‘Open the gate!’ The servants, aghast and shocked, flew to the heavy beamed gate and opened it wide.
‘Come, Sasarman!’
Sasarman seemed to awaken from a dream and stumbled, dumbfounded, towards the Prince and then, suddenly recognising the Vaishya who had freed him, fell reverently to the ground.
‘Stand up, Sasarman. Prince Ashoka has kept his promise. Return as quickly as you can to your homestead and wait for me. I will need you soon.’
Sasarman, looking as if a heavy burden had been lifted from him, walked quickly towards the road in the direction of Gaya.
A wild rumour quickly spread through Pataliputra, although few had really seen what happened: Prince Ashoka had killed the elephant with a lightning bolt from his eye. Many spectators had seen the fiery rays that flashed towards the elephant. With a wave of his arm, he had opened the heavy gate and let out the Vaishya who had been miraculously saved. Then, the Prince had suddenly caused the Vaishya to disappear, and no one knew where he had gone.
This latest legend about the Wild Prince soon also reached the Brahmin ministers Udra and Arana, who, because of their strong sense of varna, worked for Prince Sumana. They understood that the Crown Prince’s opportunities would be advanced by this incident. Thus Arana, with a serious face, brought up the subject immediately in the Ministers’ Council.
‘Has Your Grace heard that Prince Ashoka has violated the decision of the court, killed the execution elephant and freed a condemned Vaishya?’
‘I have heard,’ admitted the Emperor, uneasily.
‘Will the mighty Maharajah tolerate the trampling of the empire’s laws? Do you not fear, Your Most Just Majesty, the grave discontent of the people of Magadha, especially when they hear that it is this Prince who is charged with the leadership of the campaign to Taxila?’
Bindusara thought for a moment. He then summoned a servant to bid Ashoka to appear before the Ministers’ Council. As he looked at Udra and Arana’s serious faces, Ashoka understood their intentions.
‘Has my son nullified the verdict of the court?’
‘I have righted an unjust sentence, my Emperor.’
He then described the great sacrifice that Sasarman had not disturbed, as the Brahmins then present, had acknowledged themselves, and how he had merely recited verses from the Rig Veda.
Udra grew restless and asked:
‘Has the illustrious Prince killed the executioner elephant?’
‘Who, O Udra, is the Lord of Magadha and of all the kingdoms in Aryavarta?’
‘The merciful Maharajah Bindusara.’
‘Is his Word law?’
‘Certainly, O, Prince,’ answered Udra.
‘Can every subject of the Maharajah appeal to his Word?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I, also?’
‘Of course, O, Prince.’
‘In the army camp, the Maharajah granted me any throw of the chakra I wished. Do you know, high minister, what that Word of the sacred Maharajah means? The Council must admit that I have not misused it. Suppose, that you had been my target, or someone else?
All the ministers now looked at the Maharajah.
Bindusara smiled almost imperceptibly. He knew that the Prince— while talking to Kullika—had referred to the Maharajah as careless. It eased his mind that Ashoka had unburdened himself of his Word this way.
‘That is true, and my Word is the Word of the anointed Emperor of Aryavarta. Each accusation against the commander of the army to Taxila is, therefore, unfounded. You may go, my son.’
‘May I ask one more mercy from my noble Father?’
‘Speak.’
‘A Vaishya, named Jivaka, has no sons in spite of many costly sacrifices. My Guru advised him to visit the sage Sayana. On his journey there, he mistakenly trespassed into the royal hunting grounds, which is punishable by death. Recently, Jivaka showed my Guru and me great hospitality. I ask you now, Your Great Majesty, mercy for this honest Vaishya.’
‘The court will carry on, my son. Afterwards, I will consider whether mercy should be granted to him.’ The Maharajah motioned him out and Ashoka left.
Later in the night, he reported to the Emperor on what and whom he had chosen for his campaign.
