Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

‘The gods forbid fires in the jungle!’

  ‘But the Brahmin is more than the gods, sir.’

  ‘The fire threatens the country and the sacred Maharajah.’

  ‘The Brahmin, sir.’

  And Purna hastened away in mortal fear to the sacred place where Ashvita had piled up wood, leaves and dry grass for the offering.

  ‘Sir, starting a jungle fire is a deadly sin! You threaten the holy Maharajah.’

  ‘The Maharajah is not consecrated. He who took the land unlawfully, his land we do not threaten. Do you wish to start a jungle fire, or to make offerings, Purna? Do you wish rain from the gods or do you want to see how Surya burns up your possessions and those of all Vaishyas? If you do not wish to perform the sacrifice—as many others who now refuse to make offerings to the gods—then I will leave your farmstead immediately.’

  ‘At my home, sir.’

  ‘I do not know if your altar is sacred like this place. What do you want?’

  ‘The offering, sir.’

  ‘Then light the fire. I will take care of it while you bring the gifts.’

  Purna saw with terrified eyes how suddenly the fire greedily snatched at the wood-pile and leaves and how the flames shot crackling through the wood and rose high up amongst the trees.

  ‘Now get the rice and the ghee, Purna.’

  Purna staggered over the twisting pathway, stumbling, because he kept looking back all the time. When he returned, it was too late. He took a big branch and beat at the flames that crept in all directions through dead leaves and twigs. The Brahmin lay knelt before the fire and prayed. For what he was praying, Purna did not know.

  ‘Save your life, holy Brahmin.’

  Ashvita stood up. The fire was spreading at an alarming rate and they fled to the farmstead.

  ‘Sir, deadly sin!’

  ‘I release you of all guilt, if you begin tomorrow a pilgrimage to the Amarakantaka in the valley of the Narmada.’

  Meanwhile, the penitent sat motionless in the same place.

  ‘Sir, sir, the fire, the offering fire!’ The penitent did not move. But when the two were out of sight, he rushed to the road to Pataliputra. On the horse of a Vaishya he rode through the dark jungle and saw how the smoke behind him billowed up into clouds in the sky. The fire spread fast. The wind blew the smoke in the direction of the capital. Already, fear had driven the watchmen towards the moats and inside the watchtowers. With the billowing smoke, the heat became suffocating. The fear in the city grew: jungle-fire in the woods of the Maharajah! The smoke became thicker; up to far in the south rose the glow of the flaring flames. When Maskarin informed Ashoka about the disaster, the Maharajah sent a courier post-haste to Sela who sent thousands of warriors to the jungle with small swords, axes and water jars, to raze a wide strip of the wooded land and to try, as much as possible, to arrest the flames with water from the Sona. He also sent a thousand horse-guards to the city to calm down the inhabitants and to compel them to be compliant. Carpenters had to fortify the bridge over the Sona. All the exits of the Brahmin-court were blocked by the horse-guards and nobody could get in or out. The unrest grew. In fear of a great disaster, the people made for the temples, in order to reconcile with the gods. They called for the priests as the heat and smoke became unbearable.

  Sela and his soldiers toiled. Trees were cut down, shrubs and vines uprooted. Ravens, vultures, black eagles, wood-doves and pheasants, fled the trees with fierce screeching, cackling, quacking and chirping, and flew in fright towards the Son. Hordes of insects scattered through the air. Wild goats, deer, bears and panthers, ran like they were possessed with vacant eyes through the lines of the hardworking soldiers. Monkeys, their babies suckling them or pressed into their arms, ran shrieking through the branches peering at the fire behind with frightened looks. Scorpions, spiders, frightful centipedes and armies of startled snakes, terrifying cobras and pythons, alarmed the workers in the woods.

  Sela, with his men, persevered. Could the fire be stopped in the dried-out woods? The Maharajah had announced that he wanted to reconcile with the Lord of Life and Death and to move him to save the city. For that, offerings had to be made in the Shiva temples. Ashoka knew as well as the priests that the monsoon would start in two days. But would it be possible to keep the fire outside Pataliputra that long? On the southern side he had stretches of wood and trees removed, houses pulled down. The next day an announcement was made: ‘Tomorrow, Shiva will extinguish the fire!’ But during the afternoon, the wind stirred up and drove ahead burning leaves, twigs and branches, which pushed the jungle fire to the north. A catastrophe was approaching the city. Sela had been able to check the flames only for a short time. Then the Maharajah advised all to get across to the other side of the Son. Tomorrow, Shiva would bring rain! Srigupta was summoned to the Palace. Sayana and Khallataka were also there.

