‘Has creation then become?’
‘Not according to Buddhist beliefs, high Prince. That acknowledges no creation. All that comes into being, perishes, according to Buddha. And that means that he acknowledges no Atman, no primordial being. For us the world is transitory, fleeting, but not the Atman or Brahman, there it is abiding. But what is the ever life-creating principle for the Buddhist? Is it that ‘nothing’? Or, out of ‘nothingness’? Is the ‘nothingness’ then the principle of all the beauty around you? Is all the feeling, understanding, living, joy, the experience of continuity in our feelings and existence then: out of ‘nothing’? How do you then know that I, and that you, exist, think or feel? Is there not an eternal connection between all beings, all things, perhaps? Do we live in the many incarnations for that ‘nothingness’? A life, founded on ‘nothingness’, cannot be but construed as suffering!’
‘The Buddha recognised the unborn, the as-yet-uncreated, as the foundation for what is born and becomes. And is ‘to live’ suffering? It is often joyful to me!’ Inadvertently, his gaze turns to Kanchanamala who looks away, blushing. This does not go unnoticed by Katcha and anger is aroused in his heart. ‘My Father, the Maharajah, wants to remove suffering as much as possible for all creatures, and so do I.’
‘But suffering brought on by Kama can only be obliterated if man tears out its root, Kama, the selfishness. The Buddha teaches about the triviality of existence; Nirvana is the breaking free of suffering, but not a clearly defined blissfulness, since with that a selfish chase for that blissfulness will arise. And his great goal was clearly the dissolution of selfishness.’
Katcha, who experiences the discussion of Buddhist tenets as unpleasant, suddenly joins the discussion:
‘Is Kama not the god of love? And if the creator, Prajapati, brought forth Kama as the seed of his spirit, why is doubt again expressed in the last verse, holy Father? That sounds like a broken gantha in a Buddhist monastery,’ he adds scornfully.
‘Consider, my son, that love, the kind you mean, is merely a small trifling part of the greater meaning, Kama.’
‘Trifling part, even while it prevents a man from fulfilling his highest duties …!’
‘Yes. What could it mean when it is but the revelation of one side of Kama! Kama is an edict of Nature, the non-reasoning, brutish urge to live, the sum of all forces in nature, in all beings. It reveals itself as the eternal trishna, a thirst, a desire, a craving for lust, joy, becoming, procreating, a reaching for everything that we, instinctively, think we need. In the malicious man, it becomes a lust for power. It develops itself into a delusion, sometimes benign, sometimes criminal, a pursuit of happiness, of love, but also an insatiable will. This Will of Nature, urge for life, goes on, brutish, whether it brings joy or hurt; it does not know compassion. Every individual attempts to make happiness last longer, and employs the same means as this Will: non-sentient selfishness and ruthlessness in its sacrificing of others. Each of us is part of this Will, and so, by his birth, an accomplice of the evil and suffering which is the consequence of this non-sentient, brutish instinct for life.’
‘Diti!’ whispers Kancha, inclining her head towards her father.
‘We abandon our duty in order to satisfy our lusts.’ Santanu sees how Katcha cast an uneasy glance his way. ‘We kill to get what the thirst for life whispers to us. And we live in the delusion that we do what we ought to do; we even dare to view that cruelty of this Will as natural and reasonable. Our culpability is that we participate in it. That is the terrible delusion that envelops the world and that eternally propels beings from one birth to another. From this delusion, we ought to free ourselves!’
‘Is Prajapati then not the Creator of the world, holy father?’
‘The gods were not created till the world was created, Katcha,’ smiles Santanu. ‘The world-creator is the world-creating Will, which is the origin of all existence and by that premise, of all suffering, sin and death. It is the primeval base, the Atman. He who has seen through this knows that our world is maya.’
‘But, holy Santanu, those who contemplate the Vedanta and come to its full awareness can ascend to Nirvana or the Atman, Brahman.’
Santanu nods warmly to the young Prince. ‘Certainly, by taking in the Brahman, in the form of the Vedas as a brahmacharin, practising them as grihastha, contemplating them as vanaprastha and subsequently as a sannyasin, uniting with the Atman …’
‘But that would mean that only the twice-born can be released!’
