‘Very serious. I believe that my time has come. I do not feel that as unfair. I have been so spoiled by fate. I have, according to my father’s wish, been able to serve the country. But, most wonderful, was to be allowed to love and support my Lord. Your happiness was my greatest happiness. Tell me, my Lord, that I did not come to Pataliputra in vain!’ Tired, her head falls back on the white silken cushion.
‘When I tell you that you brought me happiness I express it so poorly, as though I called Surya a torch. I have wanted to bring happiness to the millions of India. Only you gave to me, in whose blood runs warfare, with your purity, your humanity, your great simplicity, the power to work for that which is good. And you turned my heart towards that which is eternal. For that I will be always grateful to you, Asandhi, until my very last day.’
She softly presses his hands and a smile appears on her face, which has remained very beautiful over her years.
‘I only made you aware, my Ashoka, of who and what you are. Be nice to Tishya!’
‘Is she worthy of your love?’
‘Does one know the value of each individual? She has something of the wildness, the untrammeled cravings of the jungle, of the cobra hidden under leaf mold, of the golden oriole in the top of the highest trees. I love her because she was like my own child who needed my support, my encouragement, comfort and trust. Her gratefulness and love was to me like amrita1. I have rescued through her a human being who would otherwise have been lost.’
‘Not everyone praises her.’
‘Not everyone bears easily another man’s happiness.’
‘Except when that happiness is earned. The human heart is utmost sensitive to undeserved happiness.’
‘Jealousy! One loves the one who by his nature is a good human being. But one cares for the one who has to fight a hard battle to become it, because care is both, compassion as well as willingness to support. Nobody knows, as I do, how much she has had to fight, abandoned by all gods and relations, and alone in your big city. For that she certainly needs my support, and soon yours.’
‘I hope to fulfill your wish, my Asandhi.’
‘Thank you, my great King. I would have loved so much to stay longer with you. But my health prevents me from meaning something to you still. I have to pass on to others what gave me so much joy. Joy passes by, death comes inevitably. It feels right for me to die now. The gods have been graceful to me in granting me such a blissful life by your side. If only I could start a new life with you, my beloved man!’
‘We have capable physicians at the court, my Asandhi!’
A week later, Asandhi dies in the arms of Tishya while Ashoka is in conference with his ministers. The following day the death ceremonies are performed and the golden urn with the ashes of Asandhi are interred inside the great stupa that he had erected near Pataliputra. Suddenly, loneliness takes hold of the Maharajah, like the mist the valley of the Ganga, when the waters in the bed of the holy river withdraw in Ashvina2.
In the evening, when Surya has descended behind the wide fertile fields with its grain, paddy and sugar cane, and the moon weaves her mild rays into the silence of nature, the Maharajah stands pondering at an elevated spot in the park of the stone wing, and his gaze wanders over the wide river in the West. Mist, mist! And the heavy burden of memories weighs unbearably on his mind. He does not want to yield to the ‘Truth of suffering’. Not he! Because he does not want the path of the ‘annihilation of suffering’ as the Buddha taught in his first sermon in Kashi. Asandhi’s death brings great loneliness to him. His thoughts, energy and willpower were almost wholly concentrated on the great task he had wished to take upon himself. And Asandhi had been so closely bound to that, that he had always felt that she was indispensable. She was the altar in the temple on which he laid down the offerings of his life’s work, before it went to the deity, Life itself. Now it feels as if his task is over, because its very ground sunk down under Yama’s force. She, like him, had one lofty goal: the happiness of India; like him, one conviction: that the human being has to strive for Svarga3, because it is in that endeavour that the ennobling of all life is enclosed. He saw the difficult road but she knew the right way to walk it! Asandhi had the self-renouncing love for the ones that he served. He wanted to be the father of his subjects but she was an infinitely loving mother for his peoples. Should he now hand over the governance to Kunala? He has the support of a wife who is like Asandhi! But Kunala has to gain experience in the West, learn how to rule a vast empire. Will he ever learn that? He, Ashoka, is tired. And he is not allowed to be so! Not yet! First, the happiness of his kingdom has to be secured through Kunala!