  ‘Where is Ashvita, venerable priest?’

  ‘Sir, each Brahmin priest is free to choose his own path.’

  ‘Why did you send him to the Sona-jungle?’

  ‘I do not know where Ashvita went.’

  ‘I will come to the rescue of your memory. Four days ago you held a secret meeting. What was decided over there? You know that the Maharajah has to be told of every important decision of the Brahmin-court.’

  ‘Sire, we talked about the concerns of our varna.’

  ‘Is a jungle fire the concern of your varna?’

  ‘We feared a jungle fire, Sire.’

  ‘More than in previous years?’

  ‘Yes, Sire, and we thought it had become necessary to perform offerings to beg the gods for rain.’

  ‘Why did Ashvita allow the sacred fire to be brought into the parched jungle by the Vaishya, Purna?’

  ‘Sire, I was not aware of that. Maybe, Ashvita is not familiar with the dangers of an offering fire in the jungle.’

  ‘And why did he send Purna away on a pilgrimage to Amarakantaka and the Narmada?’

  ‘I do not know the motives of my friend Ashvita, Sire.’

  ‘Do you not think, Srigupta, that your priests are becoming a danger to the empire?’

  ‘It is a danger for the country when a Maharajah who is not anointed is reigning.’

  ‘And you pile up crime upon crime to make my subjects understand that!’

  ‘We defend the Vedas, Sire, which you do not hold in esteem.’

  ‘With lies, deceit, floods and jungle fires? You do not hold in esteem human creatures, only the desirous priests of your varna!’ To his men, he said: ‘Lead the venerable Srigupta back to the court.’

  When Srigupa had left Kallathaka spoke: ‘I have asked the holy Sayana to support me in my solemn request, noble Maharajah. The ministers, and I, as the oldest one in the first place, would like to ask you to allow yourself to be consecrated as Maharajah. Unrest flares up continuously. Many Rajas and rajukas yield only to your military prowess. But within, they feel there is no Maharajah, because no one has been anointed. Sire, the consecration is the confirmation of the laws of the country, like Ushas’ appearance is for the day and like the thread ceremony recognises the Arya as Arya, and only the ceremony makes the pupil Brahmacharin.’

  ‘Noble Khallataka, I do not respect the ceremony, because it will acknowledge the truthfulness of the essence, by the untruthfulness of the sacrificial priests. I will rule India to the best of my ability, keeping in mind the happiness of India, not my own. Does nature’s rejuvenation come—the beauty of flowers, the joy of all life—because of the ceremonies of the priests at the spring feast, or is it the essence of Vasanta? Are the laws of the country valid by the endeavours of all, along with me, or because of the ceremony of the consecration by priests who send twenty-four of their assassins after me? Neither I, nor the people, will gain by the ceremony of the anointment, which serves nobody but a small, merciless, power-hungry, selfish group from a varna that places itself above the one, who exactly wants to be the embodiment of the laws of our peoples.’

  ‘Those peoples want your re
cognition of their sacred laws, your acknowledgement of the truthfulness of their rights to peace and justice. They do not ask for the performers of the ceremony but for the age-old sacred way of becoming one with their law.’

  ‘You, Piyadasi,’ Sayana added, ‘think that he, who serves the doctrine for the sake of the doctrine, has died before his death. You are nodding, you are remembering the beautiful days in my hermitage. Then you will remember, too: he, who looks for truth, finds many truths. Is your truth the only one? The truth of a sacrifice—so I thought—is the connection to the elevated Atman. That one truth lives deep in every human being. Our days are days of uncertainty, of doubting the priests, which is not surprising, of seeking. Humanity cries out for direction. And then the Atman unfolds itself always in the one human being, the sara of all willpower. You want to be that human being, maybe you are that human being. But if by more than sixty gates, you enter the capital of your empire, by one gate only the secret inner-counsel chamber of the mighty Maharajah of Aryavarta. Through thousands of streams the heavenly water flows through India, but only through the holy Ganga it flows along Pataliputra. Through thousands of pathways the minds search for the truth out of many truths. Where, my Piyadasi, is the gateway through which you will lead them to the enlightened land? Is he who constructed the gate of importance or is it the gate itself? Are the guards of importance or the entrance to the blessed and vast regions behind it? It is you yourself who will choose the guards; it is you yourself who gives the code-word, my Piyadasi.’

