‘Come, Father, we know that by now. I would have preferred he took the caravan road from Krishnapura to Makeri through the west. Then he could set to work immediately and we would not have to receive him: ugly, savage, and indifferent to what is sacred, and to women … a danger to the Maharajah … at least, so said our friendly guest last week. Let him scare robbers on sea and on land, and condemn corrupt traders to death, if he likes that so much. We only have to show him respect because he is the son of Emperor Bindusara, is it not?’
‘Keep quiet about the Brahmin Shakuni. Do not mention his name again. That man with his lustful eyes displeases me more than anything else!’
‘Not me, my Father. It has been a very long time since we had such a cheerful and friendly guest.’
Together they walked over to the stables through the park, which was bursting with blossoms of flowers after the rains. A few dark, curly-haired slaves were grooming elephants and horses with cooling water and leather strips until their hides gleamed. The ceremonial harnesses were tended to, as well as the howdas and the palanquins. Gardeners were spurred to work in great haste, tending the parks; in the palace, too, everyone was busy arranging things to welcome the son of the holy Maharajah, as befitting his dignity.
At night, a messenger came in to report that the Prince would be in Vidisha the next day. The camp was five yodhjanas away. The work was intensified: the slaves and the nobles—all felt the pressure. Throughout the city Subhadra made announcements that the Viceroy of Ujjain would be arriving the next day and that everyone must pay the guest the honour that which was due to him.
Ushas had barely coloured the eastern heavens red—Surya’s rays were still clouded in mist—when Ashoka’s camp rose and began preparations for their entry into Vidisha. The Maharajah wanted each entry to be made with great splendour. Each city must be thoroughly overwhelmed by the power, greatness and wealth of the Mauryas. The small army set off in perfect order, richly and elegantly liveried, the royal elephant adorned with heavy gold-embroidered coverings. Ashoka, who had been on horseback for most of the journey, now dressed in his royal dress of white and gold, rode the elephant, sitting in the shining howdah. When the mist faded under the rays of the rising sun, he saw from a distance every now and then the slender towers of Vidisha’s walls emerge, hidden by the palms high above the reed-filled shores of the Netravati.
Vidisha … he had traveled through and been welcomed with honour, in city after city … after all, he was the Viceroy of the land, a representative of the mightiest Emperor of the world. This tedious, ceremonial march bored him. The journey made him lazy. Sometimes he rode on ahead on horseback, riding up and down the hills or disappearing from view of the troops to a distant plateau, while the army marched slowly and ceremoniously, solemnly on. Then, he could be alone with his thoughts… Was he being put away in Ujjain? Did his father fear him? He had the feeling that Bindusara was keeping his motives a close-guarded secret. Sumana consulted fortune-telling priests to know what the future would bring. He, Ashoka, did not have any faith in these charlatans. Sayana was fifty times wiser than all the fortune-tellers put together, and he said that he knew nothing, nothing of the future. Should he, Ashoka, then believe anything at all yet that those sacrificial gluttons said? It would depend on himself what his life became. Would he allow the Mauryas to be ruined, let India fall apart, let whole groups of people despair, let raging wars tear the country apart? More clearly than ever before, he felt that the gods, or Brahma, no, Shiva … his own soul, urged him, compulsively, irresistibly urged him, to seize power when Bindusara was no longer there. To let events run their course would truly be the death of him. If Shiva had wished so, he could have felled him with one glimpse of his eye, one lightning ray on the ‘Barren Mountain’, when he had offered Him his body.
