Chankya's Chant (36 page)

‘You’re a fool! When eating hot porridge you should always start from the outer edges which are cooler, and not from the centre which is steaming hot,’ the mother chided her little son as she nursed his scalded fingers. Chanakya, sitting outside Dandayan’s hermitage, watched the little drama unfold as Dandayan’s housekeeper scolded her child.

Dandayan’s ashram was a quiet example of nature’s bounty. Surrounded by dense trees, the hermitage was located on the banks of a sparkling stream and the air had a magical quality that was difficult to describe—a mystical combination of fresh air, the scent of pine, eucalyptus, and the sacred smoke of holy fires. Seated next to Chanakya was Chandragupta who was also fascinated by the theatrics of this simple everyday occurrence. When he looked away, he saw Chanakya smiling at him. ‘What is it, acharya?’ asked Chandragupta. A smile from Chanakya usually meant that he was plotting something. It made Chandragupta uneasy.

‘I’ve been strategising this all wrong,’ said Chanakya at length. ‘This uneducated and illiterate mother is more intelligent than me. She’s expounded the perfect military strategy that I, the wise and learned Chanakya, could not define.’ Chandragupta was confused but he decided to stay quiet. Usually his teacher would explain himself without further prodding.

‘Until today, my focus has been on Magadha and the coronation of you, Chandragupta, as its emperor, but now I see that I was mistaken. Magadha is the centre of the porridge. We first need to tuck into the smaller kingdoms along the peripheries. Magadha will follow much more easily,’ explained Chanakya. ‘The only two large kingdoms that could have posed a challenge to Magadha are Kaikey and Gandhar. Both have now been neutralised owing to our strategy of divide-and-rule. And within Magadha, Suvasini has succeeded in driving a wedge between Dhanananda and Rakshas. I expect to see Rakshas here with us in a few days. He sent me intimation of his imminent arrival a few days ago. Who could have thought that the manipulative Rakshas would one day be our ally? Politics makes strange bedfellows!’ laughed Chanakya.

‘But acharya, Magadha still remains the most powerful kingdom in north Bharat. With over two hundred thousand infantry, eighty thousand cavalry, eight thousand chariots and six thousand war elephants, it will be difficult to capture Magadha. Even Alexander’s own men are afraid to cross the Ganges!’ exclaimed Chandragupta.

‘Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head,’ said Chanakya. ‘War is all about deception. Direct force is a poor solution to any problem. That’s why it’s used only by little children!’

Their deliberations were suddenly interrupted by the sound of trumpets and the dull thud of marching soldiers. ‘Sinharan!’ called out Chanakya. ‘See who it is. Quick!’ he whispered urgently as Sinharan drew near.

‘It’s the mighty Alexander himself,’ said Sinharan clambering down the lookout tree. ‘He’s come to pay his respects to Sage Dandayan.’ Alexander was atop his favourite horse, Boukephalus. A Thessalian horse-breeder had offered the steed to Alexander’s father, King Philip II, for three thousand talents, but not one of Philip’s horse-trainers had been able to mount the untamed stallion who would buck and throw any rider that attempted to scale him. Alexander was the only one who had succeeded. He had kept the horse ever since. Boukephalus had seen more countries and wars than most of Alexander’s lieutenants.

Alexander dismounted as his retinue reached the ashram, and they were led to Dandayan and his followers, who were performing their yogic exercises. One particular routine involved stamping their feet on the ground. They continued with their routine, oblivious to the arrival of the godlike Alexander. Sitting at a distance, Chanakya chuckled to himself. This would be fun.

Alexander was dressed in a short Sicilian-style tunic with a heavily embossed leather belt wrapped around his quilted linen breastplate. He wore a highly polished helmet with a great white plume, and a matching gorget embedded with gems around his slender throat. His sword, a toughened yet agile blade, a gift from a Cyprian emperor, hung casually by his side. Through interpretation by Sasigupta, an Afghan tribal leader and now a key lieutenant in the Macedonian army, Alexander asked Dandayan what the significance of their stamping the earth was. Dandayan’s reply was explicit. ‘O great King of kings, a man can possess only so much of the earth’s surface as this, the extent that one steps on. You are mortal, like the rest of us, and yet wish to possess more and more ground. You will soon be dead, and in that state you will own just enough earth as needed for your burial.’

Alexander went pale. His lieutenants gasped at the temerity of the sage and braced themselves for the worst. Instead, a moment later, Alexander pulled himself together and shrugged the words off. He knelt before the wise and naked Dandayan who was now sitting in a lotus position. ‘Please come with me, O wise sage. Be my personal advisor. I shall cover you in gold and you shall not want for anything,’ he pleaded. Alexander knew the importance of enlightened teachers. His mother, Olympia, had appointed Leonidas, a stern relative of hers, as his tutor, and his father, Philip, had put the adolescent prince under the tutelage of the Greek philosopher, Aristotle. Alexander had always maintained that his father and mother had given him life but that Leonidas and Aristotle had taught him how to live.

