‘Birth, old age, sickness, death … being separated from those we love … that is the first truth of suffering, Kullika …,’
Ashoka returns swiftly to the capital. That Devi’s love does not oblige her to join him does not sadden him. The faithfulness to her first love touches him too deeply. The life in the anthapura cannot be her life!
In the vihara in Gaya there is great turmoil because the sacred tree of the Buddha appears to be dying. Pious upasakas carries water, even milk, to drench the roots. Ashoka immediately summons the most competent gardeners of Pataliputra’s nursery. Guards are placed around the tree. The Maharajah then proceeds, saddened that the sacred tree which played such an important role in the ascent of the Shakya-son to Buddha-hood is also subject to the law that rules all that lives: that nothing endures forever, that everything that becomes, perishes!
At night time, after his first talk with Radhagupta, who had deputised for him, he goes to Padmavati. She is glad at his return.
‘Do you want to accompany me tomorrow to the camp, my Padmavati?’
‘You know, Sire, that I do not like to receive the accolades of your subjects or pretend an interest that I do not have.’
‘I wish you to accompany me and appear in the parishad tomorrow.’
Padmavati laughs and shakes her head. ‘Leave that to the younger ones, Lord! Tishya loves pomp and show and likes to watch the prostrating subjects from the high howda. I derive more pleasure out of being in the anthapura or in the park.’
Sinhi is summoned to the Maharajah’s working quarters.
‘Rise, Sinhi, and take place over there. Do you have something to report?’
‘Much, gracious Maharajah.’ And she recounts, in an uninterrupted torrent of words, about Tishya’s exuberant joy over the journey to Gaya, her peculiar behaviour at the Bo-tree, the disdainful way in which she talked about the tree as if she were jealous, her talk about killing the tree that she even kicked, and her visit to the wise woman to whom she handed a precious piece of jewellery. At last, she tells him about the visit to Tarata, and that Rita had been there several times to buy perfumes.
‘What was the reason of that visit?’
‘I have not been able to find that out, noble Maharajah.’
Astounded and highly displeased, the Maharajah orders a rigorous investigation to be set in motion by the pradesika in Gaya and at Tarata’s, but the perfumer is a shrewd man. Then the Maharajah orders Tishya to come to him. She does not seem to surmise in the least the reason for his summons; the friendliest smile still adorns her beautiful face. The sight does not prevent the Maharajah from going straight to the point.
‘What caused the young Rani to kill the sacred Bo-tree?’
Tishya turns pale. All kinds of thoughts fly through her head. Who has betrayed her? How can she save herself? She falls down on her knees and presses his cloak against her forehead.
‘Forgive me, Lord. I could not bear that my beloved Maharajah valued the influence of a tree more than my opinion. It is as Asandhi always said: my feelings sometimes overrule completely my reasonability. As soon as I come to my senses, I regret, Lord.’
Ashoka reflects for a while. Does he have to fall behind Asandhi who always knew how to direct Tishya to better thoughts? He looks down at her for a long time but she does not raise her eyes.
‘Get up, your friend, the wise woman, did not succeed in crushing out the sacred Bo-tree.’
‘How fortunate, Lord! That wise woman is not my friend; she is an enemy of the Buddha, Lord. Protect the sacred tree against her and her likes!’
‘I thank you for your advice, Rani,’ he says, icily. ‘I will have the tree protected by a wall and place guards at the entrance of the building to safeguard it from the whims of foolish women. What did you want to know from the wise woman?’
Tishya breathes more freely again. So, the Maharajah does not know anything about her talk! She replies slowly, ‘Who would become the Agramahisi, Lord?’ The smile returns; the one that could melt the heart of the hardest of men, so certainly the old Maharajah!
‘That is of great concern to you, Tishya!’ he says earnestly.
‘It was of concern to me, Lord. Now you have chosen Devi, my restlessness has ceased.’ Tishya has understood why Devi has not come along from Vidisha.
Ashoka looks at her. Is the appearance of this fiery, impulsive-natured woman so misleading, that he once again makes an error?
‘Why does the youngest Rani visit the perfumer Tarata?’