In the distance, yet another parade approached to welcome him into the city! He was going to Malwa to establish order, not to receive tributes. It was not he they honoured, neither his deeds, at most, it was fear of him. The Maharajah demanded it. For the enjoyment of power? Fear, that the people would not respect the power of the Emperor? Why that enjoyment of power? Why does man ask for respect? Great cavalcades? Obedience to the government! That is what he would demand, and nothing else! Which Raja now awaited to honour his father again, by lavishing hospitality upon the order of the Emperor! Security, at the order of the Emperor? If only Kullika were here! He would make it acceptable to him that it is necessary and proper for the country that a prominent subject—by grace of the Emperor prominent—should warmly welcome him, the Viceroy. Kullika! He felt lonely amongst all these strangers. Thousands of subjects! Ujjain. Work for Bindusara’s vast lands and people, nay, peoples! A duty repeated a thousand times, not to be opposed, because of its necessity: protecting the people from themselves, since they still grovel before the priests who suck them dry; protecting them from the Maharajah who sends forth greedy mahamatras. Governance! Should that not be: protecting the weak, the people, animals, forests, from the men in power who have for centuries been trampling on the souls and bodies of those people, driving them to a state where all of life’s joy and cheer were smothered by fear, as the priests smothered the poor animals. The Maharajah protects the priests with his laws of injustice, protects the palace officers who take what is not theirs from defenceless Vaishyas and from Shudras, cast out into the wasteland of society; or the despised Chandalas, discarded from all varnas by the priests because their ancestors refused to be harnessed to the yoke of varnas. Are they not human beings? If not, then what? And at whose behest, of the priests? Is that governance? Was it for this that the Maharajah of the glorious India, anointed with the greatest gifts, was elevated to sainthood? Anointed to sainthood! For days, he had trekked through hills and fields, ever farther away from the Ganga, contemplating, devising, seeking and not finding. Strike down all that stands to profit at the cost of another? Impossible! Leave everything the way it is, and try to ease some of the suffering here and there? Impossible! Teach the people, so they gain insight into why they are overpowered by the Brahmins and the Kshatriyas? Impossible! Teach Sayana’s wisdom to all people? Impossible! What then, what then, Kullika? Instigate, cowardly and on the sly, their minds against their oppressors, like the priests do … Impossible! Divide and apportion the country to Sumana, Sampadi, Sayadra, Dravada and his other pampered brothers: Impossible! He himself would rule, no, govern! The procession nears as Ashoka’s thoughts continue. A minor king or chief of the local government … the country is teeming with small kings who besmirch their souls by snatching riches from the huge human herd, instead of eradicating poverty, hunger, sickness and drought.
Yonder, they are coming, riding on elephants, of course. Even if they preferred horses, Rajas ride on elephants! After all, he did as well. What a grand sight! The gold and gemstones of the saddle coverings sparkled in the morning sun, a play of colours ranging from a deep gleaming blue, a glowing red, to a purple splendour. The elephant’s ivory tusk fitted with shining yellow metal ornaments. Beautiful women, or daughters, or female slaves in the palanquin … The drums rumble, the conches blare, the flutes trill their melancholic songs, like they do everywhere where rich Rajas journey through the fields of the Vaishyas. Vaishyas who are forced to offer until they have nothing more left to give. This is the way the Maharajah wants it: Coerced exhibition of respect, bowing down towards the ground. And Kullika says that all these things are the supporting pillars of the great, solid building of the Mauryan empire. But it is the very loud laughter that belies the grief and suffering.
Subhadra brought his daughter before the Viceroy. From her howda, Devi looked on seriously at Ashoka, haughty as a priestess. She knew that a woman’s golden laugh would normally inflame a man’s heart; yet that was not what she wished. She already knew Ashoka—from Shakuni’s stories—long before she saw him. Ashoka’s face in profile displayed the imperturbable, stony hardness of the son of the Maurya, who was one with the Emperor. But in his young heart his blood
raced at the sight of her. Exactly that earnestness and pride! It was as though Madri of Mathura was standing right here, cool and haughty, as if he would demand her! Why should this one not want him? Sheer coquetry? She was as beautiful as Madri: a fine oval face, soft, black shining hair, slim, youthful vigour and a grace as if Kama had created her just for himself. She bowed to escape his piercing gaze but rose instantly again, proud, and looked at him, while her clear eyes widened, intensifying the intelligence of her face. Ashoka came very close to her, bowed slightly, and—as fury flickered across his face—he said pointedly but only loud enough for her to hear and no one else:
‘How ugly does the Princess Devi find the Wild Prince of Pataliputra, and how savage that wild warrior, and how uninterested in sacredness and women, and how great a danger to the Maharajah?’
