Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  ‘And if I refuse to give my daughter to this Prince, Sir … to betray him to the Brahmins …’

  Devaka snapped sharply: ‘Then you and your daughter can await the wrath and the curse of the gods and the Brahmins and the next Maharajah! Think about that, Raja of Mathura! The gods control hunger and pestilence. If the Brahmins curse you, O, Raja. The Brahmins will never tolerate the violation of Manu’s laws and the Vedas. He who denies the highest good as revealed to the priests is more contemptible than the Chandala, and will fall backwards into the deepest hell. He will be born again as the most miserable Shudra dog! Think about what you do and prepare Madri for her duty. One day, Prince Sumana will have you answer for it!’

  ‘Why then, do you not curse Ashoka, Sir?’

  ‘We shall curse him when he reaches for the power that does not belong to him. I think the gods want you and the beautiful Madri to spare the happy Aryavarta from great disasters.’

  Revata, who—unnoticed—had heard the whole conversation, followed the priest to Koli.

  ‘Koli, how beautiful you are! You could tempt a high Prince.’

  ‘Sir, you flatter me. For that matter it is easier to tempt a crude Asura than a lovable Rama.’

  Devaka laughed in order to please the dancer.

  ‘The Raja would like you to enthrall the Prince with your portrayal of love. Show him in your dance all the splendour of a woman.’

  ‘If I were not capable of that in my dance, O, priest, then I would rather be a vaishyi. ‘

  ‘I would like to see to which expression of love the gods have chosen you for.’

  ‘Sir, they say he is like the embodiment of Shiva.’

  ‘More likely of the ugly Asura, who conquered Bhima,’ remarked the Brahmin, sharply.

  ‘Yes, yes! He is ugly like Shiva, as god of death, strong-willed like Shiva, as god of life, sharp like Shiva, as god of all knowledge, Sir. This is what I was told.’

  ‘He is as wild as Ravana3!’ snapped the priest.

  Koli laughed audaciously. She knew dancers were despised yet wielded influence.

  ‘I shall seduce him, Sir, and ensnare him in my dance of love.’

  The many guests of Mathura, dressed in all their finery, adorned with ornaments of gold and gems, walked in the park or sat on benches by the lotus ponds. Flowers and garlands filled the entrance hall with scents and bright colours. Female slaves sprayed expensive rose-water from Iran and sandal-water from Bharuchkacha4. As ordered by Devaka, the Brahmins circulated among the guests, relating stories of the Wild Prince and the Wise Sumana.

  When Ashoka and Kullika approached, seated on the royal elephants with Revata carrying the imperial parasol, all hastened towards them, including Princess Madri. The Raja had told her of Devaka’s wish, but she had protested strongly. When her father insisted that she obey him, she understood that only Ashoka himself had the power to decide. What kind of man was this Prince? Unapproachable. Proud. Fierce. Wild. Or, was that just the priests talking? As a true Kshatriya she had contempt for the self-righteous priests. And she hated Devaka, because he desired to destroy her happiness. Nonetheless, she feared his curses and his influence with the gods.

  Devaka approached her: ‘Does the beautiful Madri wish to see the army commander?’

  ‘Yes, Sir. One seldom sees a Maurya in our regions. And especially this Prince …’

  ‘Why, may I ask?’

  ‘Sir, the Prince has arrived here three weeks earlier than my Father expected him. My brother, Saka, says that he, along with his army, can fly through the air. In Pataliputra he flew into the air on his horse when a magician tried to kill him.’

  ‘I lived with him for a long time in Pataliputra and never saw any such miracles performed by the Prince. He was merely a warrior; he cannot be a Lord of the three realms. One could expect such things from his brother, Sumana, the Crown Prince, and a favourite of the Brahmins and the gods.’

  ‘No one sees everything that happens in a big city. He killed an elephant with beams from his eye.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that, too; it was the elephant used for executions that he killed with a razor-sharp chakra!’ Madri looked at him unbelievingly.

  ‘He drew Arjuna’s bow, the Gandhiwa, and shot off the arrow. They say he will become the Emperor of Aryavarta because of it.’

  ‘No man could ever shoot Arjuna’s sacred bow, not even Prince Ashoka.’ Madri laughed.

  ‘The Maharajah ordered it himself! My mother says that Prince Ashoka is an embodiment of Shiva …’

  She turned away from the priest; she wanted to see Ashoka. The priest, feeling insulted, decided to leave.

  In front of the hall of white pillars, Ashoka seated himself next to the Raja. Revata, with the imperial parasol, placed himself silently behind his Lord and whispered to him what he had heard and seen. Everyone then awaited the arrival of a magician who would give a performance with a monkey; he could divine the future by merely shaking his head ‘no’.

