Ashoka the Great

by Keuning, Wytze

‘You hesitate, Tishya Rakshita. Rita, where did the unknown physician, who visited the Maharani in Karttika, stay that night?’

  ‘I do not know, Lord,’ whispers the servant, trembling.

  ‘Satyavat, send for the rack and its operator. We will refresh Rita’s memory a bit!’

  A frisson shivers through the ones present.

  ‘O, Lord!’ Weeping, Rita falls to her knees.

  ‘Perhaps, you can remember it without the rack, Rita.’

  ‘In the Agramahisi’s chambers, Lord!’ she screams in mortal fear.

  ‘Well, Maharani, were you so well acquainted with this stranger? Perhaps, now his name will come back to you!’

  ‘No, Lord,’ Tishya’s voice trembles.

  ‘Rita, what is his name? The Maharani did mention his name, did she not! Think carefully!’

  ‘I was to tell Tarata the Maharani wished to speak to her friend, noble Maharajah.’

  ‘So, your friend, Tishya! Did you often take messages to Tarata from the Maharani, Rita?’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘Did you always go with your mistress to Tarata’s?’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘Were you there, when the Agramahisi met her friend?’

  ‘No, Lord. I waited until the meeting was over.’

  ‘Long?’

  ‘Sometimes, Lord.’

  ‘And you do not know the name of that strange friend, Tishya?’

  ‘No, Lord.’

  ‘Have the unknown physician come in, Satyavat.’

  Tishya keeps her eyes on the doorway, tense and nervous. When the physician enters, a barely noticeable smile flits across her features. The stranger recoils, quickly understanding the reason for the meeting: Tishya is standing before the Supreme court! The fact that they must appear together before the Maharajah tells him that it is a lost case. He glances at his beloved. She smiles back.

  ‘Take your oath before the Supreme Court and promise you will tell the truth. You know what the oath implies?’

  ‘Yes, noble Maharajah.’ The physician takes the oath.

  ‘Do you know the Maharani, Tishya Rakshita?’

  ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘She is your friend and you have even spent a night in her chambers.’

  If the Maharajah already knows this then he does not have to answer. He remains silent.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘I am the physician, Janaka.’

  ‘And before you became a physician, Janaka?’ The physician does not reply.

  ‘Have the disguise taken off, Satyavat.’

  ‘So, Katcha, in this form you are more familiar to us. You are a priest, under surveillance even. You met the Maharani several times at Tarata’s, did you not?’

  Denial would be foolish, Katcha thinks. After all, Tarata will confess everything when on the rack! ‘Yes, Lord.’

  ‘She was able to confer with you there. Why then did you also meet the Maharani in this chamber? I demand a forthright reply. Perhaps, by doing so you can prevent my calling for the rack.’

  Katcha assumes a proud stance, just as he had in Mathura.

  ‘She was in great fear for your failing health and asked my advice.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I do not like to say, O, Maharajah.’

  ‘Do you recognise this lipi? And the seal?’

  Katcha realises that denial would be to no avail. Save Tishya!

  ‘Yes, Lord, I wrote and sealed it.’

  Shock and rage overwhelm Tishya. All is now lost! Now the Maharajah knows that she betrayed the secret hiding place of the seal and further denial would only be futile. In her rage she loses all self-control and flares up: ‘I convinced him to write the lipi for me and seal it. He objected at first, wanted me no longer to foster feelings of revenge!’

  She then realises she had allowed herself, as always, to be carried away by her temper.

  The Maharajah seizes the moment: ‘Feelings of revenge, you say, Maharani! What did you have to avenge on someone who only has the welfare of all people in mind?’

  Tishya flinches. Then she stands up straight and points to the blind one. ‘The Yuvaraja once tried to seduce me, Lord, when I was listening to his playing and singing!’

  ‘Is that true, Yuvaraja?’

  ‘No, noble Maharajah,’ the blind one whispers.

  ‘You have often lied to me, Tishya Rakshita, even several times in this one sitting. My son has never spoken untruth as far as I know. I take it then that you, my Maharani, are the one who wanted to seduce my son! His refusal gave rise to your vengeance. That is why you sent the lipi to Taxila in my name, while you dissembled your love and care for me.’

