Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  ‘Are the people in festive spirits, honourable minister?’

  ‘Sire, see for yourself. Trust us.’

  Ashoka gave his permission while at the same time taking precautions to avoid any unpleasant surprises.

  War horns were blown, flutes played and drums beaten, announcing the beginning of the festivities. The Taxilans had already begun decorating their city as soon as Ushas sent her first red misty rays. When Ashoka, seated in the imperial howdah on the broad back of the royal elephant, Dadaka, rode out to watch the festival— followed by Kala, Vimalamitra, and other ministers all riding on richly caparisoned elephants—Taxila looked like a veritable garden of Eden. Garlands made of large, clear blue lianas were hung along the streets while fragile rare orchids hung from masts greeting the Prince. Boys and girls dressed in red and white, themselves looking like bright flowers, threw freshly picked flowers along the path of the Prince’s cavalcade. Wherever Ashoka turned, happy laughter greeted him. Jugglers, jesters, snake charmers, musicians—each stopped midway because the crowd hastened to hail the Maharajah’s son: ‘Raja Ashoka!’ … ‘Raja Ashoka!’ … ‘Hail Shiva!’

  ‘Do you hear, Shakuni? ‘Raja’! We ought to be astonished that they do not cry out, ‘Maharajah!’’ hissed Devaka.

  ‘If only they did, Lord! That would most certainly alarm Bindusara!’

  Devaka nodded. ‘Well put, young Brahmin. But maybe, something else would alarm the whole of Aryavarta, something that would cast him out. Come along, I have an idea.’

  Leaving the festivities behind, the two left the city and took the road leading to the leper colony.

  When they entered the enclosure, Shakuni paled and stopped short, horrified by what his eyes beheld: He saw a man whose nose, ears and one eye, in addition to an arm up to the elbow, had been eaten away by the disease; the rest of his body was also badly ravaged.

  ‘Come along. Do not be alarmed by what the wretch has brought upon himself by his sinful deeds in a previous life,’ said an irritated Devaka.

  ‘Is every misfortune then due to sin from a previous life? And does every sin carry seeds of misery in successive incarnations?’ asked a frightened Shakuni.

  ‘Every transgression against the religious canons finds it rightful punishment,’ lashed out Devaka. Shakuni cringed at the very idea.

  The leper had understood Devaka’s words. A screeching whistle suddenly resonated and from all sides, creatures—all of them horribly maimed—crawled and limped towards them. The man who had met them at the entrance now whispered something to the other lepers.

  ‘Priest! Priest!’ Devaka looked around him in alarm. Shakuni, legs trembling, quickened his steps. The doomed ones followed them menacingly.

  ‘What then was your sin, you, crippled priest with a stiff arm?’ mocked one of the lepers disabled and legless who dragged himself along with crutches.

  As Devaka caught up with Shakuni, cynical laughter followed them.

  ‘Leave the miserable to their misery!’

  The leper colony master drove back the wretched group and received the two priests. While Devaka explained the purpose of his visit, Shakuni glanced outside the room and saw a sweet-looking young girl dancing to a pleasant yet melancholic melody being played on a flute by a young boy. Her dance was so perfect and expressive that Shakuni was transfixed.

  ‘Sir!’ Devaka approached and keenly observed the scene for a long time: two young people amongst all these mutilated creatures … His hate had found a way out.

  ‘Are these children also lepers, master?’

  The master nodded. Devaka’s gold was enough for the master to break the colony’s strict rules and convince the leader of the entertainment troupe which was to perform that evening at the city’s park, to include both the children in the evening’s performance. He bought makeup and ordered the children to mask the disfigured areas of their skin so that nobody would notice.

  ‘Will this be good enough, Sir?’ asked the young boy, as he approached both Brahmins.

  ‘Stay back, foul sinners!’ snapped Devaka. ‘If you even touch one of us, your life will be in danger.’ The children, visibly upset, retreated. ‘Tonight, when Prince Ashoka or Prince Kala calls you to them, then you may approach and touch them.’

  ‘Our master has strictly forbidden us to do that.’

  ‘The master does not count there.’

  ‘And will the Princes not curse us?’

  ‘If you dance beautifully and play your roles well, they will caress you, maybe even give you a kiss. Then kiss their hands and touch their feet when you bow to them. And if you kiss them your reward will be great.’

