Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  ‘But you have more sons, gracious Maharajah, and maybe there will be more bestowed upon you. Who will succeed?’

  ‘The Maharajah decides upon his successor. And Kunala has all the qualities which I judge as necessary for it. What does a son I do not yet have mean to me, my Rani! But see, yonder along our way is a rest house. We will refresh and fortify ourselves for the journey ahead.’

  Slaves, sent ahead, have prepared a simple meal accompanied by refreshing fruits and drinks. Occasionally a courier brings messages, on which the Maharajah takes instant decisions. Tishya could hardly bear that she is being kept out of everything which he used to discuss with Asandhimitra.

  When they receive the message that the Maharajah is nearing Vaishali, Kunala and Kanchanamala ride out to meet him. For father and son, it is a pure, unalloyed joy of re-union. Ashoka rides with Kanchanamala, and Kunala with Tishya Rakshita, back to the city.

  The Yuvaraja is overjoyed with his stay in the mahavana and Tishya looks up with admiration at the young Raja who does not get tired of telling the new Maharani about the hermitage, Tirha, the elephant-attack, and the young Rani.

  ‘How fortunate is she that she was allowed to spend her youth in the mahavana!’

  ‘Is that more fortunate, mother Tishya, than life under Ashoka?’

  ‘If one, born in the freedom of the forest, can shiver at the storms passing by after dew-time, or feel the storms which come with the rains like a feast, then one scorns life in the big city, where bhikshus and Brahmins are colouring the roads.’

  Kunala looks surprised at her with his thoughtful eyes.

  ‘Why did mother Tishya choose the capital?’

  ‘Choose?’ A sudden flush sweeps over her features. ‘My brave father and brother were slain by the soldiers of the Maharajah, I was carried away to Pataliputra!’ Her eyes dart swiftly towards the city of Vaishali. ‘According to the Maharajah, the Buddha considered the city yonder, with its mango groves, the garden of Ambapali and the wealthy houses and temples, as one of the most beautiful of Magadha and Videha. In my memory, I picture my father’s realm as an earthly heaven.’

  ‘It is sad that many do not realise that a mongoose can fight a snake but not an elephant.’

  ‘My father was a proud Kshatriya who preferred death to a life stripped of freedom!’

  ‘My father has honoured him by elevating his daughter as a Rani in his anthapura,’ he answers calmly.

  Tishya keeps silent. Can she tell him that it was because of the goodness—or weakness—of the Agramahisi, that she was charitably accepted into the anthapura? If the Emperor had wanted to honour her then he should have given her as a wife to the young Yuvaraja who is now taking along his radiant bride to the capital! She, Tishya, is merely the such-and-such Rani of an old man who is cogitating about the affairs of state and the growth of a bloodless Buddhism and the interests of those numerous drag-robes1 of the Ashokarama and feels not a whit about the needs of a young Kshatriya. She may delight in the accolades meant for him, and sit, richly dressed, beside him inside a golden howdah! By his side! When all she wants is to race on horseback beside the young Yuvaraja! Every now and then her eyes dart to the eyes of the slender figure beside her, eyes behind which lies a world of mysteries. She is as young as Kanchanamala and she is well aware that she is more beautiful, more courageous, and wilder than the daughter of the learned Brahmin in the forgotten mahavana. Kanchanamala will be wise like the Agramahisi and soothe her husband into piety and compassion. Chandragupta and Bindusara were fighters for power. They attempt to wrap in a yellow robe the warrior who lies hidden within the Maharajah! And the Agramahisi acquiesces approvingly. Will Kanchanamala support the Yuvaraja as a warrior or as a disciple of the Buddha? Daughter of a learned Brahmin! Hermit! She, Tishya Rakshita, is chained to the elderly lover of the Buddha!

  ‘And do you long for the training fields of the warriors on the banks of the Son?’ Her voice is rising and her gaze penetrate his beautiful eyes. Her youth goes out to the handsome young man who represents a life of grandeur and power.

  Kunala smiles. ‘That is not what attracts me the most, mother Tishya. I longed for my father who values warfare to be the least of his many occupations.’

  ‘War is the support of every kingdom against his enemies.’

  ‘Father has no enemies anymore.’

  ‘Beyond his empire live belligerent peoples.’