  Before long, the magician entered, dressed in a large black cloak with a wide white headscarf. Under a beautiful shady banyan at some distance, he drew a large circle on the ground. No one was allowed to come into the circle, lest they fall immediately to their death. With polite interest, Ashoka and Kullika followed the actions of the magician. The high-ranking audience was far more interested in the fairytale Prince of the Mauryas, who, because of their military successes and their incredible power, were naturally surrounded by an aura of glory. They ruled from the Himalayas to the Vindhyas5, from the Brahmaputra to well beyond the Indus.

  And this Prince! Stories of miracles about him raced through the jungle, as if butterflies breathed them from flower to flower and jackals cried them through the quivering jungle nights. The holy trees, while rustling their giant crowns, whistled them forth through the hamlets, or kept silently dreaming about it in the soft-black shadowy moonlit nights: Shiva! His sharp eyes took in the persons present.

  All attention then focused on the magician who had just announced that he would breathe life into a small black monkey carved of ebony, with emerald eyes. Everyone had heard tales of life being awakened in inanimate objects but no one had ever seen it. An apprentice brought the beautiful sculpture to Prince Ashoka who inspected it very carefully. With various incantations to the gods, accompanied by music from a flute and the soft beat of a drum, the magician turned first to one fire, then to another, all the time cherishing the sculpture in his hands. Ashoka looked at him suspiciously. No movement escaped him. Life! Could a man really breathe life into a piece of dead wood? The Raja asked the Prince something, but even while answering, Ashoka’s sharp eyes never lost sight of the magician. A strange plaintive melody hovered through the air. The audience felt themselves swaying to the hypnotising incantations. Only Ashoka and Kullika, disciplined as they were in their truth-seeking clarity of mind, resisted the blurring of their senses. The magician felt this and, through Ashoka, seemed to gauge the state of the others. Ashoka and Kullika found the endless repeated melody to be strongly fatiguing. Measured drawling words were rhythmically uttered to the tune of the tourti6, and the subdued beat of the naguar7.

  The voice droned: ‘Spirits … around … me … descend … to … the branches … of … the … banyan …’

  His gaze guided all eyes to the monkey, still lovingly placed in his hand at the sacred fires. All of a sudden his arms swung in broad, conjuring strokes. For a split second Ashoka bent forward. Kullika saw how the magician, moving like a flash of lightning, reflexively dipped into his black cloak. A moment later, he was holding a live monkey, black, with emerald eyes blinking against the firelight. He handed the mammal to his apprentice who then took it to Ashoka. The Prince looked over the little animal thoroughly; it was not at all scared as it nestled in his hand.

  ‘From the realm of the spirits, Sire. He speaks truth if you question him,’ said the boy.

  Ashoka did not wait to think: ‘Will the Taxilans conquer me?’ he asked in a loud and steadfast voice tha
t everyone heard. A smile played around his lips.

  ‘No’, shook the little animal’s head.

  ‘Can anyone ever—even the strongest—supplant me, the conqueror?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good!’ A sweet meat was the monkey’s reward.

  Commotion ensued. And then, suddenly, a hearty applause. The performance was over. The magician, laden with expensive gifts, disappeared towards Ashoka’s army camp. There, Sela took care that Devaka’s plot would fail as well.

  Young female slaves offered the guests drinks, delicious cakes cooked in ghee, and sweetened fruit.

  Devaka, meanwhile, fumed with rage.

  Ashoka, the king and the queens as well as the ministers, were now being seated in the Hall of Pillars. Ashoka approached Princess Madri and greeted her respectfully. Only Revata followed him with the imperial parasol.

  ‘You are the beautiful Princess Madri, daughter of the Raja of Mathura.’

  Madri bowed deeply before the greatly admired Prince.

  ‘Yes, O, mighty commander of Bindusara’s army.’

  ‘You are fortunate, Princess: daughter of a rich king, with wonderful Mathura as your home.’

  ‘Happiness requires something more than wealth and a beautiful palace, O, Prince.’

  ‘What more does the blessed Madri want? Remember, the gods punish those not satisfied with the incarnation given to them.’

  Shyness deepened the rich sultry colour of her healthy young face.

  ‘The gods have, perhaps, given me more than I deserved, O, Prince.’

  ‘Do not the Princes of Kosala, Ayodhya, of all the kingdoms around Mathura surround the most beautiful Princess of India?’

  Smiling charmingly, with her palms towards her forehead for a short moment bending her delicate figure, she said shyly: ‘I feel fortunate, O, Prince, that a mighty Maurya deems me worthy of that honour.’

