Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  Before the rising of Surya, the hunting party was ready. Several Princes, Princesses and Ranis, were seated on elephants or in the chariots. Tishia was in charge. Swift and impulsive in his movements, his demeanour radiated the joy of the decision of his brother and of the hunting party in the tingling early morning hours. At last, the young Maharajah and Rani Karuvaki came out of the palace into the grey light of the morning haze, whose soft mist wafted through the imperial park. Karuvaki had wrapped herself in pure white muslin; a large gold-yellow shawl, embroidered with jade and turquoise, fell over her head and was completely wrapped around her, to protect her against the fresh coolness of the morning. Jampa patiently waited with his light load.

  ‘Come, Mahindra, are you not dressed for the hunt?’ the Rani called out to Ashoka’s half-brother.

  ‘Permit me to stay behind, beautiful Rani; I do not like the hunt.’

  ‘You do not know what you disdain, Mahindra!’

  ‘You do not know what you are committing, beautiful Rani.’

  Kuravaki laughed. ‘Kautilya deems it useful; it chases away gloom, bile and fat. It trains the sharp eye and teaches us about the ways of the wild animals. He calls the hunt a sacred right of the Maharajah.’

  ‘Ahimsa, not to kill, is the sacred duty of the human being.’

  The party started moving and proceeded stately through the awakening city. Startled by the stamping horses, the inhabitants rushed to see the imperial company and to greet it respectfully. It did not disturb the Maharajah that there were also many who went their way with impassive faces, seemingly unimpressed by the lively scene of male and female riders who were trying to keep their skittish horses under check behind the imperial elephants. When they had left the city behind, they moved faster along the route of the hunt that was marked by pennants and where rows of foot-soldiers were keenly on guard. Ushas painted with glowing red the cheerful hunting party. Karuvaki’s eyes were gleaming with happiness. When Ashoka looked at her, she smiled gratefully at him and could hardly control her limbs with the pulsing of her blood.

  ‘And the disquiet of your heart, my Rani?’

  ‘O, Sire, it is back to its usual steady beat! Only it cannot bear that I am sitting here so stately on the gold-plated howdah under the purple canopy!’

  At the first hilltop Ashoka made them stop and all dismounted. The first sun rays, the Ashvins, shot along the eastern sky, Ushas opened the hazy veil and Surya rose slowly, in full splendour over the dewy meadows along the Son.

  All bowed to its splendour. Kuravaki threw off her yellow veil and stretched out her finely shaped arms to the deity, as if to grasp the warmth that radiated on to a bared breast.

  ‘O, Sun goddess,

  Queen of heaven and earth,

  Thou, who gives us light,

  Thou who gives us strength,

  Holy, holy art thou!’

  She knelt down and swiftly rose again.

  ‘Now, further on horseback, gracious Maharajah!’

  ‘Let it be as you wish, my Karuvaki.’

  Her laughter reverberated over the jungle road, her arms and agile body moving rhythmically with the trotting horse. The high company maintained their unruffled faces but the Maharajah felt charmed by the spontaneous joy of this radiant jungle-daughter.

  ‘Anga, Sir! Now Surya rejoices!’ He laughed at her; his eyes drinking in the loveliness of her bubbling, youthful zest for life.

  When they arrived at the field of the hunt she jumped off her horse, rushing ahead of the others to the platform. From all sides resounded now the calls, cries and tom-toms of the beaters. The routed animals dashed away, fearfully disappearing into the bushes, appeared again, stood still in the wide, open clearing, trembling desperately, sensing the danger that threatened their jungle.

  The slaves brought out bows and arrows. Karuvaki was the first one to take a huge bow, place the arrow on the string, and pull. Ashoka saw how her face had changed, had become more energetic, how her eyes became fixed as they measured the distance to a young deer that had raised its head, as if seeking escape; suddenly the animal stumbled and fell. People cheered the shot; the female guards and army commanders followed her example and everywhere the animals that had been targeted for the game were felled: peacocks, hares, mongoose, deer. Nothing was spared. A wild boar, wild-eyed, rooted around restlessly, grunting fiercely amidst the frightened victims. Karuvaki drove her deadly arrows into its tough hide, without killing it. As if the animal understood from where the torment came it charged the platform, crashing into the poles, while blood from its wound coursed down its brown hair. The Rani recoiled for a moment; Ashoka hefted a chakra and killed the enraged boar with one throw. More and more animals were driven onto the clearing in front of the tall stand with the hunters, and more and more fell under the shooting on the killing-ground of the animals.