Tishya Rakshita? Is Karuvaki right in her judgement? Demonic? He smiles. There is one who perhaps could take Asandhi’s place: Devi. Sweet as Asandhi, but without interest in what he feels as the most important or is it not that either? Maybe, without the inner strength that has to rise above the anthapura, the palace, Magadha. Devi feared Pataliputra, took refuge in the Buddha to strengthen her loving soul. For Asandhi, Pataliputra was a high eagle’s nest, from where her spirit could fly out over the wide land. And Devi? A Buddhist, busy with the construction of their love-stupa, the caitya of Mahindra, and the monastery of Sudeva. But does not Buddhism mean the will to bring well-being to others? Tishya has no feelings for Buddhism, Devi was a follower of the Buddha before he was himself! Where lies the answer to his questions! There is no Asandhi anymore to help him to find it! He cast a last look on the Ganga: mist, mist! Then he returns to his working chambers and orders for everything to be arranged for the following day at sunrise, for a trip on horseback to Bodh Gaya. He wants to visit the bodhi-tree under which the Buddha became enlightened. One of the first ones he lets in is the first servant of Tishya Rakshita, a confidante of Rohini.
‘Well Sinhi, do you have news?’
‘No, noble Maharajah, the Maharani is very distressed by the death of the Agramahisi, she hardly eats and usually sits in her chamber, staring into space.’
‘Did she not see anyone or did anyone come to see her?’
‘No, noble Maharajah, the Rani went to the stupa with Rita, to bring flowers. A few she brought herself to the room of the Agramahisi.’
‘Do you believe that her sadness is genuine?’
‘Yes, Lord. Or, she must be able to pretend with much skill. My mistress has forbidden anyone to enter the death chamber.’
‘It is good, Sinhi. Tomorrow, you will accompany the Maharani to Bodh Gaya.’
He immediately informs Tishya Rakshita that she has to prepare for a journey early in the morning to the Bodhi-tree in Gaya. They will go on elephant with horse-guards.
On the barely controlled countenance of the Maharani appears a wild flush of triumph. With a cry of victory she throws herself on the couch. But she gets alarmed herself by the sound of her voice and her control returns. Calmer, she starts to consider what kind of clothing she will take along: white, for the mourning of Asandhi! She wants to look cast down, no elation in the presence of her Lord! He shall not know how happy she feels, because she has made the first step. Fully aware of that she goes on to plan how she can move on. Time and again she let herself be carried away by her feelings. Now, particularly, she has to control herself with all her might. The Maharajah shall understand that it is she, who is destined to be the highest woman in the empire! She wants to impress him by her calmness, her wisdom, her compassion, her ambition to follow the Buddha. So, no more jungle-manifestations, as Asandhimitra used to call them.
Early next morning, Tishya Rakshita appears at the place in front of the palace. Her sobre dress, totally in accordance with her pale, stern countenance, the somewhat languishing demeanour that she thinks is befitting the occasion—after all, is not the Maharajah taking her along because of her grieving—Ashoka looks on with pleasure. He senses something in her, something of the ways of Asandhi, who by her very nature was characterised by a dignified demeanour. Tishya has always studied Asandhi; in her ways of behaviour, in her ways o
f responding to the comments of the Maharajah, also her words, which had such a great impact on Ashoka. She is convinced that she, by her beauty and youth, can acquire that power as well, if her feelings of rebelliousness would not always again, like an unbridled tempest, rage inside her; then she forgets all that she intended. It is her pride of being a Kshatriya from the fort high up in the mountain in the mahavana. Now she wants to remain calm, dignified, like Asandhimitra. She knows that by her extraordinary beauty she scores over Karuvaki and Padmavati. She will speak and behave in as distinguished a manner as Asandhi!
When they are seated in the howda on the royal elephant, the Maharajah says:
‘I see that the journey is not unwelcome to the youngest Rani.’
Tishya frowns for a short moment upon hearing the word, ‘youngest’.
‘On the contrary, O, Maharajah, your orders are for me like the arrows of the Ashwins, which free the world of the night of an all-too depressing darkness.’