‘That is too minimal a force, O commander of my army.’ The Emperor watched sharply for the impression his remark made on his son, but Ashoka remained unaffected.
‘For my purpose large enough, my revered Father. Should I be compelled to wage war, then I will call upon your support.’
‘I shall increase each of the four divisions in a small way: five of my best elephants, five carts, twenty horsemen, and one hundred foot soldiers of my choice.’
Ashoka understood that his Father’s spies would be among those who were added, so that his actions could be carefully watched and reported back to the Maharajah.
‘I fully understand, my careful Father, and am delighted by his decision.’ Bindusara looked at him: Did he really understand? In any case, the response satisfied him.
‘Moreover, I am sending ten trustworthy female slaves whose duty it will be to prepare your meals and take care of your tent, my son.’
A soft smile waved over Ashoka’s features. He knew that the Maharajah had feared him. How had Ajatasatru become the king! Ashoka guessed what this ‘fatherly concern’ meant. He knew all too well the history of the royal courts of Magadha, the fear of a son, who became too dangerous for the Emperor. In any case, this approach would certainly be too simple against him!
‘I thank my Father for this attention, paid to me personally.’
It surprised Bindusara that Ashoka, who apparently understood all his actions, accepted them with such wisdom. He had always feared the wild young man. He has had him watched day in and day out. However much and often he was plagued by suspicions aroused in him by high ministers and priests, his distrust always disappeared when he spoke to Ashoka. Yet, he wished to know for certain; after all, he could not risk making mistakes!
‘Which of the advisors will you take with you?’
‘Kullika, and Sayana, if he should wish to go.’
‘No, Sayana will not go along, but Kullika is a calm and wise man.’
The Emperor stood up and embraced his son.
‘I thank the gods who gave me Ashoka as a son.’
‘And I thank Shiva, Lord of life and death, who allowed me to be born as son of Emperor Bindusara, my Father.’
6
ROHINI’S DESPAIR
n the second day after the sacrificial yagna1, Rohini was busy carefully scouring the household vessels. The gods, who were to receive the first offerings produced, would not accept unless they were spotless. And she needed to acquire good karma2, so that they would grant her the boon of a son that she had been wanting so dearly. Jivaka had gone to the wise Sayana. What more could she do? Jivaka was good to her, had never blamed her for not bearing a son. Could her enduring love for Sasarman be the obstacle? Could she change her soul, her body? Sasarman had made certain she would never forget him. His viola made her soul quiver with the mysterious melodies that he cajoled out of it but she would never transgress the precepts of the Brahmins or Jivaka. Never! She would rather tolerate another woman beside her, one who might bear Jivaka sons, because she had not lived so sinfully in a past life. If she, Rohini, died and were born anew, then let her karma be so virtuous that the gods could not refuse her their blessings. In her previous life, of which she knew nothing, the priests suggested that she had sinned greatly. In this life, therefore, her good deeds must exceed her shortcomings. She would make sure that she committed her whole life to this end. When would Jivaka return? What if he did not return? A widow without sons? All would be lost! No rite could save her then. The whole village would turn its back on her, because then it would be clear how heinously she had once sinned, to have earned this worst of punishments for a woman. Sins of which she had no knowledge at all. Desperate, she stumbled on to a bench by the door of Jivaka’s house. Her res
ilience was broken. If Jivaka did not return, she could no longer fight. That would be the last straw. If only he would come!