  Suddenly, a slim figure appeared from the forest, a long, ashen-yellow robe enveloping his body, the left shoulder and arm lying uncovered. Straight and firm he strode along, now and then turning his face to the hunters, unconcerned about their arrows. An unutterably sad glance touched the Maharajah, who looked on in amazement at the calmness with which the bhikshu risked the flight of the arrows. He knelt down by a bleating young goat that was lying on the grass, an arrow stuck to its wounded body and despair in its agonised eyes, its long neck arched over. Cautiously, the bhikshu removed the arrow that pierced the goat’s body, staunched the flow of blood and tied a cloth around the wound. He lifted the moaning animal and brought it to the edge of the forest, where he laid it down lovingly. Then he looked for other wounded animals amongst the many corpses, easing their pain, bandaging them and whispering consoling words in their ears. All bows on the platform were lowered. Startled, everyone glanced at the Maharajah, because this audacious violation of the hunt could be punishable by death. A slave approached the bhikshu.

  ‘The Maharajah requests you, venerable bhikshu, to appear before him.’

  ‘Tell your Maharajah that the suffering of the defenceless ones demands the time of the bhikshu Kashapagotha.’

  Unperturbed, the bhikshu continued his work, looking no more at the glorious company. A wounded young deer staggered up at his approach, wanting to flee, fell down again, moved away from his rescuer in great pain, and stumbled over the body of a peacock. Then a deeply-moved ‘Come here, Maithili’2, struck him. The animal stood still, waited anxiously shaking for the tall human being. The bhikshu bent over it, stroked it softly, and took it cautiously in his arms.

  At this moment the Maharajah stood by his side.

  ‘Do you not fear the arrows of the hunters, venerable bhikshu?’

  ‘Did you ask all these animals if they feared your arrows, O Maharajah?’

  ‘But you possess your manas to stay outside the hunt.’

  ‘So, these simple revelations of the Atman are doubly vulnerable: because they are not armed and because their manas does not enable them to stay out of the reach of the weapons, which you direct at them, safely armed, and from the safe height of your platform, hence doubly safe … cheering, when your double invincibility strikes at their double defencelessness, O, mighty Maharajah.’

  ‘You, who violate the hunt of the Maharajah, dare reproach a cheering Rani her rightful happiness, doubly safe behind your monk’s robe and your disregard for death?’

  ‘I do not reproach the boar his wildness, nor the arrow its speed, nor the lamb its suffering, nor the Rani her happiness, nor the Maharajah his lawful hunt. But let me be as the Bhagavana, the Sublime One, as the one who lifts up what has fallen down, lays bare what is covered up, who shows the road to the one who has lost it, who keeps a lamp in the darkness, so that he, who has eyes, can see.3 May the mighty Maharajah be aware that he is the highest one in the world; that his high Majesty, hence his opinion, his attitude towards Atman and its unfolding are declared sacred, the highest in might and will. Either the material, or the spiritual, or the form-free conception of the own self, shapes the example for hi
s subjects. But one of the three excludes the others.’

  ‘Your courage is great, venerable Kashapagotha.’

  ‘My compassion for the suffering of beings is greater, Sire.’

  Ashoka beckoned a slave.

  ‘Give the signal that the hunt is over.’

  A black bear, provoked by the beaters, came charging out of the jungle and dashed with great speed towards the two men, then rose on its hind legs, attempting to crush Kashapagotha in its embrace. Ashoka’s chakra flew to the animal’s throat.

  ‘The hunt was finished, O, Maharajah.’

  ‘But not the protection of my subjects, venerable Kashapagotha.’

  ‘I did not ask you for protection, Sire.’

  ‘The idea, foolish bhikshu! To imagine that I, in my great empire, protected only those who asked for it! I will give you five slaves with unguents and pure materials to help you.’