  ‘Our army is still very strong.’

  ‘So, you do still have faith in your warriors. I am glad to hear that.’ She sighs as though a burden has been cast off. ‘I would not feel safe in an empire that is without an army. India is an attractive country, my Kunala. How do you hope to protect its riches and its wealth without an army? What if wild hordes invade the countries and cast their covetous eyes on beautiful cities like Vaishali? See how the Hiranyavati winds herself around its ramparts. How lovely shelter the colourful houses in the shadows of the palms, the arecas, the banyans and the asvathas.’

  ‘But Father conquers the kings with Dharma instead of arms. That is more just and more humane!’

  ‘It is better to make the assailant of an alien country bear the brunt of the heavy blow of the sword of war than to sit down in pious impotence.’

  ‘You might be right, mother Tishya, if Buddha’s compassion does not come to rule the world.’

  ‘So, until then!’

  ‘Until then.’

  Kunala thinks of the discussion he had with his father before his departure to Tirha. In the peaceful surroundings of the hermitage, by the side of the gurgling Bhagavati and the chatting with Kanchanamala, he has somehow forgotten that he will be made responsible one day for the welfare of the peoples. Will he then increase the powers of the army, strengthen his borders? Or, will he, like Father, spread the power of the Dharma over the world? He is inclined towards Father’s benign faith in humanity; every so often, though, a fear wells up about the far-off enemies who could become a danger for India when the Mauryan empire, because of compassion and humanity, is shorn of resistance.

  They have drawn near to Vaishali. Everywhere on the roadside the inhabitants, dressed in bright white and red clothes, stand as close as possible to gaze at the holy Maharajah and his family and to pay their respects. In front of the former royal palace of the Mallas, awaits the head of the city of Vaishali, along with many city officials. In the streets all the stones, sand and dirt, have been picked clear, and sandal water has been sprayed, while sweet-smelling herbs are burning in precious braziers. Garlands of the most beautiful flowers are hung along the streets and banners of colourful silks adorn high poles, like bright patches of light in the brighter sunlight. When the Emperor’s retinue appears, all get down on their knees and bow their heads to the ground. The royal procession proceeds towards the garden that the courtesan Ambapali gifted to the Buddha. It is here that one takes respite to recover from a weary journey.

  13

  BUDDHA’S MIGHTY WORD

  he glittering cavalcades of the Emperor are always accompanied by the purohita so that religious life will not be neglected. It is thus that the monk Sagatha has proceeded along to Vaishali. At nightfall, when the last rays of the sun converge in a red glow over the Hiranyavati and the nearly full-blown moon looms above the mango trees in the grove, a silence sinks down over the beautiful garden of Ambapali. At this time all congregate around the purohita who, dressed in his ochre robe, stands at the base of the Bodhi tree which gives every grove of the Buddha its sanctity. Seats are placed for Ashoka, the Yuvaraja, and the Ranis. Others are squatting on cushions that have been placed all around the tree. Everyone—servants, mahouts, and grooms—takes part in the simple ceremony, a sacred veneration of the holy Master through his words. Diti sits behind her mistress. This day, she has gone along with Kanchanamala to the Emperor and Kancha has said: ‘This is Diti, my Father, who wishes to become a member of the Sangha when she takes leave of me.’ And the Emperor greets Diti, who had been kneeling down, and says quite simply:
‘Get up, Diti, any one who has suffered like you because of compliance to her mother, deserves to be taken under the wing of a beautiful and good mistress like Kanchanamala.’ And she listens to the homily of the purohita. She looks on with timid bashfulness at the wondrous world around her where everyone welcomes her warmly. Back home she would not have taken the risk of looking at her fellow-villagers. Here she finds peace, goodness, and respect for the human being. Do all of them have the compassion of the Buddha about which Utanka had spoken? ‘By our own efforts are we purified!’ She wished to be like these people! Sagata’s dark and sonorous voice strikes a chord.

  ‘We wish to offer our worship to the Buddha, the Tathaghata.’ Men and women-servants come up, their arms full of flowers, some white like the snow peaks of the Hymavant, others red as the glow of the setting sun or blue like the clear sky. Sagata arranges them lovingly at the base of the Bodhi tree. He then sprinkles sandal powder all around the trunk of the tree; they are offerings to the Buddha.