Pindola was one of those Brahmins to whom every spiritual task was an annoyance and every sensuous delight, the bread of life. No marriage ceremony, no sacrifice, no namakarna,3 no initiation of brahmacharins, nor any other feast was performed without it being brightened up by his presence. Those who needed Brahmins to purify their karma, and wanted to give alms or the left overs from the offerings to the members of the highest varna in order to propitiate the gods, found in the lusty, sensual Pindola, a willing tool. He was not permitted to serve as a sacrificial priest himself, but filling his sacred belly, being available for every feast, was his greatest pleasure. And the Vaishyas in the region had enough sense of humour to always invite the ‘empty offering barrel’! The largest and best of what the sacred fire saved from the meat, cakes and soma, ended up in the stomachs of the Brahmins, anyway. And there was no more grateful guest than Pindola. He was deeply moved by both Jivaka and Rohini’s willingness to make sacrifices because of their desire for a son. He had looked at the beautiful woman with pleasure, and failed to understand why the gods should refuse her the treasured favour. He had enjoyed their gifts often. He had a weakness for the simple Vaishya woman. He himself had three sons, all of them healthy. Such a shame the gods did not give this beautiful woman even one. Every Aryan knew what Brahma himself says: ‘My gods are the Brahmins; I know of no others that equal you, O, Brahmins, through whose mouth I eat.’ ‘The universe is in the power of the gods, the gods in the power of the prayers; the prayers are in the power of the Brahmins; thus the Brahmins are our gods!’
Rohini was at fault, so everyone thought. Suppose, however, that Jivaka was the sinner from a previous birth? Pindola’s wife owed her success partly to the finely ground kekisikha root and putrampjiva roots, mixed with milk from a single-coloured cow. This worked even for infertile women.
Pindola himself would bring the concoction to Rohini. He was aware that Jivaka had gone to seek the advice of the sage Sayana; he, however, knew better. He had begotten three sons.
Rohini jumped up in joy when she heard someone approaching Jivaka’s house; she thought her husband was returning. When she saw she was mistaken, she shyly walked up towards Pindola.
‘Jivaka is away on a journey, Lord.’
‘I know, Rohini. I wish to speak to you.’ His eyes rested with delight on the blossoming young woman: ‘The sacrifice may have been desecrated by Sasarman’s violation. I would feel it as such a pity if all your efforts were in vain. I myself had much success with my wife, using finely ground kekisikha and putrampjiva root, mixed with milk from a single-coloured cow. Do you have such a cow, Rohini?’
‘Yes, Lord …’
‘Fetch the milk of that cow, then. I shall help you mix it. Drink it and your greatest wish will come true. Get it, Rohini.’
Hesitating and shy, Rohini went and came back with the milk. Pindola helped her. He sometimes lightly touched her hand, or placed his hand familiarly on her back. No movement of his face betrayed the lust that was raging inside him.
‘Rohini, to me the gods were bounteous, blessing me with one son after another. If you had been my wife, there would be no question of the neighbours looking upon you with pity. The pride of a mother would stoke Agni, like flames do the sacred fire. Rohini, my remedy is infallible, at least for me. Perhaps, Jivaka lacks the strength? Poor Rohini. Look, it is ready, drink now. Lie down and rest for a while.’ He put his arm around her waist and gently pushed her down. The feel of the Vaishya woman made him lose all caution and composure. Rohini resisted feebly because she hardly dared defy the holy Brahmin. Unintentionally, her grief merely goaded Pindola, who could no longer restrain himself.
‘Lord, have I sinned in a previous life?’
‘It is said you have, Rohini. Jivaka may also have.’
‘Lord, if I must pay for what I have done in my past existence, then I do not wish to do anything in this life which would displease the gods. Then my next life might be blessed. I will strictly follow the forty sacraments of the Vaishyas.’
Amidst his excitement Pindola barely listened to Rohini’s words. He threw his arms around her. A powerful repulsion came over Rohini.
‘Lord, I can no longer tolerate your touching of me. I thank you for your good advice and shall follow it, but I do not want anything that Jivaka would not want.’
‘Vaishya-woman … you spurn a Brahmin! Do you know what you are doing? If I, a Brahmin priest, were to curse you, the gods would condemn you. Compassion for a woman without a son brought me to you.’
Rohini went pale, but nevertheless, felt the wrong of this man of the highest varna.
‘A priest is also bound by the laws,’ she stuttered. Breaking free, at last, she gasped:
‘Lord, leave now Jivaka’s house, otherwise I will have to seek refuge with the neighbours, and tell them you have been visiting me in Jivaka’s absence.’
