Koli is sure: Ashoka looks up in admiration at this performance of eternal young love. A powerful yearning comes over him. He is being pulled in. No thoughts of resistance, he feels as all feel! The perfection of the dance ensnares him, erases all pre-conceived aversion, allows him to enjoy in complete surrender and soak up the beauty of form, movement, imagery, music, and the ambience.
But as little as Bindusara—when he warned Ashoka—was aware of it, or Devaka—when he tried in all manner of ways to influence Ashoka—as little Koli realises the one-pointed state of his mind, keenly aware of every factor in relation to his endeavour. Not in any way will he give the slightest chance for Devaka’s plans, as he has heard about them from Revata. He follows his path in spite of himself and has to smile at Devaka’s fanatical and clumsy attempts. Every now and then Kullika looks worriedly at his pupil … Koli’s refined female sense of perfected coquetry, tells her that her persuasive powers have failed. She reaches out towards Ashoka, her fingers seem to plead, her body even more sensually curving over. Like Kullika, she too, sees his clear and open gaze. Kullika’s mind is at ease: what is grain to the mower, blossom’s splendour to the spring storm, the desert sand to the monsoon.
Koli falls helplessly to the ground. Infinite sadness has killed her. A mournful melody softly and sombre accompanies each movement of deep grief, acknowledging the sad ending. Even now her posture expresses a charm and temptation that deeply impresses the guests. Many weep and bow down in sympathy. With movements depicting the greatest sadness, the dancers gather the unhappy Princess and withdraw in lofty silence in which the Prince and warrior join in anguish, thereby ending the dance-pantomime. The rhythmic sadness of the dhole and the tabla slowly dies as gradually does the heartbreaking melody of the plaintive ravanashta and the slower fading veena. A hearty applause breaks forth.
Ashoka searches for Princess Madri with his eyes; he sees her in the distance with her betrothed. She returns his look with a touching smile; such happiness could have been his! Gone. He then feels consolation: how justice is done to his guiding star. To take another’s happiness away that he cannot get hold of anyway … that would be falling short of the truth, give way to desire. Sumana … Devaka …
‘A dance of such beauty I have never ever seen in the court of Pataliputra, O, Raja.’
‘I am very honoured by your flattering words, O, mighty commander. Permit me to offer Your Majesty my best dancers.’
No smile betrayed that Ashoka knew that this offer would be forthcoming.
‘My appreciation is more than all the water of the Ganga in monsoons, O, generous Raja. Nevertheless, permit me, for such time, to leave them as a jewel in your court. They might delay me in achieving my duty to my beloved Father.’
Koli comes to the Prince and bows deeply, kissing his cloak. Ashoka gets up to say some polite words to the dancer.
‘Who were you thinking of, beautiful Koli, when performing such a wondrous and expressive dance?’
‘Of you, O, Prince,’ Koli begins anew her game with her most tantalising smile.
‘Are you filled with such desire at my beauty?’ His face belied not a trace of mockery.
‘Surely, noble Prince.’
‘Or, did you, perhaps, think of Devaka?’
The beautiful dancer recoils, confused and shocked. Who has unmasked her? At this Ashoka smiles.
‘Great artist that you are, please do me, the guest, a favour now and show how you can express hatred. That would be more in agreement with Devaka’s true feelings and would give us even more beautiful art,’ he said, unmoved.
‘That is beyond my capacity, O, mighty commander.’
‘I can scarcely believe that of a gifted artist such as you, my Koli. Moreover, the Raja has given me his best dancers and you now belong to me. Inspire me with your and Devaka’s hatred. Or else, I will give you as an offering to my warriors!’
Koli turns ashen and retreats.
A low rumble of the drums announced her return; a heavy hissing sound is heard. The audience watches with bated breath. A moment later the dancer appears, garbed in a drab black-speckled narrow long robe that hid her arms as well.
‘The Cobra!’
