Ashoka the Great

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Ashoka the Great Page 106

by Keuning, Wytze


  The Punjab shows off its spring glory, the fields conspicuous with luscious buds of fruit. Fast-paced day-time journeys alternate with quiet evenings and peaceful nights. With their songs, the morning birds awaken the travellers to every new day of travel. It seems as if all of nature calls them to joy and laughter. But the blind man, Kunala, is silent and withdrawn, his mind filled with all that has happened and all that still awaits him. His every movement must be aided. Frozen in countenance, he allows himself to be guided along the endless roads. The tuneful horn of one of the members of the caravan tears him away from his gloomy thoughts. Even as the camels suddenly become more vigourous in their journey, so, too, does it seem his tall figure aligns more easily to the lively melody. When they have crossed all the rivers of the Land of the Five Rivers, finally reaching the desert, it looks as though a tension wraps itself around the life in the caravan. Kunala’s attitude does not change, though. With pain in her heart, Kancha observes how life seems to happen outside him, and how he is withdrawing increasingly into himself. At night, when all are sitting around their tents, prattling or stirring up tales from their past or their fancy, everyone listens and feels drawn in. Only Kunala, his head stretched high as if looking over and around, stays silent, and even Kancha does not know what is going on inside him. Sometimes she would have his veena brought in and asks him to play. And he plays, his thought completely lost in the music, and men and animals listen and quiver.

  One night, when Kancha suddenly awakes from a frightening dream that the desert evokes in her, she asks softly: ‘Are you asleep, my friend?

  ‘No, I am thinking how the doors of the senses close down at night so as not to injure karma.’

  ‘Sleep,’ she says bitterly. ‘The tiresome journey will resume shortly.’

  ‘What does it matter if I sleep or not? Around me there is always night but in my mind eternal Light, Kancha.’

  ‘And what about the one who was meant to support you?’

  An unsteady hand reaches out to her.

  ‘I am no longer the Kumara … and will not be the Maharajah, Kancha.’

  ‘Then you did not want my advice in your darkest moments?’

  ‘I did fear it. I knew what you would advise.’

  ‘My advice and my love had no meaning for you.’

  ‘I thought that it was my father’s order.’

  ‘That order was not only a decision about your life but about mine as well. The enforcement of it should not have taken place without my knowledge. Once, in the mahavana, you said that you wanted to nourish and nurture me—the mahavana flower—so that it would grow and flourish. You have only … cut it off.’

  ‘For a Buddhist, obedience to Father and Mother is of most importance, and … the Buddha, if one has chosen the path to Nirvana. If your wish is to return to Tirha, Kancha, I shall have to bear it.’

  ‘You told me once in the mahavana, that you needed a pillar, a woman you would love and who would love you so much, that she would become one with you, one in knowing, one in aspiration and one in will. Did you choose the right path?’

  ‘No, because the order of Father was false.’

  ‘And what if it had not been false?’

  ‘Yes. My faith and my love for my father knows of no other way.’

  ‘Then what does it mean being one in knowing and will? You could have abdicated.’

  ‘That was not possible.’

  ‘No, I will not go to Tirha … we have a son. I shall speak to your father, who is faithful and sensible. Sleep now, Kunala.’

  Once more, ridden with guilt, he reaches out with his hand. She takes hold of it. There is infinite compassion in her broken heart.

  Days go by on the long, lonely distant journey. Finally they reach Kausambi: the land of spring and blossoms, of laughter and joy.

  The three camels and the escort approach the Imperial Palace. At the gates they are stopped as their clothes—worn-out from the long journey—do not invoke trust. However, when Kancha orders the servants to report to Rani Karuvaki that Kanchanamala is requesting admittance, one of the gate-keepers hastily scurries, impressed by the high, royal lady. They dismount in the court-yard where Karuvaki has run to meet them.

  ‘Kancha, my child … where have you travelled from?’

  ‘From Taxila.’

  ‘How you look! And the blind one in his weathered cloak?’