‘Alexander, if you’re the son of God, then why, so am I. I want nothing from you, for what I have suffices. I desire nothing that you can give me; I fear no exclusion from any blessings, which may perhaps be yours. Bharat, with the fruits of her soil in due season, is enough for me while I live. And when I die, I shall be rid of my poor body—my unseemly dwelling!’ replied the sage. Alexander had finally met his match.

He rose, hands still folded in obeisance before Dandayan. ‘I still need your blessing, great sage. I need you to bless me that I may be victorious in battle,’ asked Alexander.

‘My son, you have my blessing. May you be victorious in the battle that rages within you!’ declared the sage, knowing that it wasn’t exactly the blessing that Alexander had asked for.

The battle that raged within had deeply affected morale in his troops. Alexander’s men had left Macedonia to teach Persia a lesson. They had not only conquered it but also subjugated it. They had silently accepted Alexander’s transformation into a Persian shahenshah and had tolerated his whims and fancies. They had pushed onward into Bharat, had overcome Gandhar and Kaikey, but now their king wanted them to fight battles in faraway Magadha, never even part of the Achaemenid Empire, and to march through the intolerable rains in the excruciating summer heat. Mutiny was as as inevitable as Alexander’s turning his back on Bharat.

‘Chanakya, my friend, how wonderful to see you again,’ lied Rakshas, as he embraced his nemesis.

‘Rakshas, your mere presence gives me confidence and happiness,’ the Brahmin fabricated in his turn.

‘Dhanananda has crossed all limits of decency,’ complained Rakshas.

And you’re such a decent human being, it goes against your moral conscience
, thought Chanakya caustically to himself. ‘Dhanananda’s court is no place for honourable people like you—those who wish to lead an honourable but pleasurable life,’ Chanakya said aloud, silkily.

‘The problem is that most things in life that are pleasurable are usually illegal, immoral or fattening,’ joked Rakshas as he sat down on the mattress profferred to him.

‘The lesson for today, dear Rakshas, is that between two evils you should always pick the one that you haven’t yet tried. I happen to be that particular evil,’ suggested a smiling Chanakya. ‘Now, let’s examine, what it is that I can do for you, and then we can calculate what it is that you can do for me.’

‘Always the teacher!’ laughed Rakshas.

‘And always right,’ interjected Chanakya seriously. ‘Dhanananda covets the love of your life,’ he began.

‘Yours too, as I understand it,’ commented Rakshas warily.

‘I’m not your competition, Rakshas. Look at me. Can I, a dark, ill-featured, pockmarked, crooked-toothed, uncouth Brahmin compete with you—the immaculate, suave, and cultured prime minister? You have my promise that I do not fancy Suvasini. She’s yours, provided that Dhanananda’s out of the way.’

‘But how will that happen? He’s firmly entrenched on the throne. He has Bharat’s largest armed force at his command—a force so terrifying that even Alexander is being forced to turn back.’

‘Battles needn’t be fought on battlefields, my friend. I’ve always believed that wars are better fought without soldiers and unnecessary bloodshed,’ said Chanakya softly.

‘Do you have a plan to end all wars, acharya?’ asked Rakshas.

‘O Rakshas, everything is always all right in the end. If it isn’t all right, then it isn’t the end,’ said Chanakya simply as he looked into his new ally’s eyes.

The house on Shiva street, in the eastern district of Pataliputra, was an unassuming structure. The neighbours knew it to be a dancing school run by a former courtesan. The simple single-storey house was built around a covered courtyard used by the girls who stayed within to practise their art. The principal of the institution was an elegant lady in her fifties. It was said that she had once been the chief courtesan of Dhanananda and that a wealthy patron had paid more than twenty-four thousand panas to secure her release from royal employment.

The students were girls from modest backgrounds who needed a vocation to support themselves and their families. They would usually enter the institution at ages six to eight and would be taught a variety of arts including painting, poetry, music, dancing, singing, cooking, and drama. No expense was spared either on their training or in their living standards. They were provided with the best accommodation, clothing, food and comforts. Their principal and their teachers were kind and understanding.

However, there was one golden rule that could never be broken. They each had to drink a glass of specially formulated milk every evening. The milk would be of varying colours, textures, and taste. Each lactic potion was specifically mixed for a given girl and the principal herself maintained detailed records of who drank how much of what. The girls could lead a pampered and sheltered existence provided they did not question this single stricture that applied to them automatically the moment they walked through the portals of the school.