  The Maharajah’s words do not make the slightest impression on the Maharani. She draws herself up to her full height. Everything that gave her life meaning is gone. In her proud glance sparks her hatred for everyone around her; the old Maharajah, the foolish, blind son, who has allowed his mutilation like a sacrificial animal and whom she—it is now apparent—should have had killed, the wise Brahmin woman who will never be Agramahisi, the slave-like Radhagupta. And for Katcha, too, who felt so bound by a petty oath that he turned them both over to her old spouse! Better she die, as her father did, than undergo the deep humiliation of being sentenced to prison or to work in the mines.

  ‘I sent the lipi to Taxila!’ It sounds clearly, like the gloating triumphant cry of a demon.

  ‘Does Radhagupta or the Yuvaraja have anything else to ask?’

  ‘Why did Satyavat allow a stranger to enter your working chamber and the anthapura, Lord?’

  ‘That is my fault alone, my Radhagupta. He warned me but the Maharani had my complete confidence. I then told him that whatever the Agaramahisi was doing was being done well. I do not believe there remain any clouded issues in this case. Both criminals, for whom no exoneration is possible, are sentenced to death for this terrible crime perpetrated upon the Yuvaraja, the highest after the Maharajah in the house of the Mauryas, the ruling monarchy of India. Tishya Rakshita will be burnt to death by fire in the execution place before Surya has risen, which Katcha shall witness. Then Katcha will be killed by drowning in the Ganga.’

  ‘gracious Maharajah, my Father, I declare that I am not unhappy with this injury wrought upon me by these two. I committed an act of great omission not to have mentioned to you the events in the stone wing. I should have known that a monarch who is as good and wise as you are, would have taken a lenient stand. What I may have done in previous incarnations to have burdened down my karma so heavily, I do not know, but I wish to bear the punishment patiently and I ask mercy for Katcha, whom I have, without wanting so, made unhappy, and for Tishya Rakshita, who so often acted out of the urge of instantaneous feelings.’

  Ashoka, who has controlled his anger and vengefulness by exerting great effort, is touched by Kunala’s words. Quickly, he consults whether or not mercy is possible in this case. Then he says:

  ‘My son, high judge, I must not judge as a father, but as a Maharajah, the supreme sovereign and executor of the highest justice of my people. I have often granted mercy or reduced penalties, if the crime committed could be redeemed or if the criminal acted because of mental ignorance. Nonetheless, my duty demands I punish mercilessly if the crime was committed out of sheer evilness. There is no exoneration for that! And I would violate justice itself if I failed to pass judgement through moral weakness or misplaced compassion on demonic powers prevailing in my realm. I must therefore refuse your request for clemency.

  ‘Have the two condemned placed in the strictest isolation in the prison, Satyavat!

  When twilight has fallen, the Maharajah continues his work, receives the prativedakas and his messengers of the secret service. He then sends Kesala to Taxila, to investigate if the city is also to blame. At the same time, he must arrange its governance.

  Then, alone, he walks for a long time through the moon-lit park. Fireflies float under the trees like softly glowing embers of an offering fire.
In a distant temple sounds the beat of the drum of the Udukai, and the drone of a melancholic horn stretches the monotonous melody. Ashoka stares long into the quiet, silently-driven waves of the holy river and muses. Before he goes to sleep, he summons Satyavat.

  ‘Satyavat … first the sentence of Katchayana will be carried out, one hour earlier than Tishya Rakshita’s. No one is to be present at her execution by fire other than you, the palace guards who are to take her there in a closed carriage, and the executioners in blue clothing. That is my will.’