  ‘Kunala …’

  ‘Kunala!’ Shocked, she approaches to embrace him. ‘What has happened! What is wrong with your eyes?’

  ‘Blind!’ says Kancha, when Kunala does not reply. Karuvaki looks at her in disbelief.

  ‘The eyes have been taken from him on the order of …’

  ‘Quiet, Kancha!’ Kunala raises his hand and arrests her statement. Then he says softly: ‘You know as little as I do.’

  Karuvaki bursts out in tears. ‘Come,’ she says, putting her arm around the helpless Raja.

  A bath is prepared, and a meal, then they sit together.

  ‘Now tell me what happened, Kancha,’ asks the Rani.

  ‘Let me tell it,’ says Kunala, who then gives a bare report of the events. Karuvaki kneels down, weeping, and clasps her arms around his knees.

  ‘Poor Kunala, poor fool!’ she sobs.

  ‘I feel neither poor nor foolish, Mother Karuvaki. Governance of the West was a nightmare for me. I could no longer perform my duties because I was convinced my father was dissatisfied with my work.’

  ‘That is precisely the foolishness! Dissatisfied! The Maharajah was ill!’

  ‘I know that now.’

  ‘Who could have issued that order?’ Kancha questions tightly.

  Karuvaki looks at her and thinks. Then she says, ‘I know but one in Pataliputra who is capable of this scheming wickedness, of carrying out her mad plans. Perhaps, I know two but the other one is out of the question. But what reason could she have for such cruelty towards the well-loved Yuvaraja!’

  ‘She hated Kunala, even threatened him with death.’

  Karuvaki’s eyes open wide. ‘Why?’

  ‘She once tried to seduce him and he rejected her.’

  ‘And the Maharajah!’ cries an alarmed Karuvaki.

  ‘He does not know. We thought it better not to speak of it.’

  ‘I would never have spared her! In Anga, if someone fell prey to a tiger, my father did not rest till the beast had been killed; he knew it would come back.’

  ‘She was never a temptation to me,’ remarks Kunala.

  ‘That is precisely why she is the guilty one! Those who value higher principles than hers provoke her hatred. Now I understand much more of what happened in the anthapura. I warned the Maharajah; I even refused to become Agramahisi with Tishya beside me. The Maharajah did not believe me, for Asandhi protected her.’

  ‘And who could be the other one, mother Karuvaki?’

  ‘Well, Kancha, it could only be Katchayana. You know of his animosity for the Yuvaraja and you and that is no small matter. He followed you to Mathura. He was then driven back to Pataliputra.’

  ‘Can Tishya Rakshita write and seal the lipi herself?’

  ‘No, she reads poorly and I have never seen her write.’

  ‘Katcha learned both from my father,’ says Kancha.

  ‘Could he be the criminal? Think of the elephants of Tirha! In Mathura he acknowledged that he was still out for revenge. But it would not have been possible without Tishya, who, while taking care of the Maharajah, cut him off from the world and ruled the palace while he was ill. She knew about Katcha because she was Asandhi’s companion and kept worming her way into the Maharajah’s confidence.’

  ‘Be careful with your judgement, Mother Karuvaki!’ the Yuvaraja warns.

  ‘Anything is possible with demons! Who else would she have dared to ask for help! In the palace and the departments, no one at all!’

  Kunala falls silent. Katcha and Tishya Rakshita …

  ‘Can Kunala enter the palace without fear? Is he safe with her?’r />
  Karuvaki shrugs her shoulders. ‘I do not know the extent of her power. But a demon always carries out evil under the guise of doing well. Now I understand her painstaking care of the Maharajah, she feared your return. That must be the reason too, why no mention of the illness was sent to Taxila, even though the Maharajah’s condition was quite serious. Everyone expected him to die.’

  ‘Your hate for Tishya makes your suspicion incautious, Mother Karuvaki.’

  ‘No, that is not true, my son. Surprisingly, my intuition often reveals to me the puzzles of the human mind. That is because I grew up in the mahavana. I was always disgusted by this beautiful woman.’