  ‘These helpless creatures, gracious Maharajah!’ But Ashoka turned his back on him. The hunting party left. Karuvaki was seated in the howdah alone, swaying to the rhythm of Jampa’s heavy gait. Ashoka, astride his horse, tarried awhile and, pondering, looked at the hunting fields. Kashapagotha, together with the slaves, carried away the last of the wounded animals. Black eagles soared in mighty circles high in the air. The surrounding trees were weighed down from the heavy host of ravens and vultures, which, called by the scent of blood, had come sailing from afar to the field. Like arrows they shot towards the booty that had been discarded by the Maharajah.

  Towards evening, Ashoka walked through the park on his own, where the radiant Ashoka-tree stood. Ashoka, free-of-sorrow! Angrily he quickened his pace: all the blossoms beaten down, trampled around. The tree with broken limbs, the broken branches pointing towards the sky as though they were wringing their hands. Hatred against the ashoka … Ashoka? He sped to the house of Satyavat.

  ‘Rohini, who destroyed the Ashoka-tree?’

  ‘Sire … some five women from the anthapura. When you were at the hunt.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Two Princesses, Jaloka and Vardani, and three others I do not know.’

  Ashoka strode to the anthapura. His voice thundered through the halls.

  ‘All women from the anthapura, come to the big hall!’

  Female slaves bustled nervously around with frightened faces, to warn all.

  ‘Who destroyed the Ashoka-tree in my park?’ A painful silence; no one answered. The Maharajah examined the faces, now taut with fear.

  ‘Jaloka!’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  ‘Who did you say?’

  ‘Yes, gracious Maharajah.’

  ‘Who else? Who else? Vardani!’

  ‘Yes, gracious Maharajah.’

  ‘Now the other three! In the name of Shiva!’ An incensed Ashoka grabbed his sword. A tremor went through the people present. Three women crept on their knees towards him and threw themselves before him. He raised the weapon. Subhadrangi came near.

  ‘My son, they are your kin.’

  ‘Now, however, I am the Maharajah, who does justice, Mother Subhadrangi!’

  ‘I beg the Maharajah for forgiveness for these poor ones.’

  The sword was lowered.

  ‘Get five brooms. You shall sweep away all traces of your hatred. Vitri, send along ten guards. Those who refuse, you shall kill instantly, and have destroyed at the judicial execution place meant for criminals. This night, you five, will remain kneeling down before the bruised tree and pray to Shiva, you hear, to Shiva! Pray that he adorns in the night my tree with blossoms again. If it bears new blossoms tomorrow, know that Shiva, whom you have deeply injured, has forgiven you. Now be gone!’ Ashoka waited till all had left. Only Asandhimitra stayed behind.

  ‘Your punishment is hard, Sire, and motivated by anger. If tomorrow there are no blossoms …’

  ‘Tomorrow the tree will have new blossoms, Asandhimitra, but such conniving in the ladies’ quarters has to be ended.’ he whispered.

  ‘Thank you, Sire.’ And she kissed his hand.

  Ashoka had the purohita prepare an inebriating drink to be offered to the five sinners, after which he ordered Satyavat to plant in the night a flowering tree in the place of the old one, while the five were in deep sleep. The next morning, the Maharajah woke up the five inhabitants of the anthapura himself. They looked up in awe at the tree which glowed with a radiant orange in the morning sun. They fell on their knees before the Maharajah and bowed into the dust.

  ‘Shiva has heard you. Remember, only once does he forgive such a sin.’

  Ashoka walked up to Satyavat’s house. Rohini stood in front of the door, looking moved.

  ‘Rohini, why the sadness?’

  ‘Sire, no sadness. Happiness that I met you in my life: you have the mildness of the Tathagata4. Come Asita, kneel down before the holy Maharajah.’ But Ashoka lifted up the little girl, took her in his arms and looked at her. Asita laughed.

  ‘Sweet, Rohini, is that your little child?’

  ‘Yes, Sire, our third one.’

  ‘The sacrificial priests are badly fooled by you.’

  ‘Yes, Sire! Or, those ones must be right who call you an incarnation of Shiva.’

  ‘That I do not believe myself, why should you then believe it, Rohini. Mildness, you said, of the Tathagata, but not the truth of the holy Buddha, Rohini.’

  ‘In the deed there is often a deeper truth than in a true word, Sire.’

