Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

  ‘Return to Kausambi, Karuvaki, the new palace is ready and waits for its lady. In the half-quarter of the moon I will take you there. I want to know how the army fares when it crosses the Jamuna at Mathura. And I wish quiet and peace in the anthapura, for Asandhi.’

  ‘There was peace before Tishya Rakshita became Rani. However, I do look forward to going back to my lovely Kausambi …’

  Ashoka often thinks about his talk with Karuvaki; he knows her to be a sincere woman, but he relies upon the judgement of Asandhi.

  A few weeks later they depart for Kausambi. During the journey the Maharajah is very good-humoured. Karuvaki believes that his happiness comes because he will meet Kunala yet in Mathura. The Rani feels revitalised after the depressing days in Pataliputra.

  ‘You are enjoying this trip, my Karuvaki.’

  ‘Yes, Lord. I love to ride on horses, you know that. I have once told you that in Anga Surya delights. In Pataliputra his light gets clouded in the dust from the roads and the tensions of the anthapura. Kausambi bathes in his mild rays, in the fresh air of the Doab-jungle and the song of the Ganga as it comes down from the snowfields of the Himalayas, Shiva’s abode.’

  ‘Asandhi loves Pataliputra.’

  ‘Because her thoughts soar high above those of all the small souls and because the noble thoughts of my Lord which all in the anthapura may not understand are so very close to her heart. I am used to living in a small world that gives me more than I need. I feel Pataliputra’s excitement as unpleasant. I love nature, Kausambi. When disturbing thoughts beset me, I ride out into the Doab with my guard and instantly the harmony in my soul returns.’

  Ashoka is touched by the simple honesty of this Rani and even more so when they arrive in Kausambi. The inhabitants are thrilled and joyous now that the Maharani is returning to their city. The veneration for their Maharajah fuses with their unconcealed love for her.

  ‘I am glad to see that the people love you so much, my jungle-rani.’

  ‘I follow the good example of my Lord and offer gifts where I think it can empower the Dharma and it is gratifying to know that many of the rich follow my example and act in your spirit.’

  ‘You understand the sara of my endeavours and practise it.’

  ‘The honour is not for me, lord, but goes to you yourself.’

  Karuvaki is delighted with the beautiful new palace. In the thinned-out forest, lotus ponds have been built with hewn stones. Exotic flowering shrubs have been arranged in such a way that when they are viewed from the palace during Sharad and Vesanta, they look like one luscious blooming garden, descending downward to the sacred river.

  The new palace, constructed completely with hewn stones, contains a choice of many rooms and an audience hall of polished granite. The glossy green walls are like mirrors. Between the slim pillars, embellished with gold leaf and flower patterns, is a frieze of red sandstone carved in light relief on which some jatakas of the Buddha are depicted in finely made roundels with a wreath of lotus motifs. In a matt white marble hall for the Emperor, with slim white pillars, embellished with white gold, is a throne of black, polished stone. A wealth of carpets, from Bactria, Syria and Iran, are placed over the seats and in niches. Big copper lamps and bowls of gemstones give the large room a distinguished and noble intimacy.

  Karuvaki is full of admiration, also for the Maharajah who had the palace so carefully arranged for her. He guides her through the gate leading to the town along a mango grove next to the palace yard, to an open space. There, one of his great pillars from the workshops of Chuny is erected. Karuvaki halts, filled with amazement.

  ‘It is the first time that I see one of these pillars, Lord.’ She walks around it, looks at the amazing shaft which is polished like fine metal, looks up at the Syrian capital and the crowning of lions. Her hand, caressing, slid over the shiny surface.

  ‘Read what is written here, my Rani.’

  ‘The mahamatras of all places are ordered the following by his Sacred Majesty: Whatever gifts are donated here by the Second Rani, be it mango groves or gardens or alms-houses or otherwise, have to be considered as gifts from this Rani. This is a request of the Second Rani, the mother of Tivara, Karuvaki’.9’

  Karuvaki kneels before her beloved Maharajah.

  ‘I am deeply touched by your kindness, Lord.’

  ‘Does it flatter your vanity?’