  ‘Your beauty, Madri, would tempt a Maurya to put his luck to the test.’

  She hesitated for a moment, and then said: ‘May I show Prince Ashoka the beauty of the park?’

  ‘I would like nothing more, beautiful Madri.’

  She took him along a steep road to the top of a small hill, from where one could have a clear view of the city, the Jamuna valley and the dangerous Doab jungle. Madri’s eyes, softly glowing like Chandra’s light, looked up so receptive to his as if he had tempted her, he who repulsed the girls of Pataliputra because of his unseemly countenance.

  ‘Lord, no one can hear us here.’

  ‘What does the Princess of Mathura wish to say to me that no strange ears may hear?’

  ‘Father is obedient to the Brahmin priests and now Devaka wants …’

  ‘Devaka, did you say …?’

  ‘Devaka wants me to be very friendly to the Maurya Prince, and so the Raja also desires it.’

  Ashoka’s face tightened. Shyly she continued: ‘They told me you were … very ugly.’ She paused as Ashoka smiled. ‘ … that is not true. But I love a Prince from Mayula, and he loves me. Devaka orders that I have to serve the gods, and they want me to marry the Maurya Prince so that the priests will always know what plans the Wild Prince is devising to the detriment of the Wise Sumana.’

  Ashoka looked at her coldly.

  ‘Do you think you can attain your goal this way, beautiful Princess?’

  ‘Do you want me to obey him? I do not want to marry you, because I do not wish to be a spy for Devaka and do not want to betray Shiva or the Mauryas. And moreover …’

  Ashoka was not sure if she was being truthful or simply serving Devaka.

  ‘What is your beloved Prince’s name, beautiful Madri?’

  ‘Prince Kala of Mayula. Kala says: a Kshatriya woman does not betray a Kshatriya or a Raja or the son of a Raja to the Brahmins.’

  By now, Ashoka had regained his composure. Was she genuine or was she cunning? Was she just as repulsed by him as the girls in the court of Pataliputra? This he now wanted to know for sure; he wanted to know how Devaka thought to fight him.

  ‘Such a luxuriant beauty, the Doab … O, Princess.’

  ‘Glorious is Shiva’s world, O, Prince.’

  ‘But the tiger hides in the bushes and the mosquitoes in the marshes.’

  Madri understood him. ‘What proof do you want, O, Prince, that I am speaking the truth?’ she asked disappointedly.

  Ashoka thought for a moment. Then, he commanded: ‘Embrace me, Princess Madri.’

  Trembling, she approached the strong-willed Maurya, shyly, blushing. Then, she threw her arms around him and kissed both his eyes. Ashoka could barely resist the temptation to encompass her slender body. But then the proof he sought would be worthless. He forced himself to be calm. Despite being as affected as he was, he could sense that her kiss was friendly, free of love, yet also unforced.

  ‘Those I find the most beautiful, the truest and most trust-inspiring in you, O, Prince.’ She laughed charmingly, yet with all her shyness. ‘Do you believe me now?’

  An unfamiliar feeling of softness suddenly came over him for this frail, little Princess, flung as she was in between the clashing interests of all those cruel men: himself, the beloved Kala, the scared Raja, the ruthless Devaka. Trust-inspiring eyes … He would help her!

  ‘Is Prince Kala here?’

  ‘Yes, O, Prince.’

  ‘Then take me to him now.’ He questioned her a lot about her beloved and Madri praised Kala in such passionate terms that Ashoka no longer doubted either her or the sincerity of the Prince. When they had come down, Revata reported that the Brahmin had carefully climbed the other side of the hill. Ashoka was shocked: Had he listened to their conversation? The priest was an enemy not to be underestimated.

  In Prince Kala, Ashoka found one of the full-blooded line of Kshatriyas who to the core of their being are true to their varna and hold in contempt the pompous, domineering priests. Ashoka tried to win him over for his army.

  In the Hall of Pillars he asked: ‘Do you see, O, Raja, the possibility of Prince Kala in my army?’

  ‘The Prince is a younger son of the Raja of Mayula who will later be dependent on his oldest brother. Kala would probably be happy to accept your offer.’

  ‘May I count on your help?’

  ‘Please … Do you see special qualities in this young Kshatriya?’

  ‘A faithful mahamatra8 to the Maharajah.’

  ‘You regard him highly, O, Prince. He wants to marry my daughter Madri.’

  The Raja tried in vain to find out what Ashoka thought of her.

  ‘Princess Madri is not suitable to do what the priest Devaka expects.’