Slow sharp tones, synchronised in fitting rhythms, rose vibrating to the highest notes. The tabla throbs with heavy menace … Shuffling, bent over, in a rocking motion of her upper body and then in angry shocks heaving upwards, slowly rising with wild forward movements, then yielding, she with each move approaches Ashoka’s seat … There she sinks, reaches out to the Prince, her lightning proud eyes still directed towards him. In calm and almost slow ripples she twists her body, raising her head and torso high every now and then. Then backwards and with abrupt jolts, menacingly darting forth in the direction of the honoured guests. Her head assumes in the dusk the look of a cobra with its venomous fangs. The throb of the tabla recedes as though deep under Mathura’s palace an army of snakes from the city of Nagas slithers away to obscure places. The ‘cobra’ lies stretched; regally, gently rocking, she moves her slim snake body. Then a strange melody sounds. An inimitable rhythm provides a fearful tension, as if all worldly laws are being broken. In deadly silence, in which each breath has halted, the horrible monster rights itself, transfixes Ashoka with its eyes and does not release him anymore. Below the pelt the neck spreads slowly to its fullest extent—the hood pure white—spreading its secret magic over the drab night. The beautiful face, consumed by wrath, takes on an expression of ruthless hate. Eyes flicker and leer at the Prince, who has with intense interest been following every movement of the snake, every mood created by the gruesome, hypnotising music. The chest of the jungle-goblin bends backwards, the head stretched to the Prince, the inescapable eyes boring into his. Then, with one abrupt gesture, the whole body lurches forward and the cobra’s head, the eyes, the flickering hate surrounds him, while the music drums and rumbles and hisses with increasing agitation. Then, suddenly, everything quiets down. The menacing silence of death. A choir of cobras with swelled hoods glides in, throwing their upper bodies towards Ashoka. Once again, the deep earth rumbles: the drowsiness of the city of nagas in slumber, hissing, softer and softer, guiding the beautiful Koli, as she slithers over the shiny floor of mosaic-work, retreating in hatred with her sisters.
Revata approached the Prince unnoticed, took the parasol and whispered a short message.
‘Protect her, Revata!’
Kullika’s eyes were glued in stunned amazement on his pupil. Whose spirit had entered this Prince! Shiva’s? Inside him a vocation was burning, stronger than any sensual passion or any display of power. The holy atman, the sara, the essence of the spirit, which unfolds itself in all life of Aryavarta … Mankind craved a saviour. Who would lead them away from the maya of this world, away from the heartless whipping on of the animals to the sacrificial fires by the selfish priests, away from the magic circle of a belief that divided, yet was meant to unite the unfolding of the same Atman, Brahman, the All-spirit of the wide world. People toiled in a life of fears in a land of abundance and beauty. Where is this saviour … He?
Madri and Kala came to Ashoka.
‘Kala will accompany you to the West, noble Prince. Will you protect him?’
‘I promise you, beautiful Madri, that I will guard him as if he were mine!’
‘Your eyes,’ She waited a moment. ‘Tell me that you never break a promise, O, Prince,’ she whispered, touched. She then bowed down her frail figure once more before him and, as if gently stroking, she took his robe in her hands and kissed it softly. Her look penetrated deep into Ashoka’s heart. He looked at her earnestly and said softly: ‘Think of Devaka’s revenge, my Madri!’ She laughed.
He asked Kullika if Kama, the god of love, would not take offense that he had refused a woman like Madri.
‘The pure love of those two is a glorious offering to the god of love, O, Prince.’
‘And my offering a worthless denial …’
‘The greatest that can happen, Sire: the offe
ring to the offer itself!’
By the waxing moon, the Raja held a ceremony led by his purohita for the success of Ashoka’s campaign. When it was over the Prince whispered to the Raja: ‘Guard Madri tonight with the utmost care: the wrath of this priest knows no limit and is without mercy.’