  ‘Nobody believes that it is out of vanity that the great Maharajah has inscribed his lipis everywhere in indestructible rocks, because his whole life is in harmony with what he intends: the welfare and happiness of his people. It makes me feel happy that my beloved Lord has written down this lipi.’

  ‘Fortunately you understand it this way, my Karuvaki.’

  Ashoka remains in Kausambi until Kunala’s army, according to the messengers, reached the northern Doab at Kanyakyubia. Then the Emperor, accompanied by a cavalry troop, follows the King’s Road to Krishnapura, where the army will cross the Jamuna. By the time he arrives they have already been, for some days, crossing over to the other side on rafts and boats. Kunala and Kanchanamala journey together with Ashoka to Mathura where they are welcomed with great pomp by Raja Saka.

  Ashoka remembers in the smallest detail his experiences in this city which has undergone great changes since choosing the side of the Buddha. In its surroundings several stupas have been erected and massive monasteries have been founded in the forested environment. Close to the Jamuna, where once upon a time the ashes of Princess Madri were entrusted to the river, stands the Madri-monastery, abundantly gifted by Ashoka. Raja Saka is a diligent upasaka of the Sangha. And yet, for the Maharajah it is as if all those people are still alive, who once played a role in the drama of the poor Princess who fell victim to the clash of powers between men. Whatever for? Demons, answers Kunala. But were they not rather the victims of the winds of change? And are there not always innocent victims, when the storm of times blows away the decaying vapours of the swamps of old traditions? With his arm he slaps away all that makes him feel sad. The loveliest that he found in Mathura snatched away by a fanatical priest! Is there danger for Kunala as well?

  Just outside the gate of Mathura stands an ox-cart, heavily dust-covered, obviously waiting for the procession of the high visitors to pass. From the vehicle a familiar face peeps at the Maharajah. In spite of his iron-clad memory he finds it difficult to identify who it is. It is only when he had gone through the gate and enthusiastic cheers of ‘Hail to the Maharajah!’ resounds, that his memory comes to his help again: it is the oldest student of Santanu! Katcha! Immediately he orders for the ox-cart to be stopped in front of the gate and to lead its passengers before him. Katcha unnerves him.

  After the hearty welcome at the court of Raja Saka, he is informed that the prisoners are waiting. Swift in all his decisions and actions, Ashoka proceeds to the court-hall. The purohita of the court joins him and Kunala at the Law-court,

  ‘What brings you again on the path of the Yuvaraja, Katchayana?’

  ‘I travel to Taxila.’

  Ashoka frowns. ‘You know who you have before you, Katcha!’

  ‘I travel to Taxila, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘So, you have just returned from Taxila. Why?’

  Katcha looks slyly around. ‘I no longer liked Taxila, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘And yet you are now returning to Taxila?’

  ‘I regretted that I had broken off my studies, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘Now, when the army is going there to suppress a revolt?’

  Katcha keeps silent.

  ‘The noble Yuvaraja still has some questions for you.’

  Kunala asks, ‘Why did Katcha leave Tirha so suddenly?’

  ‘Because I wanted to go to Taxila for further studies.’

  ‘To whom do you speak, Katchayana!’ the agitated Maharajah calls out.

  ‘… high Yuvaraja.’

  ‘So soon before your samavarthana10?’

  ‘I did not feel safe there any more, high Yuvaraja.’
/>
  ‘After your meetings with Kodini and Kawi?…’

  ‘You keep silent, Brahmin. You try to avoid this question, too. Answer! Or, we will have to compel you!’ Ashoka interrogates sharply.

  Once again it is Kunala’s turn. ‘You caused the elephant-attack. Why that crime?’

  ‘They had stolen my bride from me!’ Katcha calls out in unbridled temper.

  ‘Whom do you call your bride? The one you choose yourself or the one who is promised to you by her father?’

  Katcha remains silent.

  ‘You do not answer after your second lie!’ Ashoka calls out fiercely.

  ‘Has a brahmacharin ever been allowed a bride in his guru’s house?’ Kunala continues.

  ‘No, the law of Manu forbids that, high Yuvaraja.’