‘Apparently,’ says Santanu. And Katcha’s Brahminical pride heaves.
‘So, not the millions of Shudras and Chandalas nor those who live outside India.’
Kanchanamala’s expression seems to quiver in the flickering light of the sacred fire. In great suspense she looks at her father. Her soul goes out to the stranger as she feels in him the compassionate spirit of the holy Maharajah that permeates throughout the entire empire. And she knows that Kunala cannot share this opinion of her father.
‘No, not until they are reborn as Aryans,’ remarks Katcha.
‘So only in Aryavarta, Katcha? The world, the welfare, the liberation, the Atman is only for a privileged group? Is not for every true human being the first step, the recognition of the human spirit, of the maya, of this Will of nature? And is not the next step the struggle to overcome its ruthlessness, the subjugation of the evil and the brute? And then finally, the momentous and paramount, holy Santanu, the nurturing in every being of good in defiance of evil, of righteousness instead of injustice? The victory over the delusion of desire! Is that not the free will that is created in us by a higher principle than that brute Will?’
‘How can man detach that higher principle from that Will of nature? They are according to Brahmanism one and the same,’ opines Katcha.
‘Katcha is right insofar that what we see as trishna, as an urge for life, as an insatiable Will everywhere in nature, ultimately is the very basis for our existence.’
‘But above that is Love, the way the Buddha taught, which impels the confrontation with the brute and injustice in the world. Is it not that, holy Santanu, which is more powerful than trishna, because it is the most noble, the divine within man?’
It is as though something in Kanchanamala is becoming aware of what till then lived unknown within her. Her bright eyes settled understandingly on the Prince.
‘Why is the Maharajah a Buddhist, high Prince?’ she asks.
‘Because the Tathagata comes closest to expressing the sara, the essence of all religions, in its purest form; because he asks of all mankind for a change of the inner view towards all their fellow creatures, for loving kindness and compassion for all who suffer. That is what the Buddha wants.’
‘Such beautiful teachings and such a noble pursuit of the Maharajah!’ says Kancha.
‘Is that not heresy for a Brahmin, father?’ asks Katcha, outwardly calm, but in his heart seething with anger towards the Shudra.
‘He alone is a Brahmin who, by purity in thoughts, words and deeds, has liberated himself from all evil, and who, through his compassion and understanding, strives towards the sacred and divine,’ says Santanu quietly. Katcha, embarrassed, keeps silent.
‘Is trishna bound to nature, holy Santanu?’
‘Not long ago, nature was dead but the salutary nectar of heaven flows over the earth, and look now how powerful, after the rains, nature’s Will is at work!
Now, make ready for the evening oblations.’
8
TRISHNA
ndra’s Bow1 adorns the heavens and rarely yet does he shoot his bolts of lightning and arrows of rain through the air. Nature, rising from its deep sleep, invigorated and rejuvenated, fills the pure air with its fresh and sweet fragrances. Ushas colours the retreating clouds with a sultry glow. They are like an immense herd of elephants marching off to battle with banners of lightning and drumbeats of thunder. When Surya’s rays break through the wreckage, the occupants of the house hurry out onto the grounds.
The Yuvaraja looks around in amazement. He can hardly recognise the surroundings as all around, the green of newborn life is bursting open, flowers blooming from countless buds. In the pond, the first red lotus blossoms are unfurling their fiery rosettes in full splendour; the creepers whose arms reach yearningly in every direction throughout the wood have now been transformed into laughing garlands of large delicate blossoms. The bakula trees with their fragrant flowers imbue their aromas; kovidaras2 show off their purple finery, luring thousands of bees, butterflies and others in search of the rich honey. It is amidst such a profusion of new-sprung life that Kunala stands in awe, admiring its splendour for some time. Finally, he bursts out:
‘Where is this overwhelming beauty coming from, Kanchanamala?’
‘Kama, as the first seed of the spirit, trishna!’ she says to him with a laugh.
‘Let us go through the jungle to the Bhagavati!’
‘The jungle is dangerous now, O, Prince.’