  ‘What?’ asked Vjadi. ‘Sugar? And honey cakes?’

  ‘And the most beautiful jewelry you wish.’

  In her excitement, Vjadi moved towards Devaka to thank him for his kindness.

  ‘Stay where you are! You, impure and sinful creature! If you touch me or my friend I will hit you with my stick and you will not get any reward.’

  Vjadi cringed timidly. She recalled the time when, before being stricken by the disease, she used to be caressed whenever she laughed. Since she had become a leper she was either snapped at or cursed. She hid behind her friend. She hated these two men like everyone who had cast her aside: her parents, her friends, and even Prince Ashoka and Prince Kala whom she had not yet even met.

  Ashoka realised that riding atop his elephant would not allow him the chance to know the city well. After speaking to Revata, they went—disguised—to tour the city. They watched cockfights, goat-, ram- and dog-fights, and were astounded by the wild excitement to which the revelling crowd was led by the roused fury of the animals, and by their happy cries, when one animal wounded another, so it bled or was killed. When one dog jumped at the throat of another and clamped its jaws and the other yelped, trying to free itself from his blood-thirsty enemy to no avail, the onlookers had worked themselves up to a frenzy of laughter, spurring on the combatants. Ashoka took a step forward, but Revata held him back.

  ‘You merely wanted to know, not intervene, Sire,’ he whispered.

  Ashoka turned away, angered.

  Magicians, acrobats, and fortune-tellers attracted large groups of onlookers. Revata led the Prince to the temple, where terrified young goats were being sacrificed to giant snakes.

  Inebriating liquor was being served, as it was done in Pataliputra on popular festival days. Ashoka withdrew within himself and returned disappointed to the palace. In the afternoon, a performance was given in his honour at the Bactrian amphitheatre: music, song, dance, a fight between four dogs and a hungry lion. The lion, a beautiful young fiery animal, savagely paced the arena, its muscled body tense, eyes glittering, raising its heavy maned head every now and then while its twitching tail flicked this way and that against its flanks. Occasionally it would roar, beginning as a growl from deep within its throat then swelling into a mighty bellow that would both quell and thrill the excited crowds into silence. The lion paced, seemingly controlling the entire amphitheatre with its majestic presence.

  ‘This is the most beautiful animal I ever saw, my Kullika! Where do all these beautiful forms come from?’

  ‘Lord, would it be enough if I quote from the Brhadaranyaka Upanishad? The Atman was originally neither male nor female, man nor woman, but the undivided unity of both. That oneness divided itself: the man became the creating will, the woman the form. In procreation they reunited. Then, the woman fled and hid herself in the many forms of animals: cow, horse, donkey, goat, sheep, elephant, lion, down to the ants. But the willing Atman followed her through all forms and so they brought forth the first ones of every kind of animal. Thus, in all that lives is the embodiment of the Atman.’

  Ashoka had barely time to ponder what Kullika had just said when, suddenly, four dogs were let loose into the arena. The lion crouched, ready to leap. The dogs charged furiously at the lion. When the lion swatted at one of them with its enormous paws and opened its mouth for the fatal bite, the other do
gs backed off and instantly charged again, wounding the lion. The lion was forced to face another of its attackers with an identical result. Grabbing one dog and slamming it to the ground the others would snap and hamper him. The dogs were unrelenting in their attacks. The savagery of the animals, their all-piercing growls, roars and yelps of pain, filled the arena.

  The Prince sat up straight. His gaze travelled from the attackers to the excited spectators. Where was the bloodlust … here or there? Where the wildness? Where the cause … blame? Whose eyes were those that widened most, those of the men who incited the beasts or those of the animals that raged senselessly? What was the very purpose of this fight? Sheer enjoyment, lust … but lust for what? The fight went on. None of the animals would tear itself loose from the enemy as each wanted the death of its opponent. Why all this needless savagery?

  The lion began to show signs of exhaustion; blood flowed from its many wounds. The dogs pressed forward their attack, certain of victory. Ashoka raised a hand briefly as if to halt the proceedings.

  ‘Sire, they will see this as weakness! Take it in but do not interfere,’ whispered Kullika and Revata raised the imperial umbrella protectively over his master.

