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JIVAKA’S SACRIFICE
urya sends its warming rays upon your drenched cloak, O Prince.’
‘On the farm over there dwells a Vaishya, my Kullika, who will have a sacrifice tonight. The sacrificial altars of Shiva, Brahma and Varuna1 are still dripping from the rain; come, let us ask for fresh milk and dry clothing. Those who bring offerings to the gods will surely be hospitable.’
Inside Kullika’s mind flashed a strange thought: this youth … the incarnation, the embodiment … of Shiva? Appeared not Krishna once as a charioteer, Indra as warrior? Shiva, who through his manas, his yoga, governs and guides nature … ‘Shiva does not kill his own self …’ Why no fear, where all beings feared … such deep serenity, where all that lived trembled? Those eyes … clear and blazing like Surya’s light! They looked as if they pierced through the All.
The Guru—full of wondrous, miraculous Vedic images—could not but look at the Prince with reverent awe, he who had calmly and confidently strode into the Vaishya house.
Kullika greeted the farmer.
‘Come into Jivaka’s home, noble Sirs. Welcoming guests is the ever fruit-bearing offering to the creator, Prajapati.’
‘Bless you, my Jivaka. May many sons be born to you!’
‘Thank you, Lord. For many years I have faithfully performed the forty rites that the sage Gautama requires of the Vaishya. My wedding to Rohini was performed by the Brahmin Narada. My house is built on black soil and hymns were offered to Vatospati. Day after day I perform the required offerings. Alas, the garbhalambhana-mantras2 did not ensure Rohini’s pregnancy; no son was born to me. Tonight, I will bring a great sacrifice: a soma-offering, a pure white cow and a black ram for Shiva.’
‘And do you think you will beget a son by this sacrifice?’
‘Narada says: ‘The Brahmin who has the knowledge, in his hands will rest the power of the gods’ … if I will bring the sacrifice and the fee into line with the significance of the occasion.’
‘And what is the fee?’ asked Ashoka.
‘I have promised Narada as much as he deems necessary.’
‘That is more resolute than wise’.
‘I must have sons, at least one son, Lord. What is a Vaishya without sons? Who shall propitiate with offerings when Yama calls me and I have gone to the World of the Forefathers?’
‘But the gods depend on the offering, not on the fee.’
‘Do you know that for certain, Lord?’
‘If the mantras are chanted properly, the samhitas recited with care, the obligatory offerings brought, the altars constructed according to the rules, the gods will have to honour your wish.’
‘But if the priests do not receive the suitable fee, they will not perform the sacrifice in the right manner.’
‘You could force them!’ said Kullika.
Jivaka considered at length. Ashoka waited in suspense for the farmer’s decision.
‘I shall speak with Narada! And I invite the gracious lords to attend the offering.’ Ashoka nodded.
‘Our clothes are soaked, Jivaka. Can you help us with better ones?’
‘Not with better ones, Lord. Your clothing is of very fine fabric. But with dry ones, yes.’
He hurried inside and returned shortly with two cloths.
‘The cloth is fine and soft, Jivaka.’
‘Rohini wove it herself, Lord, made one cloth for a Brahmin and the other for me.’
‘She could weave a cloth for the Emperor, Jivaka.’
‘The gods, Lord, if they would but give her a son!’
Ashoka chose the cloth meant for the Vaishya and felt very comfortable. He walked across the land to see how Sanaya, the adhvaryu, was preparing the sacrificial altar. The adhvaryu did not even look up at the man in the Vaishya-cloth. He was painstakingly constructing a square, dedicated to Shiva; he calculated, measured, measured again the length and height of the lines, and intoned verses appropriate to each calculation and measurement. Narada, the Brahman, the chief priest, dutifully checked everything a second time. Jivaka approached him humbly.
‘What is your fee, Lord?’
‘Half of all your cows and a handful of gold.’
Jivaka was shaken. ‘How can I then pay my dues on the land to the Maharajah, Lord?’