The next morning the army stood ready to march towards Indraprastha. The Raja escorted the son of his powerful Emperor. Ashoka would ride through Mathura on the royal elephant. Bindusara wanted that everywhere the might of the Mauryas should be shown by the symbols that Ashoka took along: the imperial elephant and the imperial parasol, which was blessed especially for this campaign, with many Atharva Veda spells … Ashoka lingered: he had expected Madri, who wanted to say good-bye to Kala! Just as he was about to order the march to be resumed, a female slave rushed in great distress towards the Raja, desperately throwing herself at the King’s feet.
‘Stand up, Cinca, what dreadful tidings do you bring?’
‘O, Mighty Raja! Princess Madri … is frozen … in the sleep of death.’
Ashoka’s head spun. ‘Devaka!’ he wanted to shout, but a sudden hoarseness made his voice inaudible. Everyone hurried to the palace. The Purohita who was near the body, inspected it carefully for the cause of death. He could find nothing.
‘Where is Devaka?’ asked the Raja, shaken.
‘Departed late yesterday, merciful Raja.’
‘Where to?’
‘No one knows, O, Raja,’ answered the Purohita. ‘Not even I.’
The Raja of Mathura lowered his head. ‘The punishment of the gods …’
‘The wrath of priests, Raja!’
‘That is the same, O, Prince.’
‘For you, but not for me, nor for Prince Kala, I believe.’
A solemn funeral was held. As Madri’s body was brought to the funeral pyre by the River Jamuna, Ashoka’s army lined up as mourners. The blindly-led followers of Devaka’s would feel that this would not leave the Prince unmoved … When Madri’s ashes had been welcomed by the Jamuna, to be conveyed to the holy Ganga, a melancholic ominous melody droned over the Doab and the valley; and the jungle reverberated the doom and foreboding throb of the god’s divine drum over the city, while conches screamed through the trees and the hermitages the Prince’s agony, so that a chill moved over all the spirits devoted to the priests.
9
DEVAKA’S MOANS SWEEP THROUGH THE WOODS
shoka left quietly in the afternoon. The heavy tread of the war-elephants made the houses shake; the carts rattled and the horses stamped their hooves. On Ashoka’s orders the troops strode with bowed heads through the mourning city. Prince Kala, along with Sela, rode on the second elephant. Not a word did he utter nor did his face reveal any signs of the deep anguish and inner defiance that lay within him. Once outside the city and in the jungle, the army was quickly readied to march rapidly.
‘Where do you think Devaka is hiding now, O, Prince?’ asked Kala, breaking his silence.
‘Devaka is not in hiding. He is on his way to Indraprastha to prepare more dangers for me and my friends, if he can, to scuttle my mission.’
‘Then permit me to stop him.’
‘Devaka is a cunning and fierce opponent, without sympathy nor mercy.’
‘I am not afraid of him.’
‘He does not fight like a Kshatriya but as a sacrificial priest without scruples, sparing no one and shunning no means.’
‘Thus, he is no match for our weapons. His cunning and brazen viciousness will be repaid by our brutal force.’
‘I do not wish to feed him another victim.’
‘And your mission for the sacred Maharajah?’
‘Your hate makes you careless.’
‘A Kshatriya does not hold his own life dear, like a sacrificial priest does not cherish that of another.’
‘I promised Madri to protect you. As for myself …’
‘You promised her? Then you are now freed of your promise, O, Prince.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘To fight everything that crosses your path. Does he know the way to Indraprastha?’
‘Like the paths in my Father’s park. I want you for my army, my Kala.’
‘Why? You hardly know me!’
‘Better than any other. She told me much about you; she was as pure as the snow in the Himalayas. And he who to her was of more importance than esteem and greatness is to me as well.’
Kala was moved. Ashoka sought Kullika.
‘Devaka is too dangerous an opponent for the Prince.’