  ‘Can it not be a feeling of jealousy that misguides you, Mother Karuvaki? We are accusing her of a grave offence.’

  ‘No! Then I would have been jealous of Asandhi! We all loved her very much. I even feared myself that I was being unreasonable towards Tishya. So I watched her all the time. And I was convinced that my mahavana instinct was not betraying me. I knew she hated you, but then, did not know why! I noticed she pretended towards Asandhi, the Maharajah and us. That is why I cannot foresee what kind of reception you will get in Pataliputra. Be very careful! Try to reach the Maharajah without being observed. I do not know how much is her influence but I suspect it is great!’

  After a long deliberation they decide that Kunala, Kancha and Diti will sail to the capital in a Ganga ship. Karuvaki will arrange a suitable boat with a trustworthy helmsman and the journey will start the following morning. The mild spring air welcomes the dejected travellers with its gentle breezes; the fragrance of infinite flowers and blossoms floats through the fields and forests, over the calm, moving currents of the holy river, and showers peace upon their troubled hearts. The cadence of the regular steady strokes of the oarsmen set the rhythm for the sad, yet hopeful songs, playing through Kunala’s head. In his soul is a great compassion for his father. How will he console him? How will he tell him that his hope is gone, how to reconcile him with this fate? For years his father had believed that his government would be continued in the same lofty way as his own. Who will now be the Yuvaraja? And Tishya Rakshita … Should he, Kunala, hate her because of what she has done to him? He cannot, does not want to, because of the Buddha, because he wants to be the Buddha’s son. But Father is a just king. Ruling is, according to the Arthashastra: the determining of an equitable punishment for those who break the law. The son of the Buddha can allow his compassion to be boundless, but the Maharajah cannot. That is why he must speak to his father before he learns of Tishya’s guilt. His father wishes to eliminate all brutality from judicial processes, apply mercy before penalty if mercy is possible. Will it be possible for Tishya Rakshita? Often Father puts a high official in the wrong for the simple Vaishya, even for the Shudra; the official is expected to know his duty. But how can he punish the highest woman in his empire as a criminal! How can he let her go unpunished! What suitable punishment does the Buddha have for her? Based on his compassion! No … only if he, Kunala, does not consider the injustice to him as a tragedy for himself…

  Kancha sees how the banks of the Ganga soon disappear behind them, how the helmsman avoids one sandbank after another and skilfully follows the current. Kunala sits still, deep in thought. Slowly, he gets restless. At times his head falls forward wearily, then, suddenly waking up as if from a bad dream, he straightens himself up again. At times there is a nervous movement in his limbs, then he sits once again frozen, and it looks as if his eyes behind the dark bandage are gazing into the distance.

  ‘My loving husband is tormented by unpleasant thoughts.’

  ‘It will be so difficult for Father, Kancha. The disappointment! And the judgement of Tishya Rakshita! He waged the Kalinga war and had great remorse afterwards. Let him now not pass a judgement which he would later regret. I do not want to feel my lack of vision as a calamity. I must have earned this fate as my karma, Kancha.’

  ‘What sin are you supposed to have committed? I know of none! You possess the sense of justice of Ashoka, his holy will. You wished to obey the greatest man of our time; you have brought to reason with great compassion and friendly benevolence the people of the West. What sin …’

  ‘Perhaps, in a previous life, Kancha!’

  ‘According to Philon, that is priests’ babble! Does not the Buddha also say that every one can ascend to Nirvana even while in this life? What then is the function of fate? Moreover, it is not the Divine, the Atman that extinguished the glowing light of your eyes … but the criminal mind of a demonic woman. A human can be touched by Buddha’s compassion, a demon laughs at it! Because of personal hatred, the most powerful woman robs India of its only, rightful successor … There are no grounds on which to be compassionate with this Bhadra.1’

  Kunala seeks her hand and takes it tenderly in his.

  ‘Kancha, you do not mean what you say. The significance of rebirth is the existence of that one great All-soul: that every woman is the mother of every human being, every man their father. We are one large family and Tishya Rakshita is also part of it and needs our help and support.’