‘I have thought very seriously about how to ensure the favour of the gods through this sacrifice, my Jivaka. I have chosen Sudhana as the hotar, who is known far and wide for his knowledge of the Rig Veda; he recites the verses without the slightest error and gives them always the right intonation. None of the gods can resist this. Asita shall chant the Vedic Samans, there is no better singer in all of Jambudvipa3. My adhvaryu, Sanaya, has even studied in Taxila, to learn how each angle, each circle, each square and the manifold of these must be correctly constructed. And why then did you come to me, entrust me with complete control? Surely, not because I belong to the ignorant Brahmins! The fee must be as I have indicated. Otherwise it would be impossible for me to make these sacrifices and dedicate the prayers. The gods will consider themselves absolved of their obligations to me if you do not pay the fee.’
‘May I pay the gold, Lord?’ asked Ashoka, who had by now come nearer.
‘Who are you? You are a Vaishya, I see, if your garment does not deceive me. Who is your father, who is your mother?’
‘Thousands of Brahmins have already received devout endowments from my Father’s hand. My Mother is also an Aryan. So, please do not be perturbed, Brahmin.’
‘I am delighted, my young one, that you have such a devout father, and Jivaka such rich friends. But I am sorry to have to tell you: I have set the fee too low. You know, of course, that it must be in conformity with one’s possessions. The gods will not accept the sacrifice if you are able to pay more and do not. You must pay me two handfuls of gold, my Jivaka. For less, I cannot be certain of my power over the gods.’
Jivaka bowed humbly. Ashoka turned away from the two men, and walked up the road that led to Gaya. A strange bewailing music could be heard. He listened, a ravanastha4 … A soft tender melody sang through the trees: wonderful, captivating music.
‘What is that?’ he asked a Brahmin passing by, who stared haughtily ahead, considering the question unworthy of a reply.
‘It is unsuitable music,’ answered a Vaishya.
‘What do you think unsuitable?’
‘The melody being played is a winter song, as befits Vasanth, and it is now Hemant. Who dares play Hindola and Sriraga at the same time!5 Moreover, Jivaka is making his momentous sacrifice for a son, which the gods have withheld so far. No pious Vaishya would harm such a serious and costly sacrifice. Perhaps, Sasarman is intentionally playing his disturbing melodies in wild spring rhythms. They say he and Rohini desired each other, but her father wanted Jivaka to be her husband, because Sasarman squanders his time with the ravanastha. His fields produce not the half of others’, his cows and goats are thin as the trees high in the mountains, but Jivaka is diligent, thrifty and rich.’
‘But,’ ventured Ashoka, ‘Jivaka squanders his riches on expensive offerings.’ ‘The result is that both grow poor.’
The Vaishya gazed at the Prince, alarmed. ‘Do penance for those angry words: Rudra, Varuna and Vayu will otherwise withhold you their blessings, which a Vaishya needs! That is why he rewards the holy Brahmins with joy. Sasarman recklessly spurns the precious gifts of Sita.6
Again, Ashoka listened to Sasarman’s playing.
The farmer continued: ‘Such music cannot please the gods, he plays for Rohini, I do not doubt it, and therefore he will suffer the torments of hell. A Vaishya playing love songs for the wife of another is already committing adultery.’
‘Even if they stole that woman from him?’
‘Rohini’s father and the Brahmins consecrated Jivaka’s marriage and so it is sacred.’
‘Even if Jivaka cannot beget sons?’
‘Certainly, Jivaka can have sons begotten for him.’
‘And that is not adultery?�
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‘No, that is how the gods have decreed. So wills Manu.7
Ashoka walked in the direction of Sasarman’s farm.
‘You play sinful music, Sasarman.’
Startled, the Vaishya looked up. Then he laughed.
‘I know no music that is sinful, Vaishya. It comes from deep within my soul, from my atman, and that is, according to the Upanishads8 of the great Atman. What is of atman is of Brahman.’
‘Let us then hear a melody of Bhairavi, the god of tonality, those prescribed for the evening.’
Again, Sasarman laughed, this time loudly. ‘What the Brahmin priests prescribe does not affect me.’
‘‘You offend again. Which Vaishya dares to speak this way about the holy Brahmins?’
‘So holy, that they live richly of the painfully gathered harvests that the devout Vaishyas pay for with their blood.’
‘Why do you not work?’
Ashoka’s clear gaze forestalled a rude response.