  Ashoka lowered his head. ‘Yes, holy Sayana. When Chandra will be full in the month of Kartika1, I will be consecrated. But the two of you will be seated next to me, as a sign, that I accept the ceremony only in the way it is understood by my two great friends.’

  In the night the fire reached the open space before the city and charred the palisades and towers, dried out by the burning sun.

  Almost the entire population had left the city and dispersed itself along the right bank of the Son. Would Shiva protect their city? The Maharajah left the palace with Asandhimitra and told her how the fire had been started.

  ‘Well, these priests have lost their way, Sire.’

  ‘I dearly wish to cleanse the country of these fools.’

  ‘Sire, a lost one, one tries to lead back to the right path.’

  ‘And if they do not wish to be led?’

  ‘Then one forces them with a soft hand.’

  ‘And if they hit back at the soft hand and call it impure?’

  ‘Then you force them with a strong hand and a loving heart, like yours, Sire.’

  ‘Asandhimitra, you always save me from the road of uncompromising force.’

  The Rani looked gratefully up at him. ‘The delicate-blue scarf, my Shiva.’

  ‘But a priesthood which is unscrupulous, like this one, is doomed to disappear, my Rani. How?’

  ‘In a way that is right for the Maharajah.’

  ‘Your trust in my indulgence is great, Asandhimitra.’

  ‘There is only one who can cope with such a heavy task, Piyadasi.’

  The long rows of carriers who brought thousands of jars of water from Ganga and Son from hand-to-hand to the wooden city, were hampered by the unbearable heat and smoke. People understood that the city would soon fall prey to the fire. Helplessly they watched; the Maharajah, too. Towards the morning the first fire broke out at the high watchtower at the southern palisade. An hour later the flames crackled up along the watchtowers of the Sona-gate.

  ‘Sivi? Where is Sivi?’

  ‘Here, O, Maharajah.’

  ‘Bring a last great sacrifice to Shiva in the temple of the army camp.’

  ‘Sire, Gautama the Buddha has foretold of this disaster. He indicated three dangers for this city: fire, water and betrayal. His words do not go in vain.’

  ‘Bring a great sacrifice to Shiva! No animals!’

  ‘Yes, mighty Maharajah.’

  The fire spread. The first groups of houses were lost in the flames. When the Asvins shot along the sky, followed by Ushas, the red morning sky looked dim in the glow of the fire; one could see on the southern side columns of smoke rising up everywhere. The fire-fighters struggled. The scorching sun, more merciless than ever, wrested away all hope. The priests, freed at last from the Brahmin-court, walked with their heads held high among the desperate crowd. No word passed their lips but their haughty look measured the crowd that, dismayed, was watching the disaster. The Maharajah had forbidden them to have their offering ceremonies so that was the end of Pataliputra! The winds blew harder, the smoke-clouds grew bigger, the smiles of the priests hardened on their faces. The noise of the buildings falling down rumbled ominously from the city towards the people, who had fled. Why were the priests not allowed to perform offerings? The panic increased, the discontentment was manifest in their looks. Ashoka knew it was meant for him. Strength had to be maintained! Khallataka stood beside the young Emperor.

  ‘Would it not be better to have the offerings performed, Sire?’

  ‘Do those sacrifices bring rain?’

  ‘The people, Sire.’

  ‘No, my Khallataka, I wait for Ashavita!’

  A wild shriek went through the people who had their eyes riveted on the burning city.

  ‘Shiva! Shiva! Shiva! … There!’

  From the south, a heavy lead-blue mass of cloud climbed slowly up into the sky, bolts of lightning shooting through it. Tears of joy filled the people’s eyes; hands rose up towards this godly sign.

  ‘Shiva! Shiva!’