Devi’s eyes widened in fright. His mocking smile pierced painfully into her soul, like Kama’s arrow. How did this Prince know what she thought, had just yesterday said? Shiva? Ashoka was turning away from her when she spoke softly:
‘I was never told that Prince Ashoka had such beautiful eyes, and a tiger is as savage as Brihaspati made him but a man is as wild as he himself wants to be, high Prince.’
Ashoka felt a slight tremour.
‘Only once in my life has a woman dared to praise my eyes, beautiful Devi,’ he said, calmer now.
‘Am I too forthright if I ask who?’
‘Madri of Mathura, beautiful as Ushas. She died the same night,’ he said, his voice as cold as his face.
‘Died!’ Devi became frightened. The Brahmin Shakuni was right then, when he called him a savage.
‘I do not understand why a woman has to die because she praises the eyes of a Prince.’
‘She died because she did not want me,’ said Ashoka calmly, his voice light and mocking.
Devi looked at the Prince. Her face did not even hide her feeling of outrage for this man who seemed to lack all sense. Would she, too, have to die if he wanted her and she refused?
‘I thank the beautiful Princess kindly that she accompanied her father to meet a Prince of whom she had undoubtedly not heard very kind things.’
Ashoka turned again to her father and Devi was once again bewildered by his words. Those were not the words of a savage! At most, those are words of one who had been offended; and one who had a right to feel offended! Not a single kind thought had yet come to her about him; thoughts of obligation, of disapproval, of curiosity maybe, not mere curiosity for a stranger, but for the stranger who had been portrayed as a vain being, usurping power, insensitive to the rights of others. Was any of that true? He had the strong-willed eyes of a ruler; what was the goal of such wilfulness? The Brahmin Shakuni, to whom Father had granted hospitality for some time, said that Prince Ashoka respected no laws, spared no Brahmin, and had crushed the rights of the eldest son. He also said the Prince had quelled the rebellion in Taxila not through valour but with cunning trickery. The Dasyus had pushed the waters of the Indus higher than ever and flooded the harvest fields to punish the people who had welcomed the Prince festively. He wanted to throw aside Prince Sumana, an honest and devout man, who obeyed the Maharajah and the priests and was no rufian like Ashoka. The Emperor had, however, recalled the wild one and appointed the good Prince Sumana as the Viceroy of Taxila. She had believed the friendly young Brahmin all too easily, anguishing over the domination of evil in this world. But now she vacillated. Prince Ashoka was too deliberate, too calm, too self-assured in his actions, too precise in his words to be as wild, devious, and dishonest as the Brahmin Shakuni wanted her to believe. She felt ashamed now and regretted her unkind attitude. This Prince was, after all, the Viceroy of Ujjain, was he not? It is a position regarded as very important by the Maharajah.
Ashoka did not seem to be thinking of her any longer. He was in an animated discussion with Subhadra, who knew everything about life in Ujjain. He talked about the caravans that travelled constantly from the seaports to Ujjain, and about the merchandise from foreign lands that they distributed all along the trade routes in every post of Bindusara’s empire. The Prince was thirsty for knowledge, keen in judgement, and asked many appropriate questions with the result that he soon knew much more of the situation in the western lands than Subhadra had actually intended to tell him.
Ila welcomed the Prince and the commanders with great warmth. She surrounded him with a care that touched the suspicious Maurya. His mistrust had no chance of spreading its black wings. After he had bathed and dressed, Subhadra invited him to their reception hall, where Ila, Devi and a few ministers and their wives, sons and daughters were present to meet the new young Viceroy. Ashoka had a friendly word for all the women and young men but avoided Devi. Then he asked the ministers about their work, income, expenses, administration of justice, how workers necessary for the palace were found and trained. He listened with untiring interest to the smallest details. To their great surprise, he knew much about conditions, to which they had hardly ever given a thought.
Ila had offered the Prince fruit, cakes, wine, and the refreshing juice of mangoes. She knew that, while travelling, a son of the ruling Maharajah would take nothing without being certain that it was safe. For this reason she said: ‘Honoured King, it is the custom of this house that the hostess shares with a prominent guest the food that is offered. Would this be acceptable to you?’
‘I would be pleased, honourable Ila. It will taste twice as enjoyable then.’ Ashoka broke a piece of cake in two and offered Ila one of the halves.