‘Dangerous…?’
‘Coming from the capital you do not, like we do, know the tormentors of the mahavana. All that crawls, leaps, slithers and nips, stings and gnaws, and all that wings and flutters, buzzing through the air. Do you see how everywhere shoots of grass are bursting out of the sandy ground and paths? There, the cobras and black scorpions like to go. The fasting in the torrid spell has made all animals of the forest hungry.’
She laughs, and her teeth—white as the flowering jasmine— sparkle between her lips, red as the bandhujiva-blossom. ‘Do you not fear the leeches that latch on to your arms and legs to quench their thirst without regard for your suffering?’
Kunala laughs. Kanchanamala snatches a freshly opened soft-blue lily and puts it in her hair, and a blooming ashoka flower above her partly uncovered bosom. She sees his beautiful eyes shine, his cheeks glowing in the clearing sunlight, and she laughs, unaware that her charm is touching the Prince even more, while causing hurt to Katcha. All this emerging life embraces their trembling hearts.
‘I shall warn the guards and go alone.’
‘No, I shall go with you. You do not know the mahavana.’
‘Do not expose yourself to danger, Kanchanamala!’
‘You should not go alone.’ She blushes at his gaze.
‘I shall have Vida harnessed.’ Kanchana’s eyes twinkle.
‘We will take a mongoose along, O, Prince,’ and she opens a cage from which the tame animal appears. On its short legs, with its long body, it shuffles quickly, close to the earth, sniffing the earth, grunting and whistling, happy with its newfound freedom.
Kunala carefully helps Kanchana mount the elephant and seats himself next to her. Two guards lead the way to the river; two others follow, carefully inspecting the area. The mongoose has gone ahead but returns obediently when Kanchanamala calls out to him, only to later creep past the elephant again. They then hear a soft hissing!
‘That is the first one,’ whispers Kanchanamala. ‘A cobra!’
The Prince stops the elephant. In his excitement, he clutches Kanchana’s arm. She blushes. They see the mongoose standing still on the path. With a hiss, the snake brings its head up. Its neck is swollen menacingly; a strange play of attack and retreat has begun on both sides. It is as though the heads of both animals are somehow bound together with an invisible string. They move, one forward and the other retreating, following each other, quick as lightning, almost simultaneous, until the cobra, in one brief moment, retreats too late and the mongoose lunges fiercely for a bite, killing it and partaking of his meal.
‘Trishna,’ whispers Kanchanamala to the Prince. She looks around, pointing to a huge and beautiful butterfly amongst the red-and-white floral splendour that flutters from flower to flower, itself a flower with its wealth of colours, now frolicking in the air and then resting on a beautiful flower. A jubilant bul-bul3, his voice, clear as a bell, trilling through the woods, flies towards the frail body and devours it, then shoots off, looking for a new catch. And the large sparkling, glowing wings of the butterfly flutter to the ground …
‘Trishna!’
They approach the fully flooded Bhagavati, which, with its broader waves, hastens even more quickly towards the Ganga. A herd of deer romps in the tender grass on the broad bank, guarded by a male with large antlers. When another buck approaches from above, he bellows a snort and turns towards the rival while stamping his slender but strong hooves. The newcomer vigorously leaps forward, straining his neck and legs. Both immediately begin their fight for the brides, who are huddled together uneasily. It is a battle of life and death. When the intruder has finished off the guardian of the herd with one last fierce butt, he bellows his victory cry through the woods and approaches the huddled roes. His roes!
‘Trishna!’
The Prince is crestfallen. ‘How perplexing, this struggle for existence.’
‘That is precisely what father meant, high Yuvaraja, each appears to be impassioned by one overriding thought: I want to live and I will stand my ground even if it is at the expense of another. It is the eternal struggle of all against all, even amongst people.’
‘You only see one side of life, honourable Kanchanamala. The Buddha has shown the way out of this compulsion: an all-encompassing compassion for people and animals that suffer. He showed each person the way to change from perpetual struggle to compassion and goodness; taking on the burdens of all, by all. Dharma as opposed to trishna.’