Evidently it is difficult for her to overcome her feelings of grief.
‘The many memories of Asandhi are for me like so many light-giving moments which strengthen me.’
One of her most charming smiles lights up upon him.
‘For me too, noble Maharajah, but Asandhi was my only support.’
‘Support for what?’
‘In the anthapura, against the others,’ she says, her temper sparking.
‘That is a testimony against you yourself, my Rani. There is no one in the anthapura who did not have a great love for Asandhi, because of her person!’
‘Because she was the highest, the Agramahisi,’ Tishya remarks sharply.
Ashoka absolutely wishes no dispute with the Rani. He wants to know who is right: Karuvaki or Asandhi.
‘Because she was wise and all-encompassing good. That is why she became the Agramahisi. Why did she love you so much?’
‘I think because, coming to Pataliputra as I did, with no protection, I attached myself to her, first from fear and later out of love.’
‘Yes, yes, the great compassion! Would you yourself offer protection too to a desolate orphan from the jungle?’
‘Maybe … I do not know. I have never met one.’
‘With Asandhi everyone thought that was natural and in keeping with herself.’
‘She was a Brahmin lady and reflected much about what was good and what was not.’
‘One does not become good by thinking; thinking can stimulate the good in the human being. But one is either good or not good. When I choose my dharma-mahamatryas, Tishya, it does not matter to me whether they are Brahmins or Shudras. I need people who are so much superior to others in their composure, their views and sense of justice, so virtuous, that they already impress any sensitive human being by their entire personality. Asandhimitra was such a person! Anyone who met her once, knew that she stood above any other woman in truth, goodness and benevolence. Who do you think, Tishya, should succeed her?’
Tishya starts, taken by surprise by the question that has already been in her mind from the very first moment Asandhi was ill. If she could have guessed the deliberateness of Ashoka’s question, she might have lost her composure. But she knows how to recover. Utterly calm, she avoids the difficulty:
‘How could I advise you who you may have destined for such a high rank?’
‘You are like the Ganga-skipper who avoids the sandbank in the tide but straightaway sees another one before him. I do not ask your advice but your opinion. So, Devi, Padmavati. Karuvaki, Tishya Rakshita?’
Is the old Maharajah playing a game with her, the youngest Rani?
‘I know of no one who could replace Asandhimitra.’
‘That is a new sandbank you are sailing around, beautiful sailor. So, Devi.’
‘Devi! She does not know Pataliputra. And I do not know her.’
‘Padmavati. She is the mother of my dearest son.’
Tishya looks at him sideways. Does he know? No, then he would not have been talking so calmly about him to her!
‘Padmavati is sweet but does not understand the worries of the noble Maharajah.’
‘Very right. What about Karuvaki?’
A deep blush colours her sultry features. Ashoka believes a flush of fury!
‘Karuvaki lives in Kausambi. She feels herself to be my enemy. Perhaps you understand, noble Maharajah, that I would view her return to Pataliputra with great fear. I …’
‘Continue with your frank opinion,’ Ashoka encourages her.
‘Maybe, I hate her, noble Maharajah.’
‘You are sharp and cautious. Karuvaki is sincere, simple and great as the jungle where she comes from.’
‘The jungle is cruel and cold.’
‘Cool, you mean. But often has a refreshing influence upon others!’
‘Lord, do not ask any further opinion about her. It would be a misfortune for me if she became Agramahisi.’
‘Because of her views or because of how you view her?’ Ashoka continues pitilessly.
‘Because of her opinions and words which never reveal any courtesy but only harshness.’
Ashoka smiles again. ‘So, you think the only one suitable is the fourth!’
Tishya laughs but it is with inner revolt.
‘You did not ask my opinion about her,’ she jokes.
‘Give it,’ the Maharajah says, sternly.
‘I do not have a definitive opinion about her; I know so much about her that it confuses me. Certainly the judgement of the noble Maharajah will be more correct. So, I suggest that you give your opinion of her.’
The sun has risen quite high above the horizon now. It strikes Ashoka that she is not in the least impressed by the beautiful sunrise above the River Son and the bright queen of heaven and earth, like Karuvaki had been once.