‘Should I work hard to fatten the Brahmins? Hahaha! They, who stole my bride! Jivaka was rich … there was more to gain … so he had to be Rohini’s husband. The Brahmins ordered it. Upon their orders Rohini was fiercely guarded by her father, brother, and neighbours. Have you never noticed that rich Vaishyas are the Brahmins’ favourites? Like the leaf lice are of white ants? Had I been a Kshatriya and known how to handle weapons, I would have captured her and killed all who stood in my way.’
‘For the King, too, you should work.’
‘He receives what is due from me.’
‘But it is too little.’
‘My fields do not yield more,’ laughed Sasarman.
‘Must you disturb Rohini’s sacrifice?’
‘Jivaka’s sacrifice! The feast of the Brahmins! Jivaka is close to ruin from all those sacrifices; he thinks that this way he will buy a son from the Brahmins. When he is poor, there will no longer be any feasts! And Rohini’s and Jivaka’s fate will not bother them!’
‘Do you not trifle with your own fate, Sasarman?’
‘May I be reborn as a tiger; I shall eat none other than Brahmins. Or, as a cobra; I shall spit poison into their feet. Or, as a mosquito; I shall prick the fever into their blood. Or, …’
‘Rohini wishes for a son.’
‘Jivaka wishes for a son! And the Brahmins wish their bellies full of soma and meat. That is the ansha9 of their song of greed.’
Sasarman picked up his fiddle once again.
Ashoka listened in consternation. How could a Vaishya be so careless! Hell … endless rebirths into the lowest forms … Or, was that also maya? ‘Thou art that’ Was not this Vaishya, too, spirit of the All-spirit, just as the most holy Brahmin? He then whispered: ‘You are incautious, Vaishya!’
‘Brahmins are merciless. Rohini was mine and they robbed me of her, stolen for their bellies, for their gold pouch, their cattle stall.’
Ashoka returned to Jivaka. Just then Narada’s brahmacharins came to lead away the cattle, the payment for the offering, before the rituals took place. Narada joined Jivaka in order to select the cows himself. Jivaka stared with glassy eyes at his beloved animals, feeling regret—then later, guilty—and murmured a prayer of atonement. He must have at least one son, even if it cost him his entire property. He then retrieved the gold from their secret hiding place and handed it to the priest.
‘It is poorly measured, Jivaka.’
‘Rohini measured it herself, Lord.’
‘Then you go and measure it with your hands.’
‘Two handfuls, Lord!’
‘You know I meant your hands.’
‘Lord, there is hardly any left.’
‘Your rich relative wishes to lend you some.’
Jivaka waited a moment. Dare he ask? But the sacrifice had to succeed! Hesitantly, his request came out:
‘Lord, swear first the tanunaptram!’10
Narada drew himself up, and uttered with indignation: ‘Is the Vaishya more devoted to his belongings than to his karma? Do you distrust your priests?’
‘I want a son, Lord!’ said Jivaka, trembling.
With head bowed, he went back and returned with the required amount of gold.
Then Narada solemnly recited the oath, invoking Agni.
The moon rose in serene splendour over the woods around Rajagriha and cast its silvery white light over the sacrificial site, hushed by a faint mist which draped the forest after the rainfall. Jivaka led Rohini into the circle of friends and family, who had come not only to make the offering more pleasing to the gods, but also to enjoy the left overs. That Rohini had proved infertile, unworthy of even a daughter, was an unbearable misfortune. Jivaka wanted a son! Would she have to accept a second wife beside or even above her? Or, if even such offering will yield no result, would he then compel her to beget another man’s son? Her offerings to the gods were always twice the size of those made by others of their varna. Moreover, how many special sacrifices had she not brought to the god of fertility? She never forgot Sita in her prayers. She adhered to the forty rites with great care, kept her house clean; no metal vessels that were not polished were ever used. After each such ceremony, she herself broke the earthenware pots and jars that were used for milk, ghee, and butter. Whenever she could, she offered her guests—Brahmins and other Aryans—everything their hearts desired. No one was as hospitable as Rohini to those who came to her door. Yet, the blessing she has so longed for eluded her. Month after month, year after year, brought only disappointment. How had she sinned?