Ashoka’s piercing look confuses her. What does the Maharajah know? At this new and unforeseen attack, fear takes hold of her, more than before, as from an unexpected blow. With the greatest of effort she keeps herself under control and hides her tension behind her most enticing way of making eyes.
‘I wanted to choose the perfumes myself, to please my Lord. Asandhi was always very choosy about it. How much more do I then have to be!’
‘Why?’
‘Asandhi was loved for her inner being, her wisdom and her distinguished beauty. She was a noble Brahmin lady. I …’
‘You hesitate, Tishya.’
‘Yes, Sire, I hardly dare say it: I am a Kshatriya from the jungle, short-tempered as a cobra, easily insulted like an elephant, Asandhi used to say. She always knew, with a friendly word, a compassionate glance, how to bring me to better insight.’
‘But there has to come a moment in our lives when we do not have to lean anymore on others.’
‘Yes, Sire.’ And again, her face breaks into the most charming smile. ‘Perhaps, I am too young to realise that. Did I lose my beloved friend too early!’ She sobs.
‘Perhaps, Tishya. Let us hope that her death will be a strong motivation for you, that your heart may at last guide you to the right way, the one of the Buddha. You have to be an example to other women in my empire.’
‘Yes, Lord. Your judgement always strengthens the inner being.’
Ashoka had wanted to be firm with the youngest Rani. Now again he has the strong feeling that Asandhi could better comprehend this daughter of the mahavana. He does not look for confidentiality and trust from Tishya, but Karuvaki and Padmavati do not have any interest in what, for him, is his very life. And this young Rani, impelled though she is by her vanity or even fear of life, could perhaps be awakened to an interest in it, if he is able to guide her properly. She alone now is eligible to become the Agramahisi. In the past, in moments of doubt, the discerning judgement of Asandhi had been of great value to him. Now the role of the Agramahisi will be merely representative: to be present by his side on the imperial elephant, in the parishad, at receptions for envoys. Nothing more. And Tishya is an impressive figure who could represent well the outwardly importance of the Agramahisi.
When Tishya returns to her room she bursts out laughing.
Rita asks, ‘Did the high Rani have a nice talk?’
‘Yes! How many living beings did Manu create, Rita?’
‘Millions, high Rani.’
‘And which, of all those beings, is the most stupid?’
‘A parrot, high Rani. He echoes only what someone else says.’
‘Echoing is wise, Rita, when others do not know where that wisdom comes from.’
‘An elephant then, which is as strong as a thousand of men, allowing itself to be led by a foolish mahout …’
‘No Rita, a man!’ Tishya could not stop laughing. ‘A man who is sometimes as strong as a hundred thousand of men and allows himself to be led by one single silly woman!’
‘That is what the woman thinks, but the man decides, high Rani.’
‘One single woman is more cunning than a hundred thousand of men.’
‘But his might is stronger than that of a thousand women.’
‘He does not see through her when she is clever enough.’
‘When the guile fails he becomes dangerous, high Rani.’
Startled for just a moment Tishya looks at her, and then she laughs again.
Before the next
meeting of the parishad, Ashoka visits Tishya.
‘You will accompany me to the parishad as the Agramahisi.’
A wild joy comes over her. She wants to fly up and embrace the Maharajah, kiss him. She wants to yell like the hunter in the mahavana, to dance to ease her tense nerves. But she does nothing of it. Instead she remains standing, erect and composed. She looks at the Maharajah and realises she has to hold on to her dignity. Kneeling down, she kisses the hem of his cloak.
‘I thank you, gracious Maharajah, for the trust you place in me.’ She sobs for a moment.
‘You are the youngest of the Ranis. Try always to keep your dignity as the first one amongst the women, and forget once and for all, what you retain in your memory of your youth in the jungle. A Rani, and certainly the Agramahisi, has to be an example for all women. In the future you will devote yourself to the well-being of my peoples. This is what your high position is all about!’