  26

  THE FEAST OF PURIFICATION

  or Ashoka, Kunala’s blindness is the heaviest blow that life wrought on him. Does the blame lie in the very defencelessness of the sincere Buddhist against the slings and arrows of unreasonable and merciless life? Has he himself failed, or is Kunala’s attitude an inevitable consequence of his upbringing, so that his son willingly let happen what he himself never would have accepted! The entire build-up of the transformation to Buddhism in India—did he not believe of even the whole world—seemed of such magnitude to him, that despite Asandhi’s warnings, he never doubted its divine origin. And Kunala fitted into this divine plan. Is the failure one of human making? Who will be able to give him the answer? Or, is his creation able to sustain these difficulties? Dhritarashtha, King of the Kauravas in the Mahabharata, was blind and so was the king of the Sibis. Will Kunala still be able to rule, at least until Sampadi attains maturity? The departments function most securely. Kanchanamala would be Agramahisi. This possibility stimulates the Maharajah with a renewed will to work. Kunala and Kancha both participate in all the meetings of the parishad and in the receiving of messages from the secret service. They are also present in the audience hall. Kancha has a natural interest for all government matters and the Maharajah often confers with her. Kunala agrees with this; he does not want his father to suffer because of his fate. But his interest wanes along the way. In his eternal darkness he cannot discriminate between people, and often he does not comprehend the connection. His judgement lacks the influence of what the eye can clearly discern. Then his thoughts wander off in devout meditations. He often asks to be taken to Moggalitissa in the Ashokarama and discusses the deeper tenets of Buddhism with him. Kancha always lets him know of everything that the Maharajah deems important for the next Emperor, but she senses very well why he listens. He even goes to the camp with Ashoka, and the Maharajah tries, with untiring strength of mind, to involve him in the assessments of the war games. But Kunala pretends so poorly that even the Maharajah has doubts. Between Ashoka and Kancha develops a close relationship. He has appointed for her a large room of white marble, which gives off a wondrous lustre to the golden floral designs. Roses and carnations, of the brightest white and pink to the darkest red, along with fine lilies and orchids of light to deep-blue, are arranged in artistic vases and decorative metal jugs and replaced daily. Kancha loves the flowers and their fragrances. Just like he did in the past with Asandhimitra, he now comes to her. With Kunala he wants to discuss whether or not to intercede, dismiss a pradesika, promote a government official, build or reinforce an irrigation canal, donate to viharas or temples. In reality it is Kancha who, with undivided attention, converses and discusses with him. She, too, along with Ashoka, is the one who supervises the preparations for the Feast of Purification. On her advice, he summons Eumenes, Philon and Zetes to Pataliputra. The Greeks are received warmly by the Maharajah and he explains to them the purpose of the feast: To replace the downward-dragging samaja1 by uplifting presentations, that will purify the spirits.

  ‘So you wish, O, Maharajah, to develop by beauty of forms, sculptures and performances, the taste of your subjects and to awaken a love for higher forms of art, such as my motherland has strived for,’ says Philon.

  ‘That is secondary, although it is for that reason that I invited you to come. My ambition is to awake the inner vision of my people. The development of art is not the primary goal, it is a medium in service of humanity, in the spiritual and moral edification of my peoples. I wish them to come under the ennobling influence of the exalted, which during the last few years has bloomed out of the foul swamp, in which lay sunken the three good seeds of the human spirit: justice, tolerance and generosity. Therefore, we must try to portray Buddha’s holy life, his jakatas, and the beauty of Brahmanism and other sects, so as to impress upon the people the good and the compassionate. Your art will help me. The Yuvarani is always ready to consult with you.’

  The three Greeks toil from dawn till dusk to bring to view their more developed sense of art in segments of the procession. When Kancha’s elephant approaches, it is Philon who hurries to her. Kancha’s liberal vision had already shown great appreciation for their art in the distant West.

  ‘Have you succeeded, Philon, in convincing our builders and artists of your views on art,’ she asks, a warm, friendly smile beaming on her face.

  ‘We are trying, O, Yuvarani. We have, for instance, made improvements in the columns of the structures.’

  ‘Improvements?’ she laughs.

  ‘In our opinion, I mean,’ amends Philon bashfully. ‘We have the impression that everything here is childlike. The proportions of the body parts of the sculptures are too primitive. With us, there has evolved through experience a law of proportions. Art here is lacking in the austereness which all art demands. The tendency in India is towards the overwhelming, the fantastical and the supernatural. We prefer to complete the pillars with pedestals and an abacus with a capital. The clothing of our statues should drape in natural folds, without disturbing the natural contours of the body. Our forms have originated from life, while here they spring from fantasy.’

  ‘But is your adaptation not needed for our art, as well?’