  Ashoka let his hand drop slowly. Only the two of them knew what was going on inside the mind of the ruler of Taxila.

  Hamstrung, the hindquarters of the lion gave in, his paws slashed but weakly at his attackers until exhaustion overcame him and the dogs moved in for the kill. The crowd screamed, jumping up and down in savage ecstasy.

  ‘They have the blood of tigers in their veins, Sire,’ remarked one of the ministers, referring to the exulting crowd.

  The Prince stood up and left even as excited crowd cried out: ‘Raja Ashoka! Hail Shiva!’

  ‘I hear that you have watched our people as a father does his children, Sire. May I ask your impression of our city and inhabitants?’ asked the most senior minister when they had returned to the palace.

  ‘Your people are as rough as those of the East, Vimalamitra.’

  ‘Perhaps worse?’

  ‘No. But what will soften them—here, there—it cannot be the priests of the East nor can it be the freedom of the West. Which of the gods protect the people, the animals, against that cruel selfishness, Vimalamitra? Something is lacking in mankind …’

  ‘Sire, tonight I will bring the wisest people of Taxila to your palace.’

  Ashoka experienced time and again with increasing surprise the differences in the way of life and views on society and religion between the East and the West. There, hemmed in by the Brahmanical hegemony; while here, an openness, with movements flowing without hindrance. But then the first and foremost weakling would inevitably bring forth a shift… Sumana. The great empire of Chandragupta and Bindusara would crumble and fall apart. Could he let that happen? But how could he be assured of unification if he attained power? Suppression of the people’s free will here? Or, of the priesthood there? Force upon people what he thought to be right? Or, the servility of Madhyadesa in the West? One was just as foolish as the other! What then? What then?

  The ministers of Taxila had invited the most important people in the city to attend the festivities at Ashoka’s palace. Rich merchants, scholars, government employees, and respected priests all went to the home of the army commander. Vimalamitra had employed a large number of men to provide lighting for the park with torches, lamps, and beautiful firework. Gopa, Raumi and Tungi, along with other young girls, went about offering refreshments to the guests while Prince Kala supervised the guards who had been posted all around the park. The grassy area near the lotus pond with its reddish pink lotuses was to be the stage on which Sivadhatta’s players would perform. The pond had been partly covered in the morning with a dance floor just below the surface which was invisible to the onlookers.

  As Ashoka was returning from the tour of the illuminated city, he was greeted even more vociferously by cries of, ‘Hail Raja Ashoka!’ and ‘Hail Shiva!’

  Ashoka reflected on the mindless savagery he had seen earlier that day. What was it that was lacking in these people? But the sight of all these happy young people, the bright colours and the cheerful festive mood, moved him. Many highly placed Taxilans visited the Prince in his tent. A number of sages and scholars accompanied Vimalamitra, among them the Vedic scholar, Vasudeva; the yogi, Bhava; Salya, who belonged to the school of Saankhyan philosophy, the Buddhist scholar, Mati, and the philosopher Purna, the materialist.

  ‘The wisdom of these men flows out from Taxila and envelopes the entire Indian country, O, Prince.’

  ‘Wisdom has only value if it enhances the happiness of living and feeling beings. Who amongst you, honourable scholars, has acquired so much wisdom that he can free us from the confusing chaos of the cruelty of men, the selfishness of priests, the hate between peoples, the lack of protection of animals, the misery of the Chandalas, intolerance towards other creeds? What is it that India lacks?’

  The scholars were greatly impressed by the straightforward manner in which Ashoka posed his challenging question, in the process, circumventing speculative philosophies.

  The sound of the heavy dole was heard and Sivadhatta’s players appeared on stage, respectfully prostrating in the direction of the army commander. Crowds converged from all sides placing themselves, some on the grassy field, and waited. The strings of the veena being plucked hummed in the air, dulcet tones wafted over the park. Sivadhatta knew from years of experience how to give a beautiful performance. He had trained his players himself. Often, he devised his own plays. So, he had skilfully enlisted Vjadi as a dancer and Vadha as a musician into his troupe and this had helped him reap a rich reward from the strange priest. Just on the other side of Ashoka’s seat which was decorated with colourful flowers he had constructed a cave, the entrance of which went under the pond and led to the kingdom of the Nagas, deep under the city of Taxila. Meanwhile, as preparations were going on, the female slaves sprayed rose water from Iran and sprinkled sandalwood powder from Bharuch.

