‘What is India without people, my Kullika? It is the people who give it its value. What is a Maharajah without the lively progress of the Aryans … and the Mlecchas3 in his jungles, rivers, and fields? Beauty exists only where beauty is felt, greatness where one beholds greatness, joy when joy surges in the hearts of living beings, and trust when trust fills the soul. Where there is no one to behold, there is no beauty.’
‘You pierce deeper into the nature of reality than many a scholar who has spent years of study in lonely hermitages, my Prince.’
‘You flatter me, Kullika. I often think that after all it is the people alone who give value to a kingdom. What is the meaning of all those treasures that are piled up in the treasuries of my Father’s palace! The more one values gold, jewels and other treasures, the more one limits one’s self spiritually and the less one is open to truth, Kullika. The less one values the human being the more one limits one self spiritually and the more we value him the more freely will our thoughts unfold. It is, I believe, not a light task, my Kullika, what the gods expect of a Maharajah.’
‘He who views it as light would be better off in the body of a crocodile, meditating in the quiet ponds under India’s hot sun, O, Prince.’
‘Why then do the Brahmins of Pataliputra want someone like Prince Sumana on the ivory throne?’
‘Once the Brahmins have destroyed the Kshatriyas, by not shunning the help of the Shudras and the Mlecchas and these very forces now threaten to grow beyond control. With Sumana, they think they will regain their earlier influence and exorcise the sinful present. The Mauryas honour the Brahmins, but tolerate no infringement of their vested power and rights: they govern, and allow no other power beside themselves. Ashoka is feared even more than Bindusara. The Brahmins wish to go back to the days, their position, when they were in control.’
‘Returning to the past because of the sinful present is giving a chance to a new reality.’
‘But the sacrificial priests, who want Sumana, think that Mahdyadesa is the world. Their gods rule over that world. And they, through their prayers, rites, and sacrifices, rule over the gods and thus they are the rulers of the world.’
Ashoka’s face hardened and his dark hue became bleak. He remained silent for a long time. They travelled on along their difficult road … Two days later, they reached the Shataadru, the first of the five big rivers they shall traverse throughout their journey. On the other side was the fertile region of the Indus, where vast wheat fields pushed their way in between the dark tree trunks of the jungle, where the fields offered more food than was needed. The farmers laboured in and around the villages. Here, the land opened up to the West for trade and commerce between people. Here, the Hellenic culture had penetrated, with Greeks, Egyptians, Persians, and Syrians. It was Chandragupta who had brought in the western influence: the architecture, the foreign officers, the trade that brought exotic merchandise and accursed forms of art amongst the Aryans, and dissatisfaction and disbelief.
Strange envoys from foreign countries lived at the court of the Mauryas and brought with them strange, uncommon points of view. That is why the priests cursed all that came from the West: the Indian desert and the Sarasvati were the boundaries, established by the gods, and the Brahmins fortified them with their deepest hate. On the other side of the Sarasvati lived the godless dasyus, people without Brahmins, without the Vedas. Bindusara still respected the Brahmins, but who would succeed him?
Their arrival in Panchanada4 made man and animal happy. The elephants, horses and bullocks could be better cared for and the woods offered the warriors more protection. They scorned the accursed West where evil spirits and dark dasyus lived and where sacred nagas and nagarajas were worshipped. That the region yonder was in rebellion did not worry them: Prince Ashoka was their commander and that alone gave them confidence. They would now proceed from river to river, and had been given orders to be on the alert more than ever, keep their weapons handy, to look as warlike as possible and carry out every order strictly. Ashoka dressed himself now with care as the great Mauryan Prince, adorned himself with costly ornaments, and a turban with many jewels. He armed himself more heavily than at other times, and his chakras were sharpened once again. He then wore a dark cloak that concealed everything. While the army crossed the river to enter Parushni, the young commander wanted to find out for himself what the people of Panchanada thought about the uprising. Revata would accompany him. They raced through two settlements. In the first, the farmers did not reply to Ashoka’s questions about the route to Taxila, while in the second, he was informed in a dialect that was understandable, that he should return to the Emperor’s highway.