  The Raja was alarmed; Ashoka pretended not to notice and appeared to be searching among the guests. ‘So, Prince Kala will not be the Raja of Mayula, but he may become perhaps an important man in Aryavarta, worthy of your daughter. May I convey your consent to him?’ Ashoka knew that he put the Raja in a difficult position, but also, that he would bind two influential families in the West to him.

  ‘It pleases me especially if I can favour you thus, O, Prince.’

  Ashoka immediately ordered a servant: ‘Ask Princess Madri and Prince Kala to come here.’

  He addressed them thus: ‘Princess Madri and Prince Kala, I wish you good fortune on your engagement.’

  Ashoka’s words come as a surprise. Madri then gives him a deep bow, kisses the hem of his cloak and whispers: ‘Thank you, my Prince.’ She searches his eyes but Ashoka turns to Kala. The festivities are interrupted for a while and the engagement is announced. In the rear behind the rows the priest is standing, closely wrapped in his cloak, his face shrouded. His eyes flash in anger at the happy scene before him and from within he growls out a curse that Madri cannot suspect. It was Revata, who unobtrusively had sought the proximity of the priest, who overhears.

  The Raja signals for the festivities to resume. Gentle music is played: the strings of the veena resound softly and clearly, accompanied by the seemingly distant rhythm of the tabla. The ravanashta
mingles her velvet tones in the play of sounds.

  Then a dancer appears, her umber-hued figure barely covered by pure white cloudy muslin as if to shroud the exceptional beautiful forms in dusk. Silently moving along with the rhythmic sounds she floats in among the circle of guests. Her posture, her arms, hands, face, feet—every part of her, down to her toes—express endless desire: the fully flowering youth who in barely restrained excitement seeks for what she does not yet know, and in short quick steps suddenly seems to ask for; then, desperately falls down, dejected and unsatisfied.

  Another dancing girl appears, dressed like a rich Prince. In admiration—raised higher by the duet of the veena and the ravanashta in a harmoniously rising melody—he is expressing an irresistible desire of love while silently striding along, the enamoured eyes intently focused on the inconsolable. Dark melodies vibrate, smarting through the crowd that was fully caught up in the performance. The Prince advances, then pulls back; the hands reach out, flex in wild longing, the fingers express devotion; the feet, hesitation; the body, fierce excitement; the eyes, pain. The beautiful dancer rises, retreats and, pushing him away, flees in hasty retreat. The lover follows in desperation, does not reach her because her skilful hand raises obstructions that cause him to stop. He sinks down in desperation to the rumbling, rhythmic beat of the dhole, the god’s divine drum. A shrill sound rings through the silence. The tabla rumbles a steady beat and a conch proclaims clearly the warrior, who sure-footedly approaches, with arms and hands waving and swaying: a wild soldier in king’s cloak. His face and manner express complete surprise. He strides, deeply intent, towards the dazzlingly beautiful bride. Alarm and recoil at this ferocity. He approaches, she gives way … an exciting play of reaching for and pulling away, of lovers’ intoxication and aversion. The tabla awakens the fairy-tale Prince abruptly. He stands up, runs enviously towards the other two, and throws himself with wild and beautiful gestures between them. The warrior drags him away, threatens, and, once more, advances passionately towards the beauty. He will abduct her, take her away into the jungle … Gandharva! The other suitor approaches anew, refusing to give up his beloved. It was a perfect depiction of a furious joust of love. Fiercer fighting with violent gestures. Rows of nymphs form a necklace, naked beauty hidden in gossamer Kashi muslin. They tightly enclose the bride, forming a fortress of blinding splendour. Powerful movements! Repelling and protecting the fearful Princess from the fierce battle beyond. The rhythmic tabla enhances the excitement. The struggle ends, and the Princess must decide. Expressions of alarm, shock, disgust and refusal from the rows of virtuous nymphs. They repel, with radiant beauty in form and movement. The bride is desperate. There is anxiousness and sympathy all around. Plaintive sounds of the tourti and the ravanastha, the flute pleads, the bride searches helplessly around, wildly gesturing that she refuses both Prince and warrior. Her gaze is undirected until she, unexpectedly, catches Ashoka in view. A smile of happiness encircles the desperation; there is longing and coaxing in all her movements. With her divine shape she forces herself upon him, with overwhelming charm, using all the means nature gifted her with as she wrested from her art … her smile begs, prays. She offers Ashoka her naked beauty, her body, her greatest gift of nature: the regal woman. That is, if he should save her. The other dancers approach, beg, pray with her, forming tableau after tableau. Fervent temptation knocks at his young strong body.