  ‘Sweet is the fragrance of the flowers and the sandal offered to the Bhagwan, the Exalted One. Tomorrow the flowers will wither away and the sandal powder shall fade but its fragrance will float up to the heavens, conveyed by your love and your worship of the Buddha. Through his mighty word, he will awaken your compassion in this gathering under the sacred Bodhi tree! The Buddha be praised!’

  The monk Sagatha starts the tales.

  ‘Jeeva, Jeeva, my darling’, Moans are heard through the woods. It is Ubbiri who has just lost her daughter. The Buddha hears the grief-stricken lamentations of the mother for her child. ‘Jeeva, Jeeva!’ Compassion for all who suffer suffuses the Supreme One. All that becomes, perishes, and all that is born must die. How can a mother like Ubbiri who has lost her most precious treasure be consoled? ‘Calm yourself, Ubbiri. Regain your composure, Ubbiri. Thousands of women have been committed to the flames in this place and have died here, just like your child. Eighty-four were called Jeeva. For which Jeeva are you mourning, Ubbiri?’ The mighty word of the Tathaghata softly resounds. Ubbiri suddenly falls silent … Eighty-four mothers, all of whom have lost their beloved Jeevas! And she is moaning as though she is the only one being tormented by grief! It is then that she becomes aware of the suffering pervading the world. She seeks refuge in the consoling one, the Buddha, who wants to alleviate the suffering of mankind.

  Once upon a time the Tathaghata sojourned in Savatthi, in the Jetavana, the sacred grove that was gifted to the Buddha by Ananthapindika. In those days, Kishagotami wandered about in despair. In her arms she carried her dead child. She was nearing madness. How can she recall her child to life, revive her! She hears about the great Holy One of Kapilavastu who performs many miracles. To him she wants to go. She seeks her way to the place where the Buddha and his disciples immerse themselves in the teachings. Ananda asks what she wants. Choked with emotion, she holds out her little dead child. Ananda, compassionate like the Buddha, allows her to come to the Tataghata. Reverently, she sinks to her knees, stretches out her arms with the limp body to the Exalted One. ‘Lord, my child is dead. Give back her life!’ she bursts out, weeping.

  ‘All life is doomed to die, Kishagotami. It is the eternal law.’

  ‘You perform miracles, Lord. Bestow my child back to me, so that it will live and laugh once again.’

  What solace can he offer Kishagotami! … His mighty word!

  ‘So be it, Kishagotami. I will call your child back to life if you bring me a mustard seed from a house in which no one has ever died.’

  Filled with new hope, Kishagotami goes from house to house. ‘Has death ever taken anyone here?’

  ‘Death? My forefathers died, my parents, brothers, sisters, children …’ Kishagotami moves hastily on to another house.

  ‘Has anyone ever died in this house?’

  ‘Oh, certainly, yes! My …’ Kishagotami hurries on. Till nightfall, her anxious question is heard, and till nightfall the answer is an affirmation. The further she goes, the more aware she grows of the truth and its comfort, of the universality of death. Only then is she able to let go of her child, and she turns towards the Buddha, the Teachings and the Sangha.

  In the days when Bimbisara was the king of Magadha, the Buddha resided in the Jetavana, the bamboo grove in Rajgriha. Pestilence, famine and death were reigning in Magadha. Nanda’s birth pains have begun. Her husband, sons, daughter, her father and mother, have all fallen prey to the terrible sickness and she is giving birth to a child, a new life. Nothing binds her any longer to life but the child. She is fleeing away from her birthplace. She hates the burning sun that scorches the fields, the woods that offers no shelter, the people wandering in desperation along the roads, the penitents, tormenting themselves as if life was not tormenting enough. Onwards she goes, wanting to avoid the black-death and the confusing people. Then she arrives at Rajgriha, at the site of the Buddha’s sojourn. They say he has conquered death. Rebelliously, she goes to the Shakyamuni. She wants to meet the one who is said to console where no consolation exists anymore. As she enters the Jetavana, she mocks his solace.

  ‘Let her in, Ananda. Whosoever mocks solace is in need of it.’

  In spite of being struck by the Buddha’s presence, Nanda bursts out: ‘Are you the Buddha!’ The Tataghata nods.