‘First, you, my Prince, as you are our guest.’
Devi, inconspicuous, kept Ashoka in her view; she saw how he was struck by her mother’s hospitality, and observed the deference with which he treated her and other women. Towards her, however, he remained cool, hardly giving a glance. Ila noticed it as well and as an accomplished hostess, tried to include Devi in taking care of her guest.
‘Come, Devi, you may offer the Viceroy of Ujjain the most delicious fruit that our land has to offer. Take two.’ Blushing, Devi sprang up, took a golden bowl filled with two big ripe peaches and approached the guest shyly.
‘Would you like to share these fruits with me, honoured King?’
‘No hands more beautiful than yours have ever offered me a more delicious fruit from India, Princess Devi. You take the first.’
‘Our hospitality does not allow it, honoured King,’ she apologised. The Prince looked at the beautiful figure of the girl, standing before him in her radiant youth. In contrast to many of the Princesses whom he had met in the last few weeks, she was modestly adorned. Intentionally! The thought occurred to him in a flash. But neither did she wear too little, and the effect was that it all served to enhance her rare beauty. Anklets of the finest jade adorned her slim ankles. Delicate bracelets of gold, embedded with softly gleaming turquoise from Iran, clasped her full arms. Her black hair, entwined with cool pearls from Lanka, was tastefully wound around her head. And the blush that suffused her cheeks was like the dewy red of both peaches. The thin dhoti of the finest Kashi-muslin barely concealed the slender form of her lithe figure. All this gave her an attractiveness that struck Ashoka deeper than Devi was aware of.
‘Your glow is softer than the down of this peach, beautiful Devi, your friendliness more fragrant than its bouquet. So, I offer you this splendid fruit as a symbol and take the other for myself.’
‘The splendour of both will soon pass, Lord; the fragrance of friendliness and fruit fade as quickly as floral nectar in the spring breeze. If the pit, the soul, contains no worthwhile, higher forces, then both are worthless.’
‘I shall plant the pit in the park of my palace, beautiful Devi, and keep an anxious eye on it to see which of you wears the most glorious blossom.’
Devi took her place again in silence. Had Shakuni deceived her? Why? Those eyes could kindle like Agni’s searing fire on its altar, but there was peace within, certainty; there was no longer a trace of an offended Prince.
A messenger of Ashok
a’s was announced.
‘May I receive him here, Subhadra?’
‘With great pleasure, honoured Raja. We shall leave you alone.’
‘Please stay here, my Subhadra, ha, Jala … you bring news from Kullika!’
Devi felt how his voice betrayed emotion. Who was Kullika?
‘Yes, Lord, Kullika sends his greetings. He has recovered. On the very day that I arrived he left for his journey to Ujjain. He hopes to meet you there as soon as possible.’
‘Wonderful, Jala, can he bear the long journey?’
‘Surely, Lord, I have, upon your orders, offered him a steady elephant but Kullika wanted to travel on horseback so as to reach Ujjain faster. He has completely recovered.’
‘Is he being well cared for?’
‘Just as you ordered, Lord.’
‘Go to the camp, Jala. You are exhausted. Bathe, eat and rest. We will leave later for Ujjain. I am very sorry, my Subadhra, that I can enjoy only briefly the hospitality of the lovely Ila and you.’
Devi was disappointed that he did not mention her. She, however, understood. He was disturbed by her attitude. Shakuni, naturally, was an enemy of the Prince and had tried to harm him with untruths and she had believed that wretched, amorous Brahmin.
‘Sire, the Maharajah has instructed us to comply with all your wishes on your travels. Meeting you has been such a pleasure but I would have valued a longer stay.’
‘I understand that your meeting with Kullika must take place as soon as possible, however much we would like to persuade the Maharajah and you of our devotion,’ added Ila.
‘Yes, my divine hostess Ila. I would like to stay here, but Kullika has been my guru. He became ill when I made my hasty return from Taxila to Pataliputra. I had to travel on and leave him behind. Now I feel remorse since the trip was too difficult for him. I myself want to welcome him in Ujjain. Kullika is my greatest friend and will be my purohita. I long to see him but more than anything else, he needs my special care.’
Ashoka the Great Page 32