‘Is it safe in Taxila?’
The farmer merely shrugged his shoulders.
‘They say that a rebellion has broken out.’ On being further questioned, he said:
‘One must have something to do in the cities …’
‘And the farmers?’
‘They work on the lands of the Maharajah and do not involve themselves with the problems of the city dwellers.’
‘And if the governors demand too much tax?’
‘The Maharajah determines that himself.’
‘Warriors never come here?’
‘Yes, but they do not interfere with the farmers. The Maharajah forbids this most strongly.’
‘But I see no farmers on their land.’
‘They are cremating the body of the old Kasaka, and his young wife is being burned along with him.’
‘Where?’
‘There, by the river.’
The farmer showed him the way and Ashoka immediately galloped off in the indicated direction. A funeral pyre had been set up on the banks of the river, whose dark yellow waves pulsed onto the Indus. Close by the river was the body of Kasaka, covered with a white cloth. Priests had begun the funeral rites, mantras were being chanted and hymns sung while preparing the ritualistic offerings to be given to the gods. Closer to the side of the jungle from where Ashoka was approaching stood a young woman, surrounded by the dark figures of farmers and the chief priest, who with strong pressure was trying to persuade her to do something.
‘I do not want to!’ was the answer, repeated again and again by the beautiful young woman, whose clothing showed that her husband had been very prosperous. A short jacket fit snugly over her well-endowed bust and upper arms, but left uncovered her slightly rounded shoulders and graceful forearms. Her slim midriff was bare and of a deep bronze colour. The beautifully embroidered skirt, long in the back and short in the front, ended just above her knees and left her strong feet and beautifully shaped legs unfettered and visible through the tight skirt, right up to her broad hips. The neck, noble of line but somewhat stocky, supported a head that was of strikingly good proportions. Her large, softly-glowing eyes, under the shadows of long black lashes and finely shaped eyebrows, her charming childlike chin, and thin, slightly curved nose, the soft red lips. All must have roused the lust of the much older Kasaka. Her posture, too, was fine and appealing. The long, drooping headscarf had fallen on the ground. Sheer fear shook her body; one moment she shrank back then in the next held out her arms as if to repel the priest. Ashoka understood immediately what was required of her. He could follow quite well the Gaathi dialect in which the girl and the priests argued.
‘Kasaka wants you to accompany him on his journey to the world of the Fathers, Gopa.’
‘But I do not want to be set ablaze alive! I do not want to and I do not dare to!’
‘You know, Gopa, that the death of your husband is a retribution for sins, committed in your former life, for which you must do penance now.’
‘My Father sold me, knowing that Kasaka was old and would die much earlier than me. They and you, priest, forced me. And do I now have to climb the funeral pyre of my husband? I do not want to! I do not want to!’
‘Kasaka gives orders, not you!’
‘The living Kasaka, not the dead!’
‘You will be cursed by our commu
nity, reviled and ostracised, if you continue to live among us. Men will look down upon you; the women will curse you and condemn and humiliate you … a widow!’
‘Anything is better than being burnt alive!’
‘If you accompany your husband on Agni’s wings to the heavenly world, you will be honoured as long as your memory lives. You will not be a widow, but Kasaka’s heavenly bride.’
‘It is not my fault that I am a widow. Father sold me and I have with all the power in me cared for Kasaka, pampered him. I kept him from every evil. I supported his old body so that no mishap should befall him because I had heard, Lord, that you would be paid twice for the funeral service if I were to be burnt with him.’
‘A woman who does not obey her husband is no better than a whore.’
‘I obeyed my husband to his last breath.’
‘Gopa, he will follow you like an evil demon, with every step you take, he will torment and frighten you, make your life unbearable, and not one of us will lend a hand to protect you.’
‘I do not ask for your protection. Let me go!’