  ‘Eumenes has done well in this regard.’

  ‘That I have seen in Taxila.’

  ‘Could you have stayed there, high Yuvarani! Over there the art is developing in many directions.’

  ‘That will happen also without us, my Philon,’ remarks Kancha with grief in her voice. ‘Is it not always so, that forces struggling to higher goals, all the time are obstructed by those who like to preserve, and that … that mysterious resistance may have a refining effect on the harmony?’

  ‘I have thought long about the appalling event in Taxila, O, Yuvarani. The history of my own country has also known horrible events. The novel, more humane approach, often ignores what still keeps brewing in the minds of the many, for whom the new age simply passes by. Even the holy Maharajah with his sharp insight was so absorbed in his lofty ambitions, that at a most unlucky moment, the portents of dark possibilities escaped him.’

  ‘Who would not have failed, Philon! I myself often feel guilty. I ought to have gone along with the Prince to such an unexpected and significant meeting.’

  ‘That is what we in our tragedies call fate, high Rani. Call it fate or coincidence, but with you there is no place for guilt. The Kumara suffered the greatest pain, you the greatest sorrow.’

  A touching glance of gratefulness comes his way as she rides away. Philon is the only one who sympathises with the great disappointment of her young life! The Yuvaraja has given her leave to return to Tirha, but not a single thought of her suffering seems to cross his mind. He turns himself to the Buddha.

  The day of the great feast breaks. The city is a sea of flowers. On many of the sites, tents have been put up to welcome the citizens with every kind of tasty treat. But no meat or strong drinks are served now, only cakes and refreshing juices. In the late afternoon thousands of soldiers from the army encampment pour into the city and set up road blocks along the route on which the great procession2, which has gathered and starts from the palace square, will make its way. Right in front of the gateway a large platform has been erected for the Maharajah and his family, Moggalitissa, and the other arhats from the Ashokarama. The Maharajah, Kunala, Kancha and Padmavati, are all seated on elevated seats. At Kancha’s request, Philon has been invited, too.

  Kuna
la sits unmoving, while all the others lean towards the direction from where the procession will start. He waits, resigned. The Maharajah still thinks that his son will be able to rule the country, with Kancha’s help.

  ‘Look, there is the first tableau,’ says the Maharajah cheerfully. ‘Large … six wheels behind the drapes. It symbolises the Tushita-heaven. The gods are looking down on earth from their heavenly dwelling, to ascertain where Vessantara will be reincarnated. Below they discover the land of Kapilavastu.’

  ‘See, O Father, how strange and yet how beautiful, the construction of the shining heavens: the pillars with their handsome crowns, its charming construction … And do you see how skilfully the gods’ clothing is draped? It is Philon who designed this and had it made.’

  ‘The second float, Kunala. The slumbering queen Maya, as beautiful as Ushas, lies on a bed of flowers, in a room aglow with brilliance, in Suddhodana’s palace. Beautiful Apsaras surround her bed. A small sparkling white elephant with six ivory tusks awaits and set to enter the virgin mother’s body. Flowering Ashoka trees encircle the tableau with their fragrance and glorious crimson glow.’

  ‘Have you noticed the beautiful structure of the palace, my Father, the noble figure, the beautiful dress of the sleeping Rani? The simplicity of its artistry gives it the appearance of devotion and of heavenly beauty.’

  Kunala is lost in his thoughts. What Ashoka and Kancha are saying is meant for him, yet all he hears are mere sounds. He hears oxen tramping along the road and the rolling wheels of the great carriages. Just tones. Nothing but meaningless sound. But the life of the Buddha is happening before his inner eye. And in the breadth of his mind he meditates on the facts and the fantasies and suddenly it is as though Father, Kancha and the whole festivity, recedes into the distance, as though he is swept up to a higher plane, to a different reality, to the silence beyond maya, to the nothingness …

  Philon’s gaze drifts away from the work of art that he has helped to create, to the three noble guests, and he listens to their utterances, whose deep painful source he understands. His feeling for the Yuvaraja recedes in the same measure as his compassion for the Maharajah grows, but the warmth of his feelings goes to the young, beautiful Rani, who has lost all.