in the depth of our own self.’

  ‘My Guru, what then separates you and me from the most contemptible Shudra … or, worse yet, the so-called untouchable Chandala?’

  ‘It is maya!’

  ‘Maya? so in essence we are all one!’

  ‘One in Atman.’

  ‘How can one liberate the world and myself then from this vast illusion?’

  ‘You yourself through study, awareness, inner growth. The world should not be freed from maya; each one must liberate himself, or the liberation is worthless, O Prince … Human power is based on maya. The human being founds his existence on selfishness, thus on maya.’

  Kullika looked at him but Ashoka’s face did not reveal the depth to which he was stirred by his guru’s words. Finally, he turned to Kullika:

  ‘It is as if you suddenly set ablaze a dark world with Surya’s bright light, my Guru. His light is blinding.’

  ‘He who may one day ascend Magadha’s ivory throne and hold the lives of millions in his hands, has to know this’.

  ‘How can anyone who so believes, how do I then, ever dare to judge or kill?’ A glimmer of happiness shone in Kullika’s eyes.

  ‘It is Shiva-Brahman who will show you the way, O Prince; your own atman. He himself will judge if the great Guru, Shiva, does elevate you to the throne.’

  Ashoka considered at length.

  ‘Who shall succeed Bindusara as the Maharajah, Sumana or I?’ he asked after a silence which did not disturb Kullika.

  ‘Maharajah Bindusara will decide that for himself.’

  ‘My highly respected father, the Emperor, is wise and strong. May Yama, the Lord of Death, spare him for many years yet for India8.’

  ‘Surya be praised, who shot this beam of light into your heart, your atman, O Prince.’

  Ashoka climbed the Barren Mountain by the side of the wide road. His clear gaze swept, like Surya’s light, from his dark eyes over the widespread landscape at his feet, over the rivers Sona and Ganga, over Pataliputra9 yonder, from where Bindusara governed. It wandered over the hazy land, where far away the Himalaya, the abode of Shiva, bordered and even much farther away Taxila, Sindh and Ujjain …

  Kullika halted for a short moment. Ugly, unsightly? Strength and life emanated from every muscle, while sparkling eyes betrayed a will, too powerful perhaps for the young unbridled spirit. What was it that possessed this fresh life? Was it vanity and selfishness that sought to seize the crown: Bindusara’s fear? Or, was it dissatisfaction with all that heaved around him under his clear gaze? He always questioned; expressed little of what stirred him. He penetrated with a clear mind the wisdom of the Veda; whether he accepted or saw contradictions, however, was something even his Guru did not know. The Maharajah had watched with fear in his heart what moved and drove the Wild Prince, as he looked at his son’s fiery training in weaponry, or when he made presumptuous comments about governance and laws.

  Kullika climbed slowly up towards his pupil. Ashoka was deeply lost in his wild, stormy thoughts. Toiling together they reached the top.

  ‘Let us turn back, O Prince, Rudra’s10 dark flock of Maruts11 approach Magadha.’ Ashoka deeply breathed in the moist fragrant forest air. Suddenly he turned to Kullika and said: ‘Will Sumana ever be able to conquer that selfishness, or even contain it, my Guru?’

  ‘Minister Sadhava says that Sumana’s sincere Brahmanical faith will help him overcome all his difficulties.’

  ‘And what do you say, my Guru?’

  ‘Judgement ill-befits me as I would be partial.’

  ‘You avoid … my Kullika. Does Magadha—indeed, our whole beautiful India—need powerful kings like Chandragupta and Bindusara?’

  ‘Yes, O Prince.’

  ‘Will Sumana be a powerful king and rule himself, or will his ministers rule?’

  ‘I may not judge this.’

  ‘Will I, Ashoka, supposed wild Prince, be capable of ruling India?’

  ‘I know you mostly through my feelings, O Prince, and they say: ‘Yes’. The rain is nearing, do you not hear it in the distance? It approaches with a heavy rumbling from the ocean. Shiva hurls his lightning already from afar. They thunder like hosts of armies upon us.’

  ‘Every flash of lightning is a lucky one, conveyed by Brahman, atman … thus … which to Atman will return, my Guru.’

  ‘There is danger upon this high ground, O Prince. He who challenges Rudra Shiva will be struck by his fiery arrows.’

  ‘Shiva does not kill his most devoted friend … his own self … Atman! Kill me, Shiva, if you deem me unworthy to be Maharajah!’

  Prince Ashoka remained standing, his face was calm, as if unmoved by anything.

  With exasperating slowness Rudra propelled a heavy gray cloud up from the ocean over the land of Magadha. Kullika shivered at the sight; the Prince stood unyielding. Vayu, Lord of the Winds, suddenly bent the palm leaves to the ground, blustered through the glossy branches of a pair of jack-fruit trees and beat his drum through the bamboo woods, shaking the stately banyan trees by their many aerial roots. The thunder
storm slid over their heads like a dark, lead-blue drape. The downpour approached with a clatter. The Guru fell to the earth and begged Indra and Shiva’s protection for him and the Prince; yet Ashoka remained standing atop the Barren Mountain, motionless. It appeared as though his eye pierced through the heavy sheets of rain to peer over the great kingdom of Maharajah Bindusara. Neither the harsh lightning flashes nor the clashing thunder claps were able to affect even one fibre of his hard facial muscles. Like Shiva meeting Shiva … amidst the bursting elements … aiming bolts of lightning, lashing great trees, scattering animals and boulders alike with his fury … amidst the deafening battering, weeping, rattling … while the clouds showered upon him the nectar of heaven12.

  Kullika rose up. Admiration—naye, Awe—burgeoned like the jungle during rains, when he saw Ashoka still standing there, motionless, in the same position, his mind’s eye penetrating through the wall of rain and lightning, as if uniting India in all her infinite vastness by his gaze.

  He, who, like a good rider does his steed,

  Leads the people as if with reins,

  Steadfast of heart, yet quickest of the quick.13

  The storm abated, the rains lightened to a drizzle.

  ‘Hail Shiva!’

  Kullika bowed deeply to the Prince. They then descended to the Gaya road.