‘Gopa, take your place beside your husband; the funeral fire waits to take you to better places than this one.’
The priest attempted to gently push her towards the pyre, but Gopa resisted desperately.
‘Give her something to drink! Here Gopa, drink this to become calmer and quietly think about what you should do. Drink, Gopa.’
Gopa drank. It was an intoxicating drink, and she spat out the next mouthful, refusing to drink any more.
‘You poison me, priest, you murder me! Help! Murderers!’
‘Come along, senseless woman, you resist more vehemently than an animal before its sacrifice.’
Yelling and screaming, Gopa tried to free herself from the hands that had grabbed her from all sides.
‘Sing out your prayers loudly! Beat the drums, blow your conches!’ commanded the priest furiously. A deafening roar rose from the troops who were watching the funeral. Powerless, her resistance weakening, she was dragged along, every scream of fear drowned out by the roar of the crowd and the noise of the drums. The priest went ahead while others followed with the helpless woman, terror-stricken and stunned, still weakly resisting, in the strong arms of the farmers. The jungle echoed the roar and clamour. When they lifted Gopa up and laid her down, wanting to tie her up next to the body of Kasaka, a last enraged shriek broke out of her lips. With the strength that only desperation can give one could hear clearly even above the yelling of the crowd and the thunder of the drums:
‘Shiva … God … save me from these murderers!’
Ashoka had observed the dreadful ceremony with growing anger. Quick as lightning, his thoughts leapt: intervene? And expose himself to the instigating priests? Man-and gods-dishonouring ceremony … his duty as the army commander … greedy priests … injustice to that brave woman. His name in Panchanada … Never! That he did not wish! He threw off his cloak and in his glittering royal dress he charged, his horse scattering the startled participants of the funeral ceremony, who ran to either side.
‘What do you want, Gopa?’
Gopa sat up, pushing her hair away from her eyes.
‘Lord … Shiva … I do not wish to be burned alive along with my dead husband.’ Great sobs broke out of her.
‘Who, in the kingdom of the mighty, holy Maharajah Bindusara, dares kill this woman against her will!’ Ashoka roared. Grabbing his gleaming chakra, he was ready to strike at anyone who dared to lay a hand on the girl.
No one said a word. The farmers threw themselves to the ground, folded their hands together and bowed their head, as if Shiva himself had descended from Mount Kailasha.
‘Stand up, Gopa.’ Quickly she slid down from the pyre and approached the Prince timidly.
He reached out to her, ‘Jump!’ And she swung herself onto the saddle in front of Ashoka, with a litheness and agility characteristic of her people. The Prince could still see the priest fervently muttering. Digging his spurs, Ashoka galloped off into the jungle and caught up with his army which was getting ready for the march. Revata had picked up his cloak and followed.
Ashoka handed Gopa over to the care of two female slaves, who took her to one of the carts and tried to calm her overwrought nerves.
The priests were inclined to see Ashoka more as a lustful Kshatriya than Shiva and muttered their terrible curses about the robber. They immediately sent a brahmacharin to a tribe of Khasas living in the jungle, known for their martial skills and plundering, to alert them that there was something to be earned. The priest promised a large reward if they punished the Kshatriya and brought Gopa back. The dark Khasas, agile and powerfully built, rode as though they and their horses were one. They eagerly followed the directions that had been given and soon understood that the trail led to the Emperor’s highway. From the farmers whom they met along the road, they heard that a Kshatriya had indeed ridden by with a woman, followed by a servant, heading in the indicated direction.