  ‘Well, what reasonableness then underlies your crime, which caused the complete destruction of Tirha? Moreover, Santanu had made clear to you that you could never count on his permission. So, it was a crime of revenge. That is why you fled!’

  ‘Once again,’ Ashoka takes up the questioning. ‘Why are you going to Taxila?’

  Katcha, still silent, casts a haughty look at Kunala.

  ‘Answer or I will have to force you to answer!’

  ‘I wanted to live where Kancha lives,’ he says stubbornly.

  ‘You mean where the Yuvaraja lives!’

  ‘Yes, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘So, I understand that you are again intent on revenge.’

  When Katcha once again chooses not to answer, Ashoka roars at him:

  ‘Your keeping silent, I consider to be an acknowledgement!’

  ‘You have the might to do so, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘No, the manas! You will return to Pataliputra and for the time being you will not leave the city. At the first breach of these rules you will be sent to the mines at the Gandaki. The Mauryas no longer tolerate mad sacrificial priests on their paths!’

  The Maharajah summons some servants and orders them to have a cavalry brigade immediately lead the ox-cart and the prisoners back to the capital. He also sends an order to Maskarin, that Katchayana is not to be permitted to leave the city and shall be placed under strict guarding.

  ‘Is the young Brahmin a danger, my Father? The days of Devaka, Sunasepha and Shakuni are over.’

  ‘For this type of priests there exists no time, no crime, and no compassion. When they see an opportunity, they seize it, and then they feel every action is allowed to them! If not for themselves then for their accomplices …’

  ‘Is it not ridiculous that such a young priest could accomplish anything against me and my father?’

  ‘They do not work with honest weapons. Their cleverness is directed to secret attacks, poison, snakes, and assassination. I was armed against this; I always carried five chakras with me, sharp and unerring. And I had Revata. I was brought up as a warrior, you as aRaja. That is why I am never sure whether you are capable of coping with these errants from their doctrine. When I know that you can take good care of your life and your safety, in the interests of our people, I would be at ease.’

  ‘You can trust me, my Father. Know that for me my obeisance to you rises above all else.’

  17

  SAVITRI

  nce again the most notable residents of Mathura take a stroll in the park of the palace. Women on whose arms and ankles, bracelets and anklets softly tinkle to the movement of their arms or to the rhythm of their gait. Gossamer muslin cloaks in bright colours embroidered with flower-motifs and gemstones, sway to the soft waves of the wind. Ashoka-blossoms and kimsukis, jasmine and kovidara-blossoms, bandhujivas and lovely water-lilies, adorn breasts and hips or glisten in dark hair. Snow-stones shine and glitter in the silk headscarves of the Princes and the sons of the wealthy merchants. And as if the park would fail in spreading its soft scents, servants sprinkle pathways with rose-water of Baghdad and sandal powder of the Deccan.

  Ashoka is walking with the Raja of Mathura through the park. The guests bow deeply. A few amongst the older still remember the young Prince, who had long ago passed by Mathura on his way to Taxila, and the death of Madri; how Ashoka had announced the betrothal of Prince Kala and Madri at a great celebration in the court. Since then, legend after legend had swept through the kingdom in which the ‘incarnation of Shiva’ played the leading role. The Maharajah directs his steps towards the hill, just as he had then. At its foot the Rani of Mathura stands. By her hand she has a little girl, maybe five years of age. Ashoka suddenly walks up to her and exclaims, ‘Madri!’

  The little girl is a little disconcerted. The Rani asks, ‘Did Your Gracious Majesty know that my daughter was called Madri?’

  ‘No, but she is the exact image of Raja Saka’s sister, Madri.’

  ‘So they say, noble Maharajah,’ answers the Rani.

  ‘Will Madri accompany me to the top of the hill?’

  She looks up at her mother, who nods. Then she takes Ashoka’s hand and walks along.

  ‘Have you been on this hill before?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, once.’

  ‘With whom?’

  ‘With … Madri.’

  ‘With me?’ she asks in disbelief.

  ‘No, with a different Madri.’

  ‘Is she a big girl?’

  ‘Yes, she was big and sweet.’

  ‘How big was she?’

  ‘So big!’