  ‘Have you conquered death? It is a lie! Among us death is as alive as the sun! Everyone has been taken away from me! Except this child! What is it that you have conquered!’ she demands scornfully. ‘Why do people take their refuge in you, in your Teachings, in your Sangha, when death rages in this country?’

  ‘Have you fear of death, Nanda?’

  She looks at him indignantly. ‘Have you no fear of death?’

  ‘Have you a fear of growing old, Nanda?’

  ‘Have you no fear of growing old!’ She demands more fiercely.

  ‘Have you a fear of sickness, Nanda?’

  ‘Have you no fear of pestilence!’ her features redden with rage.

  ‘Then, you fear the three messengers that the gods send every day to all that lives, Nanda, to warn you that all life is doomed to die because it has become. Have you fear, too, that all your loved ones have not enhanced their karma? And will be born again and die again, again and again? Do you avoid all that is wrong and do you do all that is good, do you keep your thoughts pure, Nanda? You keep silent. When your loved ones have been faithful to these three precepts, they will not be reborn again and thus not die again. Then have they overcome death. When you pursue these precepts with your heart, then you too will master death and death will touch you no more.’

  ‘And if they … did not follow them, Lord?’ Nanda kneels down.

  ‘Then, they will be reborn because their karma has not yet been ameliorated. If they had, then they would have forfeited the struggle against old age, sickness and death, Nanda. Although he had been wrongly accused of having an unrighteous alliance with a queen, Anu, the brother of King Tissa of Kalyani, was condemned to be cast into a vat containing boiling oil. Yet, he had received nothing but the reward for his karma. For in an earlier life, he had cast into boiling milk a fly that was still alive. His inner attitude was wrong, Nanda. For he who does not veer away from wrongdoing and does not do that which is good, nor keeps his thoughts pure, surrenders forever to death … he has lost the battle with death, Nanda.’

  At that, Nanda becomes aware of the limitless compassion of the Buddha’s mighty word, and she takes refuge in the Tataghata …

  Bikkhuni Sundari enters the forest to meditate on what the Tataghata has taught. She is a beautiful woman who has forsworn all that the will to live reposes in human nature, riches, luxury, comforts, joys … She has turned to the Buddha and is no longer open to what would distract her from the Buddha’s teachings. She feels purity, has clarity in her faith and her life, and she meditates on the truth and the greatness of the Buddha’s sacred doctrine. She sits under a Bodhi tree and meditates … She looks on. She is clear about what man has to undertake to escape samsara, or rebirth.
All that used to be significant to her, fades away, losing its value in the light of Buddha’s sacred teachings. All that used to give joy now seem futile to her in the light of Nirvana; all that pained her before, fails to disturb her anymore. All around her the plants appear timeless; all around her is peace, as there is within her. No human being! Yes, there is someone after all, whom she would not expect to be in the quietude of the mahavana. He approaches. He is young, dressed like a man-of-the-world. His smiling face is beautiful but the look in his eyes is lascivious. Sundari wants to leave her place and return to the convent because the manner of the young man does not please her at all. He bars her way.

  ‘Stay, Sundari, and listen to me.’

  ‘I withdrew into solitude to remain undisturbed and not to listen to you.’

  ‘And I have come here because you had gone into solitude and no one will disturb us,’ he laughs. ‘You are more beauteous, more slender, than a talipot palm, your walk is that of a deer and makes my heart tremble; your mouth is more luscious than even the most beautiful of red lotuses … and your eyes, Sundari! Such eyes … that would make any devi jealous, their tint is soft and strong at the same time. Please, Sundari, give yourself to me!’ He approaches her but Sundari recoils from him.

  ‘Do not touch me under this tree, the sacred tree of the Buddha! You are ruining your karma!’’

  ‘Nothing can hold back my passion, Sundari! Give me your love, too!’

  ‘Get back! I have cast off all worldly lusts! Your love for me is like the suffocating sands of the desert, like poison!’

  ‘Then why were you reborn as a devi … so beautiful! Why do you entice me so much that I suffer unendurable passion? Why do you cast aside what would give me unending happiness! Come, Sundari, we are all alone in this mahavana. No one can rescue you from my love, no one can rescue me from this sin; let me not die of passion, all because of a capricious whim of yours! Have mercy on me, too!’