It is a fantastic dream for Tishya Rakshita. As a radiant Empress she appears beside the holy Maharajah in the parishad. He introduces her as the Agramahisi of the great empire, and in her eyes gleams victory. Whoever speaks a friendly word to her is rewarded with a smile that makes the high council of the parishad almost forget its rigid dignity. On the tour through the town, announced by gong and messengers, her wildly thumping heart can scarcely contain the many accolades, heaped on the new Agramahisi. Her youth and her charm, her joyful radiating face at the cheering of: ‘Hail to the Agramahisi’, her participation in the general joy of the populace, gives to the Maharani and the people a golden memory, which greatly pleases the Maharajah; in this way it will be easier for Tishya to turn to the interests of others, which will be good for both … So hopes the sacred Maharajah.
With irresistible power the announcement to the people lures Katcha to the street as well. Lonesome, the young priest watches the parade. When the imperial elephant approaches, his eyes look at the Maharani with longing. He was not able to forget her, not her smile, not her eyes, which had penetrated his. They overwhelm him, not by their earnestness, as with Kancha, but by their mystical female charm. A strange passion, powerful and wild, coursed through him and suffocated him with an inexpressibly sad happiness. Now his hungry eyes are riveted on her, waiting, just as he had been waiting for days, weeks. He stands there, in deep concentration, not moving a muscle, his whole being focused in his gaze. The magic of it ought to attract her attention, and it does. Involuntarily she glances to his side and for a few moments, as she passes by, her eyes rest on his. Then she laughs and for a brief moment her hand moves—imperceptible to the Maharajah—and it seems as though the hunger in his eyes is satiated now that she passes by, not cold, not as if he was a stranger. He does not move. Fortunately! For in the midst of Katcha’s silent admiration for the Maharani, the Emperor turns to him and recognises him. The young Brahmin, however, stops arousing his interest.
Sunk in dejected thoughts, he wanders around the city. What can he expect of the Agramahisi? Nothing but a dangerous, useless adventure! Does he still want to avenge Kunala now that his love for Kancha has disappeared?
Tishya Rakshita is worried. Katcha had stood on the road so still, as though he did not know her. Does he have regrets for their bond of friendship? She does not wish to lose his support! She has to speak to Katcha! Does she dare to go to Tarata? She waits. She has to! So she does, with unbearable patience, until the Maharajah leaves for Bodh Gaya to see the new construction. Swiftly, she sends Rita to Tarata for a perfume to get rid of her headache. Katcha! Now! Even more cautious than the last time, she looks for the street of the perfumers. Only Rita joins her. Katcha is at Tarata’s. His eyes light up with joy when she brings on her magic smile. Ardently, she grabs his hand and keeps it in hers.
‘Katcha, why was your gaze so dark and still the other day.’
‘Noble Maharani …’
‘Noble Maharani? I do not call you ‘High Brahmin’, do I?’ And she laughs at him so encouragingly, that it confuses him. ‘My name is Tishya, Tishya Rakshita.’
‘Sri!’
Suddenly Tishya becomes serious, and she clutches his hand even more tight. ‘Goddess of happiness? No, Katcha … Where I am, happiness gives way! Do I give you happiness?’
‘No! You fill my heart with deep agony. Day and night! Since I have met you I have known no respite. It is as if I slide down a slope that leads into the darkest of depths. Where are you leading me?’
‘I laugh at what my environment calls happiness, the veneration of the Buddha, bah! That kind of happiness does not exist for me, Katcha! You are my only friend but what binds us is not happiness! We are united by hatred, Katcha! Not because of happiness are we united, but that we are united is happiness for us, Katcha!’ And she laughs again at him, carefree. ‘How do you call me, Katcha?’
‘Morning sun, because you will scorch me later on!’
‘Well, maybe, my fire will be quenched before the afternoon glare burns you!’
‘Then I shall call you my Black Star.’
She laughs. ‘Black Star! Whose light is dimmed to extinction. Not yet, Katcha!’
‘No, your light is more beautiful than Ushas’ red glimmering. Do you yourself know how enticing it is?’
‘No, tell me,’ she whispers. And her laugh ensnares him, taking his breath away. Then suddenly, his hands take hers, he embraces her and a warm glow colours her cheeks. Her eyes open wide and shining as if they are drinking in his eager looks. A wild passion flares inside him. He kisses her unrestrainedly and Tishya responds to his love with complete surrender.