  And Saka and the Rani see how the Maharajah lifts the little girl, hoisting her high above him. Little Madri laughs. Ashoka keeps her in his arms. When they reach the top, he says:

  ‘Look over there, to the Doab. There, in the jungle, are tigers and dangerous animals.’

  ‘Will they harm us?’

  ‘They are far off. Look there, the army of the Yuvaraja!’

  ‘So many elephants! Will they harm us, too?’

  ‘No, they are sweet animals. And the horses, too.’

  ‘You are sweet, too.’ She puts her arms around his neck and gives him a kiss. He sets her down, deeply touched because of the memory of the other Madri.

  The Rani remarks, ‘You have become friends, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘And she touches my heart because here I once misunderstood a lovely young girl. It gives me a feeling of regret, never to be erased, of un-righteously misjudging a good human being.

  I did my best to repair the mistake … Devaka put an end to that’.

  They walk back. For the third hour of the afternoon, Raja Saka has ordered a distinguished theatre troupe to give a performance for the high guests.

  Suryadatta’s actors are chosen with care by him, artists with imagination who know the languages of the theatre well, and who can rightly feel the atmosphere of the theme. They always have to promote the progress of the next line of their co-actors with accurate promptings. Suryadatta reads aloud at the rehearsals a part of the play, whether it is a drama or a legend and the actors create the dialogues themselves. That is their craft. If someone wishes to be taken on as an actor, Suryadatta tells him: ‘Show me what you are able to, do not play the role of Asvapati. You are Asvapati, imagine yourself within his inner-most being, you are his incarnation; forget your own life. What you say has to be genuine and true, vital to your incarnation; it has to express your inner self in true words. The nakata1 has to grow like a plant out of a seed.’

  Suryadatta himself is a great artist. The play of today has been discussed and the players thoroughly trained by him because he has never before played for such high company: the sacred Maharajah himself and his son, heir to the throne.

  When all the guests have taken their seats, the priest appears, to praise Shiva: they still vaguely feel as though Ashoka is an incarnation of that mighty godhead:

  THE PRIEST

  May Shiva who catches the waters of the heavenly Ganga within the tresses on his three-eyed head and impel them on along the fair firmament of his celestial abode in the Himalayas, down to the sacred banks of the Ganga, passing by the devout city of Mathura where the mi
ghtiest rulers of the world have united.

  May Shiva who has amplified his vigorous dance of life and death all over space, the life which pulses in the spirit of the holy Maharajah and his son, the Yuvaraja, so that their empire of righteousness and prosperity will flourish forever;

  May Shiva who is with us at this very moment, be gracious to the actors and manifest his inner glory through them, so that all who are assembled here will be strengthened by his exalted being;

  May Shiva whom we approach with awe, grant all of us the utmost happiness!

  Suryadatta appears on the stage.

  Suryadatta:

  Enough! Stop! Marisha, come soon!

  Marisha:

  Here I am, sir!

  Suryadatta:

  I suggest we enact a play that everyone has heard about, a Trotaka2 of the king’s daughter Savitri, given to King Asvapati by the Goddess Savitri, after whom she is named.

  Marisha:

  Sir, will we be able to impersonate a woman who is as exalted as Princess Savitri, a man as holy as Narada, a king as mighty as Asvapati, and one as holy as the deposed king, Dyumatsena, in their own surroundings?

  Suryadatta:

  I have chosen the best of actors of the country and I long for them to display their art to the noblest kings of the world, who to India’s unbounded, encompassing good fortune, rule over this land. May they listen with kindness and growing interest to the words which are so full of inner strength that they create divine chances!

  Marisha:

  One more thing, sir, Savitri is a Brahminical tale. Would it not be better to enact a lofty play about the most Exalted, Realised Buddha, or one of his beautiful jatakas? Not just thousands but millions became followers of the sect of the Tathagata.

  Suryadatta:

  Can something beautiful forfeit its beauty because of its origin or when someone who looks at it is from a different sect?

  Beauty is not of maya but is linked with the eternal. Put your whole being into the play so that it comes alive. You are the son of Dyumatsena, Satyavant the truthful one.