  A priest appeared on stage. All kneeled to receive his blessings.

  ‘May the blessings of Shiva, the creator of life, who holds the world together with his dance of life and fills the space with his movement reside in you and may Kama Ananga1 chase away the ones who would disturb Shiva Shambhu in his blissful meditations; may Ganesha brighten your mind and Kumara mount his peacock that spreads the protective fan of its tail over Bindusara’s empire. May all happiness from Shiva be bestowed upon you …’

  Sivadhatta appeared:

  ‘Enough! Hello, Marisha!’

  ‘Here I am, Sir.’

  ‘I suggest that you perform a nataka2 that will fascinate the high rulers of Taxila.’

  ‘But a nataka should deal with a serious subject, Sivadhatta, and Taxila is in a joyous haze. Where would you find the right players to perform a drama when the people would rather watch a comic satire—since all of us are in a festive mood—in this happy city to which a young Raja had offered his wisdom.’

  ‘But all will long to hear of Vjadi’s terrible fate and the players are dying to show their art to the Prince from the Mauryan dynasty whose fame shall rule for centuries to come.

  Listen. Do you not hear that melancholic lamenting? We are here in the park of Pasenadi, King of Kosala, and that is the lamentation of his Rani, Padmavathi. She is a devi for the poor and now sends forth her lamentations to the gods.’

  ‘How can a Rani who has acquired so much karma express dissatisfaction, Sir! For the highest bliss awaits her after this life.’

  ‘Hush! You do not know the tragic story of Padmavathi and Pasenadi!’

  In his previous life, Pasenadi once went hunting and killed a deer that happened to be the reincarnation of a rishi. The dying rishi cursed Pasenadi. Meanwhile, Padmavathi—as the housewife of the hermit— inadvertently placed a heavy jug on the head of a snake and thereby killing it. The dying snake also cursed Padmavathi, disclosing to her that she was actually the daughter of the King of
the Nagas, whose city lay deep under Taxila. Both were thus cursed. From then on, Pasenadi went on to live as an ascetic, accumulating karma that would reach the skies. Padmavathi did the same, by offering her life to the recluse so that they were reborn under more fortunate circumstances. Pasenadi ascended the throne as King and Padmavathi became his wife. But they had no children; it was to be the punishment accorded by the gods.

  Their life was so holy, the blessings for the people so great, their offerings so abundant, that the gods remained continuously pleased. The god Varuna felt moved, and though denying them a son, blessed them with a daughter. However, the King of the Nagas demanded that when the girl would turn twelve years, she should be given to him as a sacrifice for the loss of his own daughter. The gods were angry, but the Naga-Raja was unmoved.

  Now Vjadi is almost twelve. You shall play the role of Pasenadi’s first minister and friend.’

  ‘Anything else, Lord?’

  ‘I hope everyone will listen with interest and watch the play that I, Sivadhatta, devised especially for this feast and I hope I may earn the respect of the honourable Prince and all the dignitaries that have assembled here in the park of the gracious Maurya.’

  At first, Ashoka had listened with interest but the impressions of the day did not leave his mind and he turned once again to the wise men.

  ‘Well, Vasudeva, what is it, in your opinion, that India lacks?’

  ‘Lord, the four Vedas, the Brahmanas, the Laws of Manu, the Mahabharata and the Ramayana are the revealed wisdom of the gods. The rishis were the vehicles for these revelations, so that the citizens of India would abide in their wisdom. The priests are to learn the Vedas and perform the sacrifices, the Kshatriyas protect the priests, the Vaishyas work and make offerings, and the Shudras serve the other castes. Each Aryan shall undergo four stages of life: brahmacharin, householder, forest hermit, and sannyasin. If he is led on an inward spiritual path by Vedanta towards the world-soul, the universal spirit, if he has encountered the awesomeness of that Brahman, the Atman, and has turned his back on all earthly maya, then his journey is complete. When every desire has left, his self dissolves into the All, like the river is lost in the ocean, name and form laid aside, he is released. Tat Tvam Asi, says the Chandogya Upanishad.’