The hotar loudly invoked Varuna, Indra, Shiva, Agni, and other gods of the three worlds—heaven, ether, and earth—to Jivaka’s offering feast, and invited them to take their places on the holy kusha-grass, gathered with love, and carefully spread around the place of sacrifice. A shiver ran through the Vaishyas; the gods were now in their immediate presence. Yet, the Brahmins remained unmoved, for they related to them in their daily lives. Invisible, they came and seated themselves, the Devas11 who had descended from their celestial dwellings to enjoy Jivaka’s gifts and Rohini’s purity. How could they ignore Narada’s powerful rituals? He would force them with his mighty hand, supported by his karma. He would quench their hunger and thirst with soma and meat, but afterwards he would demand of them the boon sought by the sacrificer. Ashoka left the gathering. Kullika tried to stop him, saying that Narada would first speak to Rohini. The Prince acknowledged him with a wave of his hand and strolled to the place where Rohini would confess.
Narada approached Rohini and led her some distance from the sacrificial site.
‘Will you confess truthfully, Rohini, and conceal nothing from the one who leads Jivaka’s great offering?’
‘The whole truth, Lord, and I shall conceal nothing from you.’
‘Well then, do you attend the sacrifice with a pure and innocent heart?’
‘Surely, Lord.’
‘You are aware of no sins?’
‘No, Lord.’
‘Do you do everything needed for an auspicious conception: offerings, prayers, alms, hospitality for the Aryans?’
‘Of course, Lord, and all the forty rites.’
‘Who do you think bears the blame for your deficient marriage, you or Jivaka?’
‘I do not know.’
‘I know Sasarman wished you for his wife. Did you wish for him as well?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Do you now keep him away from your husband’s house? If a woman who has a husband still sees another man, she commits an offence against Varuna.’
‘He remains outside Jivaka’s house, Lord.’
‘And outside your heart?’
‘Lord, Sasarman’s soul sings through the ravanastha. I cannot shut my ears. His songs waft through the woods. I cannot put my mind to sleep.’
‘You belong to only one man: Jivaka?’
‘Yes, Lord. I would not wish to commit any mortal sin.’
‘Does your husband do everything to acquire a son? Does he seek no other women? Does he dona
te the fee befitting the importance of the offering?’
‘Lord, I do not know what my husband does when I am not with him, nor do I know about his wealth. But I believe that he is an upright man and husband.’
‘If the sacrifice should not be fruitful now, would he then wish to bring a greater offering?’
‘I do not know, Lord.’
‘Try to find out and let me know.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘Did you commit sins in previous lives for which you must now do penance, sins which have caused the gods to withhold sons from you now?’
‘Lord, how would I know? New life erases the memory of the past ones, does it not?’
‘Have you ever sought a sage for an explanation as to why no sons have been born to you?’
Rohini sobbed.
‘Lord, I have neglected nothing, night and day I have prayed, performed the forty rites of the Vaishya faithfully. And now Jivaka is making a costly sacrifice … for a son.’
‘Would you be honestly persuaded that if the offering should not bear fruit, it is your sins in a previous life, my Rohini, which you are atoning for?’
‘Lord, you are a wise Brahmin, I must believe you when you say so. I myself am not aware of any sins.’
Suddenly, a profoundly tender song floated through the night. It was as if the nymphs of Bhairavi floated over the Vaishya’s fields and silently danced in Chandra’s beams. The putras and their bharyas12, hearing the heavenly ragas, nestled down in the young grasses and listened to Sasarmans’s love song.
‘Shut your ears, Rohini, if you do not wish to nullify the sacrifice. Take your place again and go on dutifully with the offering.’ Narada then thrust his fist towards Sasarman: ‘Cursed are you, disrupter of the everlasting sacred sacrifice. May Yama trap your false neck as if you were a beast to be sacrificed.’ Rohini shrank back.
The Brahmins from the surrounding areas happily joined Jivaka’s ceremony. They took their place in the front because only they had the right to consume the choicest left overs of the offering. They talked and laughed over the jests that were made, becoming increasingly incensed at the fiddler who wanted to disrupt the sacrifice. With loud voices they recited the terrible punishment awaiting him in hell and in other births to come.
Ashoka the Great Page 3