She leaves, laughing: ‘I will send you a message, Katcha, when I come back!’
‘Say, when!’
‘When I am able to! And will you please not doubt again our friendship, and our love? Our hatred?’ she whispers.
‘The morning sun shines with mild rays!’ he, too, laughs.
‘And the Black Star is maya!’
Rita stamps about impatiently to and fro in Tarata’s storeroom.
‘You risk too much, gracious Maharani! Think of the last time!’
‘Who is the most stupid one in Manu’s world, Rita?’ she laughs.
Rita keeps silent. Sinhi thinks the Maharani was out only to buy perfumes.
20
THE NEW KUMARA
umenes, how is it possible that a Hellene sculptor feels called upon to create such a frieze!’
‘Because I feel one with the people of India.’
Philon, dressed in chiton and belt, looks around the workshop of Eumenes and sniffs disdainfully. Zetes laughs.
‘So, you have adapted yourself to the barbarians!’ Philon mocks. ‘Are we Greeks not far superior to all these peoples? Do you have temples here like those in our mother country; the Pantheon of Iktinos, the temple of Zeus in Olympia, the bas-relief of Phidias, murals like those of Apelles? And that which is found of art here is of Hellenic origin! If Alexander had not come from Macedonia to this country of barbarians, they would still make their temples and palaces from wood! The pillars look like the spindly shanks of a hungry sailor of Odysseus, the mausoleums are circular heaps of stone within a small fence!1’
Zetes, swift and well-muscled, jumps up from the rough slab of rock he was sitting on:
‘Why no thatched huts as their palaces and temples, like the philosophers have here! Raja Ashoka has allowed builders and stone-masons from Bactria and Iran: of course, Hellenes, who have to teach the inept woodcarvers of India how to make a column, an abacus, a capital. A solitary pillar is the sole architecture of India. Look at our temples with a hundred mighty pillars! And those figures of wood! Compare them with Phidias’ Athens and Zeus of gold and ivory! Have you ever seen an image of their most important god, Buddha?’
Eumenes bursts out laughing:
‘Their most important god Buddha! You are such an arrogant Hellene that you cannot appreciate all that is great in this country. Have you any idea of Brahman? The Greek Zeus is a miserable human being compared to Brahma
n: the All-Spirit of the universe, contained within the life-giving force and pristine beauty, which unfolds itself in everything that lives, and thus makes all life a fragment of itself. Is that statue of Zeus or of Athene which you admire so much anything more than a statue of a human being with all its gross failings? Give me, O, gods, the power to carve the Brahman out of stone! The Greeks have always wanted to show the mortal, the finite, in their art, the divine as the sublime idealised human beauty! The people here believe that nature in its thousands of forms represents that beauty much more perfectly. But who can give form to immortality, the infinite, the Spirit! And what are you talking about: ‘their most important god Buddha?’ The Buddha was no god, he was a human being who, by his extraordinary spiritual powers, elevated himself to the state of a radiant example, a state a human being can reach when he purifies his soul of all that is worldly in him, the purity of spirit, rising up from the white lotus, and calling on the earth as witness, with all the serenity of triumph over the earthly. We Hellenes want to portray physical man in divine perfection, yet in his finiteness. The people here try to represent the spiritual man in his infiniteness! The Greeks built their temples to the marvel of human beauty, balance, and purity of form. The Indians desire to enshrine in their temples the celestial, the intangible, the Brahman. Therefore, the Maharajah avails himself of our help and our experience. It is easy to call everyone who is not a Greek a barbarian. Who are you Philon? A Hellene and a wanderer like me, born outside of your native country, and fancying yourself far above the people here. It is more difficult to prove that you yourself are not a barbarian. Look here.’ Eumenes brings him to a fragment of the frieze and continues. ‘This is of the life of the Buddha, how he rejected the sensual opulence of the royal court and chose the path of the highest spiritual being. It is meant for the new palace of the Viceroy. I feel that I, with my Greek ideas, cannot by far match the lofty flight of their spirits. Five times I have tried to portray the Buddha and five times I have destroyed my work. I cannot give it a form that will gratify their high idea, because I am not from this culture.’
Ashoka the Great Page 99