With their fast horses the Khasas were able to catch up with Ashoka’s, but realised that an open battle would be out of the question. At best they could seize the woman by a ruse. Riding at a terrific pace, they made a feint at the rear-guard and then swerved away. They repeated this manoeuvre several times, to arouse great curiosity. Soon, they knew in which cart Gopa was hidden. The army, however, continued to march, undisturbed and calm. Ashoka seemed to have barely noticed that a troop of horsemen had followed them. As they entered a narrow road, hemmed by an impenetrable jungle, the army was suddenly ordered to halt. Ashoka’s horsemen turned around and rode towards the Khasas with lances at the ready. Wanting to bolt, they instead found the way behind them barred by some ten elephants and a strong troop of cavalrymen that Ashoka had brought in through a side road. The Khasas looked at each other, dumbstruck. Ashoka mounted the royal elephant with Revata, who was carrying the parasol and approached the outwitted horsemen.
‘What do the brave warriors want? Who is your chief? … You? What do you want of the commander of Bindusara’s army?’
‘Nothing, My Liege. I am Sangala, the chief of these Khasas.’
‘Why do you hold up the imperial army?’
‘Lord, Gopa, Kasaka’s wife, has been stolen when she wanted to offer herself at the funeral pyre. We wanted to take her back and punish the bandit.’
Ashoka had the cart in which Gopa was sitting brought up.
‘Look here! Are you looking for this woman, who was almost poisoned by the priests?’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘Is she a slave?’
‘No, Lord. She is a free Arya.’
‘Does her husband want her back?’
‘No, her husband has died.’
‘Does Kasaka have a brother who wishes to take her as his wife?’
‘No, My Liege.’
‘Who then can force her to return?’
‘No one, Lord.’
‘Gopa, do you wish to return to the pyre on the Pishna to be burned with your dead husband?’
‘No! No, Lord!’
‘So you will not get her, Sangala, because she refuses. Furthermore, you want to punish me. I took Gopa. I am Prince Ashoka, presently army commander and thus sole judge in Panchanada, appointed by the Maharajah. I judge you, who thought to capture a free Kshatriya woman, to allow her to be killed. Lay down your weapons, all of you. So … here, this one from among your warriors has the thickest head of hair. Transfix him by his hair with your arrow, Sagka.’
Sagka made the Khasa stand against a large tree trunk, retreated twenty paces, drew his bow and shot the arrow through the hair, fixing it to the tree.
‘So Sagka … that was a beautiful shot.’
Then the Prince grabbed a chakra and sent it whizzing through the air and cut the whole of the head of hair of the Khasa, so that he was freed.
‘Do you want to fight us?’
‘No, O, Prince.’
‘Go then and return to the priests who sent you and tell them
that Gopa does not wish to be a Sati5, and that I, the sole judge of the Punjab, am above any punishment. Let them through, my soldiers.’
Ashoka’s men made way for them.
‘May I ask something, noble Prince?’
‘Speak.’
‘Will you take us into your army?’
‘So that you can betray us to the rebellious Takkas?’
‘Lord, you may first test our loyalty. We ourselves are Takkas and Khasas, and will tell them that you are a fair judge who tolerates no injustice in Panchanada.’
‘Good, get down from your horses. Now, kneel down on the road, bow your head in the dust towards the Far East where the holy Maharajah reigns, and repeat after me: ‘I will serve the Maharajah of Aryavarta … in Pataliputra … Bindusara, until the day I die. For any word of betrayal … that I ever speak … any deed of betrayal … that I ever commit … I will voluntarily pay with my life.’
All repeated the oath, word for word.
‘Then mount. You will ride in front of my horsemen.’
The army continued on its march after Ashoka had had the Khasa’s weapons carefully stored in a carriage.
Kullika then asked the Prince: ‘Is it safe to induct hostile rebels into the army?’
‘You tell me. You know I always act swiftly and on the spur of the moment. I did not think about it. If I have failed, understand me well, it is they who will be the victims.’
‘In that case, you have fulfilled your duty to your Father, the Maharajah.’
‘Yes.’
Ashoka’s army crossed yet three more rivers of the Land of Five Rivers, the Punjab, and then went over the Salt Mountains that stretched out from the Indus to where the Sinara River leaves the southern foothills of the Himalayas. They form the southern border of the great bowl in which Taxila forms the centre. Just before they had reached Çakala, the Prince said:
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