  ‘Do you love Asita as much as your sons? Vaishyas only count their sons.’

  ‘Sire, the Buddha allows us to love our daughters as much as our sons. That makes me happier than anything.’

  ‘Is that what the Buddha says? What a humane wisdom for Madhyadesa!’

  ‘Yes, Sire.’

  Ashoka put down the little girl and took a precious ring from his finger.

  ‘Here, Rohini, keep this present for her till she is grown-up and beautiful like you.’

  Rohini bent down and kissed the hem of his cloth.

  18

  JUNGLE FIRE

  shvita left the Brahmin-court dressed in the vestments of a pilgrim. Anu hurried to the Maharajah.

  ‘Sire, the hostile priests had a meeting yesterday. They took painstaking precautions not to be spied upon. Ashvita has left just now even though Surya scorches the soil.’

  ‘Where to, honourable Anu?’

  ‘To the jungle road by the side of the Son, O, Maharajah.’

  Ashoka had Maskarin come in and ordered him to follow Ashvita.

  Towards the night of the second day, Ashvita reached the dwelling of a Vaishya whose farmstead extended into the jungle. He asked for hospitality. A poor penitent made his way towards the simple hut as well, but did not enter. The Vaishya felt honoured to render hospitality to a distinguished Brahmin and to take care of him. The scorching sun of Grishma had dried out the country, blowing burning gusts of wind towards the Ganga. The streams contained not a drop of water. The pippalas rippled their longings to the Maruts. At a time like this it was good to give the Brahmins a warm welcome. They were the only ones to determine the monsoon and coerce the Maruts to send rain to the earth.

  ‘Do the gods bless your labours, Purna?’

  ‘My land is dried out, the cattle becomes scrawny; the heat harms the farmstead, sir. If only the rain would come!’

  ‘Do you offer to Rudra and the Maruts?’

  ‘Daily, sir. If the rain stays away my farm will soon be without life.’

  ‘It may be the evil spirits. Do you always speak the truth, Purna? You know that no evil spirits can harm you then.’

  ‘The Vedas forbid the telling of lies, sir.’

  ‘Then listen to what the restless spirits of dead people whisper to you, Purna. They speak to truthful Vaishyas. You do not hear them but they whisper to your conscience what they want you to do. Where do you make offerings to the spirits, Purna?’

  ‘Yonder in the jungle, sir.’

  ‘Come on then, we will go together.’

/>   They left the farmstead. The penitent had taken a seat close by. Purna and Ashvita greeted him respectfully but the penitent did not move. Ashvita and Purna reached the sacrificial place through various winding pathways; Purna knew that evil spirits could only travel by paths that are straight. Their path was covered with withered leaves. Trees and shrubs looked scorched and the vines hung leafless amongst the trees.

  ‘Do you perform your offerings to the gods here, Purna?’

  ‘No sir, we do that at home. Here there is danger of fire.’

  ‘But this is a sacred offering place.’

  ‘For the evil spirits, sir. Only for the evil spirits!’

  ‘Don’t be so frightened, Purna. Make the offering here to the god who rules over rain and wind. I am a Brahmin and will help you to get rain.’

  ‘Sir, I cannot ask Agni to bring the sacrifice to the gods from here. To light a fire in the jungle is forbidden and the penalty is death. The jungle belongs to the sacred Maharajah and is the home to an infinite number of animals, sir.’

  ‘There is no anointed Maharajah. Pray quietly and listen to what the gods whisper into the conscience of the true Aryan. Keep silent. Can you hear it, Purna? Agni and Rudra are asking for your offering. Here … they yearn for your sacrifice! Now is the time to make the offering, Purna. The rains have to come. I protect the jungle! Bring the sacred fire from your home.

  Purna did not dare to resist the Brahmin any longer. When he passed by the penitent, he fell prostrate, and prayed earnestly, frightened. The penitent did not move. When Purna returned with the fire however, he said: ‘Purna, you have taken the sacred fire.’

  ‘Yes, sir, for the offerings for rain.’

  ‘Think of the jungle, Purna. The trees, the animals.’

  ‘Sir, a Brahmin is wiser than we are.’

  ‘To light a fire in the jungle is a deadly sin, Purna.’

  ‘I bring the holy fire to the Brahmin priest, sir.’