‘Removing trishna from the mahavana! Demanding love for the poor Diti! Take away the loveless ideas, even from Katcha!’
‘Father’s edicts are directed at Brahmin and Chandala alike. It is toilsome work, that of my Father’s and of his successors.’
‘And do you think to rule the world with compassion? Turn away hate with love? Tame savage mountain tribes with manas?’
‘Kanchana, you kindle my objections to my father’s principles, my doubts, that often quell me. I still lack his belief in humankind as well as his strength!’
‘Your father must have a steadfast faith in his work, that he devotes himself to such a beautiful task. He, who wavers between two thoughts, has lost his power, O, Prince. The holy Maharajah has sworn off war. You may regard it as still necessary in some situations.’
Kunala stares at her, speechless. It is precisely this wavering that perturbs his life. He clutches her hand. ‘Father’s power is supported by the Agramahisi, who has always been his pillar with her greatness of heart.’
‘How fortunate for the holy Maharajah!’
‘But I also need support in my life, Kancha, a wife whom I love and who loves me, so much that we ascend into one in knowing, one in aspiration, one in will. Kancha … Will you be that one?’
Kanchana softly pulls her hand from his.
‘I know nothing and want nothing, O, Yuvaraja,’ she replies shyly. ‘I am merely a child of the mahavana and the Bhagavati, nothing more.’
‘So was Mother Asandhi! You will be my Maharani, Kancha! My agrahamisi!’
Kanchanamala stares at the blossoming jungle: ‘A flowering climber seeking its support on the mighty kings of the wood.’
‘Creepers link the trees into a mahavana, to unity, the jungle.’
She looks into his soft, now deeply glowing eyes, and gives him a smile. Suddenly, he wraps his arm around her and draws her to him. Blushing, she expresses her objection:
‘You would take a mahavana-plant to a city park, O, Yuvaraja.’
‘A beautiful, proud flower from the mahavana, Kancha!’
‘That will wither!’
‘I want to cultivate her and take care of her so that she will grow and flower, so that her fragrance and colour will bring joy over India, just as the kovidara-tree does over the heaven, Kancha.’
She looks at him earnestly. Does she have any idea of the difficult task that will await her? A king’s son who clings to his powerful father, perhaps later, even onto her? Will she be able to mean something to him in his inward struggle? Or, will she wither away in the anth
apura of a powerful ruler? He is serious, well-intentioned, true. Were it not better for him if he had some of the light-heartedness and boldness, of the wild Kshatriya-lover, who does not ask but takes, the cruelty of the mighty master, who wills and subjects all to his will? No, no! India must flower, and she wants to blossom for him and India. A sweet smile radiates towards him. She wants to kneel before the future, sacred Maharajah, but he takes her in his arms, kisses her ardently, and once again places her close against him.
‘You will be my Maharani, Kancha, my Agrahamisi!’
‘Look, my Prince! Over there … that restlessness in the deer herd!’
They see how a powerful leopard, springing from one of the heavy branches, pounces on a young buck and with the little animal in his jaws, drags it into the mahavana. The deer family takes flight behind the earlier conqueror. Kanchanamala jumps up, and so does the Prince.
‘The Will of nature, existence at the expense of another! Why do Brahmins despise other people, the Aryans the Shudras? Why all this hatred and envy?’
‘It lingers on from long ago, Kancha. My father supports through his power those who proclaim the teachings of love of the Tathagata. And the whole of India blesses the righteous Maharajah, who, for the most miserable human beings, too, softens the pain and brings prosperity and happiness. That is how I too want to be one day, Kancha, with your help.’
‘It is said that the Brahmins hate him.’
‘Sayana, Kullika, Khallataka, his greatest friends, were Brahmins.’
‘And who is your greatest friend, my Yuvaraja?’
Kunala sinks deeply in thought then proclaims: ‘My father!’ He then halts the elephant by a yonesia, a waterfall, under the luxuriant cover of a radiant, orange-flame tree.
‘See, Kancha, I will adorn you with the blossom of this Ashoka- tree.’
‘Ashoka-tree, by day a pleasure because of its beauty, by night because of its glorious fragrance…’
Ashoka the Great Page 78