‘And if I give him a strong bodyguard …’
‘Devaka‘s strength lies not in his muscles or in weapons but in his ruthless wiles and priestly power. Who do you suggest should be sent along as his counsellor?’
‘Revata is more cunning than Devaka.’
‘This Kshatriya will not allow one of a lower caste to be by his side.’
‘Who is a Shudra, my Kullika?’
‘You know, O, Prince, that what the priests say: An animal in human form does not reflect my beliefs. But the son of a Raja will not accept a Shudra as his counsellor.’
‘Then let him go without a counsellor, but should he meet up with Devaka, then he will have Revata close by. I want you to stay with my army.’
‘As you wish, O, Prince.’
‘Go on ahead of us, Kala, I will send Sagka and ten horsemen along. Furthermore, listen to the advice of my able friend, Revata.’
Devaka had left Mathura in the middle of the night. The waxing moon gave him plenty of light. At the court of Indraprastha, people loved liquor like sura, a wine made of fermented sugar cane, corn, and honey. There were beautiful women, uninhibited and passionate. This would be the place where the proud Prince would be struck down. Was Ashoka like a Santanava, who was called ‘the terrible’, because he swore never to marry or to beget children, so that Satyavati could become the wife of his beloved Father? Or, was he an old sannyasin, who had given up all worldly pleasures in order to become one with Brahman? Foolishness! He was after power that rightly belonged to Sumana, and the Brahmin-court had chosen him, Devaka, to thwart the Prince’s evil plans. He would heap curses and kill and cast into hell anyone who opposed him! With the Brahmin-court in Pataliputra and he himself in the West, together they would tame the tiger that thirsted for the blood of the highest varna.
It was late when he arrived in the hermitage of the renowned Vedacharya1, Asita. Asita’s brahmacharins revered the old Brahmin like a god, washed his feet, made his bed. They kept the sacred fire burning, collected firewood, kusha-grass and roots from the jungle, and studied the Vedas. They also took care of the guest and took his horse to the corral. Devaka joined Asita on the verandah, which glistened in the moonlight.
‘The Brahmin Devaka travels late along the Emperor’s Road.’
‘A great danger threatens the Brahmins of Aryavarta. Can you send your pupils away, my Asita?’
‘As my guest wishes, but they may know everything that I know, honoured Devaka.’
‘But not what I am about to tell you.’
Asita gestured and the pupils left.
‘The Maharajah is sending an army to the rebellious region of Taxila, but it is not commanded by the lawful Crown Prince but by his younger brother, Ashoka.’
‘What prompted the Maharajah to send Prince Ashoka?’
‘In the Brahmin-court, they believe that Bindusara fears his wild son. Ashoka is one of those untamable warriors, a danger to his royal father and the Brahmins.’
‘And the Crown Prince?’
‘Very much a friend of the highest varna.’
‘Thus not a warrior.’
‘That may be so. But the council of the wise Brahmins is at his service while Prince Ashoka seeks his own way. If he becomes the Emperor after Bindusara—may the gods prevent it—it will be the beginning of a bad period for our varna, for the men who know the will of the gods and how to determine and lead it. We cannot allow the laws of Aryavarta to be violate
d. Sumana shall be the next Maharajah!’
‘The Maharajah takes counsel of a purohita and I thought that my friend Sayana was one of his counsellors, too.’
‘Sayana reads old manuscripts and contemplates them in his recluse on the other side of the Ganga. He does not see what is going on in Pataliputra.’
‘And what does Devaka want then?’
‘That Ashoka’s mission fails. If he subdues Taxila, then it will be difficult to curb his rise.’
‘If the rebels are victorious, then a great war will break out and bring death … destruction … starvation … pestilence in the Punjab …’
‘If Prince Ashoka becomes Maharajah, the influence of the Brahmins will wane quickly! You are also a Brahmin.’
Asita took a long pause while looking at the light of the waxing moon … ‘What does Devaka want of me?’
Ashoka the Great Page 13