  Then all turned to the Maharajah, falling on their knees and bending their heads to the ground. Swiftly, the thunderstorm closed in; from afar a dark wall of rain approached, lashing its waters as a torrential cascade over the earth, smothering the fires. Flashes of lightning streaked like slivers through the downpour; the thunder reverberated and rumbled like the sound of the dole around the saved city and its imperilled people. But it was like the sound of a bonfire and the thundering boom of the festival drum.

  Ashoka had tracked down Ashavita and Purna, and they were interrogated in a huge public meeting of the court that had been organised, in which they acknowledged their guilt to the people present. Ashoka condemned Ashavita to eternal exile from Magadha, while Purna was sent back to his farmstead. Bright and clear, Ashoka brought to light what evil deeds had come from the Brahmin-court through the years, what crimes were committed by Devaka, Shakuni, Chandaka, Richika, Sunasepha, and then again by Ashavita.

  Ashoka’s power was established and yet he knew that in the darkness of their temples and in the intimacy of the families of the faithful people, the priests continued to work undisturbed: He ruled without the gods, was not consecrated, had not affirmed the sacred laws of Madhyadesa and not strengthened the sacred ties with the Aryans. His power was founded, not on respect and awe for the sacred Maharajah, but on his fierce horse-soldiers. That worried the Emperor. Were the sharp eyes of the spies enough to keep the priests and their followers in check? After long consultations with minister Radhagupta, he ordered a ‘hall of terror’ to be set-up, a place of torture and fear, a hell, in which each criminal, and he who induced others to crime, would be executed, maimed, under the most horrible pains, drowned or burned, all under judicial decrees: the most gruesome threat for those who dared to violate the authority of the Maharajah. No varna could protect a man from this hell. Nobody knew the secret of what happened there, nobody was allowed to enter, or he would lose his life. Ashoka knew from experience that the legend would quickly take possession of this ‘hall of terror’. Soon, the people let it be the dwelling of the most loathsome brute the human imagination could create: Tshand, the godless, Girika. As a child, his greatest pleasure had been to hurt, torture and torment innocent animals. When Ashoka asked him to become the executioner in his hell, Tshand Girika’s parents had objected, but he killed them. In the hermitage of Kukkuta near Gaya, the priest Balapandita taught him all the horrible manners of torture the people had to suffer
who were to be reborn in hell. Those indescribable pains Tshand Girika let the punished ones endure, the ones put in Ashoka’s ‘pleasant prison’. A Brahmin, sentenced to death by drowning, was drowned there in a pool of the most terrible impurity, called by Tshand Girika: ‘the holy Ganga.’

  Fear and terror spread through the town.

  When the monsoon had passed and the flow of water had withdrawn itself unwillingly into the riverbeds, when nature adorned itself with the rejuvenating power of Sharad, the jasmines shot their white blossoms out of the bursting open buds, the paddy ripened, and the grain turned yellow, Pataliputra and the whole of Aryavarta, made itself ready for the consecration of the Maharajah. From every corner, Rajas, rajukas, pradesikas and high purushas with their beautiful retinue, came to the capital and offered the Maharajah gifts, the most precious that their country could offer. After four years of rule, they knew that the Maharajah would strike down without mercy any form of resistance against his power. Moreover, his team of informants—wisely disguised and thus able to penetrate the most intimate of relations—was organised in such a way that all events of varying importance, every breach of the laws and orders, was known to the Maharajah; no one could even understand how. And now there was the hell!

  The day before the consecration, Ashoka came up to Asandhimitra, who had also heard the horror stories of the hall of terror.

  ‘Sire, you have arranged a hell with all kind of terrors of the netherworld where Tshand Girika is the hell’s gatekeeper.’

  ‘Is Shiva not allowed to build a hell for his enemies, whom he himself should have killed?’

  ‘Sire, is that horrible fear for your hell to stop the subjects from evil? Or, did you want them to change their inner view?’

  ‘Asandhimitra, Shiva has a third eye. With one ray from that eye, he destroyed all life on the Meru, so that it became an endless barren rock. You do abhor people like Ashvita, do you not?’

  ‘Sire, only love and compassion can lead a man to relief and happiness.’

  ‘Love, you say, Asandhimitra! Shiva destroyed with one beam of his third eye the body of the love-god Kama, so that he, disembodied, has to shoot his arrows. One more folly of love and Shiva will destroy his bow and arrows, too. What then will remain of that love?’