  ‘Help and support to a demon means calamity for her victims. That cannot be good! We will praise the Maharajah for whatever his duty dictates. We must now discuss how we should deal with what awaits us in Pataliputra.’

  The ship glides speedily onwards along its winding course and, having long since left Pratishthana2 behind, approaches Kashi. There, one night, the helmsman moors and ties the ship fast on the right bank, its bow facing the current. Surya swoops down behind the Ganga valley, leaving the empire to Chandra who rules the southern heaven, casting a bluish light over the pale city. Kancha glances silently at the holy place, where the Buddha put the ‘Wheel of Dharma’ into motion. Kunala sits quietly next to her. Now and then he touches her hand and strokes it gently, as if making sure she had not left his side. She suffers more than he does, but she wishes to keep any reproach hidden in her silence. He should not think that she feels like a dethroned Maharani. That is not the cause of her suffering, which is only being tamed by the thought of soon being united again with her child.

  ‘Kashi glitters softly in Chandra’s evening light. On Shiva’s temple the golden top shines in a deep glow,’ she says.

  ‘But much brighter is the Light that was kindled here in Kashi and which glows in the hearts of many people, Kancha.’

  Kancha keeps silent. The ripples in the water whisper a strange melody against the sides of the boat. Over the lapping of the waves a heavy temple bell of Kashi is heard, ringing out the end of the day. The dark dreamy droning of a horn replies in well-known tones. The oarsmen whisper to each other their fantasies, suspicions about the blind one and his wife.

  ‘Get some rest now, my Kunala.’

  ‘I cannot sleep now that we are nearing Father’s palace. Thoughts descend on me like the rains in Varsha, and my whole being is in turmoil!’

  ‘Take your veena, whose lovely tones will enter your disturbed mind, and cradle it with its magical power.’

  Kunala hastily takes his plaything, tunes it and kneels down. He lifts the instrument against his left shoulder, across his body. The strings then make a twang under the pressure of his sensitive fingers and with velvet strokes, the mellow, yet tender tones create a murmur through the hushed air. The oarsmen suddenly fall still and a kokila in the flowering trees along the banks answers with a sweet whistle. Just as the sparkling colours of the rainbow paint themselves against the shadows of the dark clouds, so, too, do the clear tones of the veena fall into the grey, pale-bluish silence of Vesanta’s eventide. Overcome by his deeply stirred feelings, Kunala begins to lift his voice, hesitant at first and becoming louder and more confident. Like the fragrance of budding blossoms, so permeate the sounds to the distant bank yonder, where devout pilgrims tarry, on the sacred shore of the Ganga. Their hearts quiver with the stirring ballad, his ballad, which flits over the rippling surface of this much-worshipped river, and to the city from where the Wheel r
olled forth over India:

  ‘A pilgrim silently approaches his old father’s home

  Will it still recognise the weary wanderer?

  The dazzling glow of the eye fades in fierce strife

  From radiant light, to gloomy, black night;

  The voice, its pure timbre of youth and bloom lost;

  The listening ears adapted to strange tongues,

  Forgot what once to the wavering soul gave faith

  And support in anxious doubt, suffering and early anguish.

  The eager mind unfolded its painful becoming,

  Freed itself through hard struggle of life’s thirst,

  That had brought him forth and embraced him in its grip.

  But in his deepest, fathomless being smouldered gently,

  Unknown to the trishna of desire

  A divine, eternal core, unfolded from the Highest.

  In deep desire for salvation, strode on in pilgrimage

  The wanderer and cherished with care the spark,

  That shoots clear flames and fans them outwards

  With Açvattha and Çami3, to a pure beaming light!

  Sprouting from the light of the All-spirit,

  Wasting away world’s Will

  And thirst for life, which proved to be but trivial maya

  In the glowing light of Atman

  Which shines eternally all over.

  His mind and body in touch no more with the old stead,

  Thus approaches the pilgrim his old father’s home.

 

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