‘Not necessary, my Rani. I go to Bodh Gaya and will reflect under the sacred pipala where the Buddha attained enlightenment. This is in the interest of the entire India.’
‘Do you believe it was the sacred tree that helped enlighten the Buddha?’
‘I do not know the influence of animals and plants but I know that the human spirit requires a place in which it can expand. For that the Buddha chose a place under the bodhi-tree to come to clarity about the world. I want to attain that about my empire. Do I have to hand over India to Kunala? And if not, who will then be my Agramahisi?’ he provokes her.
‘Kunala is young and you are at the very height of your capabilities.’
‘Maybe, it is time for me to prepare myself for death like my grandfather did after twenty-five years of governing.’
‘India cannot miss your strength!’ Tishya calls out, anxiously. ‘Asandhi’s death makes you depressed. Think of your millions of subjects, Lord!’
‘The sacred pipala-tree,’ smiles Ashoka.
Tishya keeps silent. She feels the pipala-tree to be a danger. Kunala Maharajah, Kanchanamala the Agramahisi! And she the insignificant soon-forgotten Rani of Ashoka!
‘Were you not a viceroy for a long time, Lord? Kunala is only such a short time in Taxila!’
‘The pipala-tree, my Rani!’ he says, mockery lighting up in his eyes.
‘You, noble Maharajah, rule your entire people. You fulfil a lifetime’s work, you bring by your skills and your love, the empire to a flowering, and its subjects to the Dharma!’ Tishya speaks out with fervour. They are the words of Asandhimitra when she spoke about the holy Maharajah. Ashoka is surprised that Tishya is getting so excited, even finding her words so clearly and defending her self-interest.
‘Wait and see, beautiful Rani. The pipala creates a place for our thoughts so that they may bear the best of fruits.’
Ashoka knows every section of the road to Gaya, not only because he has visited the bo-tree several times but also by the walks in his youth, the climbing of the Barren Mountain, the homes of Jivaka and Sasarman. He tells the Rani about his trip with Kullika, the sacrifice of Rohini.
‘Is it not a pity, noble Maharajah, that faith in
sacrifices has disappeared? It is as if the world has lost its foundation. One used to feel the gods always so near, when in need of help.’
‘No!’
Tishya, who happily welcomed the glibness of the Maharajah, now recoils, resentful and angry, at his short, taut answer.
‘All those begging monks at the houses in their ashen robes, with their shaven heads and the ever-present begging bowl clutched in their arms like a child! To be obedient and sweetly behaving! And all that to reserve a place in heaven or even to reach Nirvana! In the older world was more vigour, belief, life!’
‘Killing! Killing of men and animals! And for what reason! The great sacrifice of Rohini did not give her a son. When she and Sasarman were married, they got children without any sacrifices. Sacrifices for rain, against pestilence and other sicknesses are useless! Since we provide medicinal herbs for the whole of the country there are few serious illnesses anymore. Do you wish to retain the sacrifices merely for the sake of making sacrifices? Is it not better that my subjects practise benevolence and take care of mendicant monks with a little rice and fruits, which the sun is providing for them, rather than have the priests take away their cattle and treasures? Do not the animals which are sacrificed arouse your pity, my Rani?’
‘O, my Lord,’ Tishya replies, confused and alarmed. ‘For sure! But I was thinking of the sacred fires in the bright nights, the chanting of the priests, the contentment of the people who are offering the sacrifices. In contrast, our days are so … dull, without the joy of something of such magic. The people just walk around in the pastures like cattle. No battles, no enemies! Thus, no more victories!’
‘There will be! The victory over that part within the human being which tries to make him a predator, a part which does not ascend to the beautiful and the good, but descends to selfishness, the tiger-nature. I work day and night to change people’s fundamental attitudes. I brought peace to the empire. I bring justice to everyone. Does the victory of prosperity, the peace, the justice to my peoples, not mean anything? You wish to return the days of Chandragupta with the cruel whip for the slaves, and manslaughter, murder and injustice for all who are not Brahmins or Kshatriyas.’
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