Flushed with anger, Pindola panted angrily: ‘What will they, your neighbours believe, Rohini, that you invited me or that I …’
Despairingly, Rohini fell to a bench. Pindola came close to her again.
‘Many a Vaishya woman would thank Varuna that a Brahmin should liberate her from a situation of the gravest incompleteness. Listen, Sasarman’s name is whispered with yours.’
‘Sasarman is finished. He has never entered Jivaka’s house.’
‘My testimony can free you.’
‘I don’t need it, Lord.’
‘Look, Rohini,’ he once again tried to put his arms around her.
A loud scream was heard in the distance. Sasarman! What did he want? What if he had lost his mind and came to look her up. Pindola would see him here … while Jivaka was away! Fearful, her face ashen, she awaited her fate. She also heard other voices, loud, angry … why, it was a fight! Was it possible that the Brahmins still …? She reined in her thoughts and begged all the gods to help her and Sasarman and Jivaka. She then hastened towards the great road to Pataliputra. She wanted to flee Pindola, see her parents, yet she knew they would only send her back. When she approached the road she saw officers of the court. O, Shiva! O, Varuna! O, Indra! A young son of her neighbour, Vaidehi, came up to her.
‘Rohini, Sasarman is being taken to Pataliputra. Narada has brought charges against him because he disturbed your sacrifice and with his sinful music poisons the surroundings, luring angry demons. The Maharajah will sentence him to death before the court of Brahmins.’
Rohini sank to the ground, her forehead in the dust: ‘O, Sita, save Sasarman.’
She began to weep. ‘Rohini, Rohini, farewell in this life!’ Looking up, she saw Sasarman being dragged along, crudely tied to a horse. To Pataliputra … and death …
Suffering weighed heavy upon her life. Never again would she feel his love in the yearning songs of the ravanashta. Suddenly, she realised how important they were for her, those melodies. Rohini did not go inside. Instead, she began to care for her animals and continued to work the garden afterwards. She did not bother about Pindola, considering herself disburdened of the duty of being hospitable to the Brahmin.
Some hours later Vaidehi herself, clearly upset, came by.
‘Poor Rohini. Jivaka …‘
‘O, Sita! Tell me, Vaidehi, what is wrong with Jivaka? Tell me, tell me … why there comes no end to my calamities. Tell me …’
‘Jivaka trespassed the Maharajah’s hunting grounds.’
‘Go on, Go on.‘
‘Taken prisoner. No god can save him now; the sentence for this is death.’
Rohini was beaten. She had wrestled with her wretched fate from the day she was married. A wild jealousy often came over her, when she thought of all the married women who brought forth sons, and how she—lonely, pitiful and inferior—was being punished for unknown deeds done in past lives. She, who must bear the fear of incomplete offerings day after day, nay, even hour after hour. Scorned as a woman without
sons, a widow, she had to live on, reviled by women whose adherence to the forty rites was not nearly as reverent as hers but had sons and kept their husbands. Vaidehi left her alone. She, too, was afraid and horrified at Rohini’s unknown sins! If only she could die with Jivaka! No sacrifice, no thousand sacrifices had saved her from the greatest suffering, the greatest humiliation of the Arya-woman: widowed, and without sons!
She ran home. Pindola had gone. She quickly prepared to go out. She wanted to go to her father for advice. She had lost her heart. Miserable and sick with grief, she walked along the road. Vaishyas glancing covertly at the sinner did not bother to greet her; nobody spoke a friendly word. After all, the gods were obviously punishing her, were they not? A little girl wanted to walk up to her but the mother fearfully brought her back to their house. One who is punished by the gods in this way could only have lived once a very sinful life!
‘Father … Jivaka has been imprisoned.’
‘I know. I suppose you want help from me now? It is punishment for your own sins!’
Ashoka the Great Page 8