Chankya's Chant (37 page)

Between ages six and eight, the girls who showed no visible signs of pubertal development would be given one
kuduba
of powder-blue milk formula each day. As they progressed to ages eight to ten and their breast buds began to appear, they would be given two kudubas of a saffron-orange brew every day. From ten to twelve, as their pubic hair began to grow, the daily dosage of the concoction went up to three kudubas of a pistachio-green mixture each evening. During the twelve to fourteen period, as their underarm hair began growing and their hips started widening in relation to their waists, the daily ration went up to one
prastha
of a cherry-pink milk sherbet. Between ages fourteen and sixteen, as they went into ovulation and menstruation, they would be fed two
adhakas
of an almond-brown lactic potion daily.

Anyone researching the institute closely would have come upon an even more interesting fact: all the girls, without exception, were born on Tuesdays during the seventh lunar day of
vishaka
. They possessed unfortunately potent horoscopes that guaranteed that any man they cohabited with would die. They were known as vishakanyas—or poison maidens.

An audit investigation into the largesse that funded the establishment would have revealed something even more curious. The entire corpus had been donated by a foundation called The Peacock Trust, the founders of which were Chanakya and Senapati Maurya. An apt name, given that Maurya owed his name to the peacock—
mor
.

‘We need control over Mallayrajya,’ said Chanakya. ‘And we have the perfect candidate in Sinharan, whose father—the legitimate ruler—was murdered by his brother so that he could ally with Paurus. If Sinharan were in power, it would give us a much-needed base to station our troops.’

‘We have sufficient hands, acharya. Let’s mount an attack,’ suggested Chandragupta quite predictably.

‘That would be foolish. Never interrupt the enemy while he’s in the process of making a mistake,’ counselled the shadowy Brahmin.

‘And what mistake is Mallayrajya making?’ asked a puzzled Chandragupta.

‘Not making. About to make.’

‘About to make? Acharya, as usual you’re talking in riddles.’

‘The kingdom of Mallayrajya is about to surrender itself to us,’ said Chanakya, leaving Chandragupta dumbfounded.

The cottage of Nipunaka was eerie. For one thing, it was built at the edge of a deserted cremation ground. For another, it was surrounded by ghostly banyan trees from which hung numerous symbols of the black arts— skulls, dead animals, earthen jars of alcohol, knives smeared in vermilion blood, and other offerings to the countless unexplained negative forces that ruled Nipunaka’s dark world. An eccentric practitioner of esoteric medicine, pharmacology, sorcery, astrology and psychology, Nipunaka wore black robes and a garland fashioned from the skulls of infants. His rituals supposedly involved human sacrifice and tantric sex.

Chanakya was not impressed by the trappings of magic. He couldn’t give a horse’s fart if Nipunaka wanted to dance upon a corpse in the middle of the night while pouring wine into a ritualistic fire. To each his own, he reasoned. What Chanakya did believe in was the power of fools and the folly of group psychology.

‘What brings the renowned Chanakya to my humble abode?’ asked Nipunaka, bowing low.

‘Don’t be humble, Nipunaka. You’re not that great. Humility is better left to kings!’ Chanakya advised him.

Nipunaka laughed. It was a sinister, menacing laugh that seemed to echo through the dark forest. ‘You obviously have one of your naughty schemes taking shape inside that fertile mind of yours,’ chuckled Nipunaka. ‘Will I get to sacrifice a virgin?’

‘No one’s a virgin, Nipunaka. Life screws them all,’ said Chanakya playfully. Nipunaka laughed again. The sound that emerged was even more dreadful as the weird doctor of ghoulish sciences expressed his enjoyment of the joke. Chanakya had the uncanny ability to plumb the lowest depths of the human mind. It was his greatest asset.

‘This is my disciple, Sinharan,’ Chanakya said indicating his companion. ‘He’s the rightful heir to the throne of Mallayrajya. I need your help to win it back for him.’

‘I am a simple tantric, O acharya. I can perform a sacred ritual so that he’s able to ascend the throne,’ suggested Nipunaka helpfully.

‘I don’t really give a rat’s ass about those perverted orgies you organise every once in a while at some poor fool’s expense,’ commented Chanakya. ‘I need your skills in psychology, drama, theatrics. Not your usual evil incantations,’ he continued while placing a bag of gold panas in front of the mad scientist.

Nipunaka smiled, quietly this time. ‘What exactly do you have in mind, acharya?’ he asked as he picked up and tucked away the bag of gold deftly in a swift, well practised motion.

‘Sinharan here would like to share some secrets about Mallayrajya with you. Listen to him very carefully and memorise whatever it is that he has to tell you,’ instructed the sagacious Brahmin.

‘And then what?’ enquired Nipunaka.

‘Ah! Then you shall go to Mallayrajya, draw upon your wondrous powers, and do some good old-fashioned fortune-telling!’

The court of the king of Mallayrajya was deathly quiet. All eyes were focused on the strange tantric godman dressed in black robes with a necklace of human skulls around his neck. In his right hand, he held a long staff that also had a skull tied atop. In his other hand he held a blood-red earthen pot, supposedly filled with gore.

‘O King, hear the words of the omniscient Nipunaka!’ yelled the bordering-on-insane charlatan as he mentally reviewed the intimate secrets of Mallayrajya provided to him by Sinharan. ‘Within your palace exists a room—a musty and unused chamber which remains locked most of the time. In the floor of that room lies buried the body of a Brahmin who was murdered here. Have it dug out and interred outside the borders of your kingdom. The spirit of that Brahmin continues to curse your dynasty and is an obstacle to your progress!’

Sinharan had known that his aunt had been having a torrid illicit affair with one of the palace guards—a Brahmin. Caught in the act of frenzied copulation, the guard had been murdered by Sinharan’s furious cousin who had witnessed his mother’s royal fornication. The son had then proceeded to bury the body in an unused storage closet for want of an alternative means of disposing of it. He had taken Sinharan’s help, drawing on his sympathy and moral outrage. Two parties to the secrecy—Sinharan’s aunt and her angry son—died a few years later when Paurus attacked the capital of Mallayrajya, taking the secret of the buried corpse to their pyres.

The king and his courtiers were mesmerised by the sheer audacity of the madman who stood before them. The king struggled to maintain his composure and asked, ‘Powerful guru, can you tell us where this Brahmin’s body is located? The palace complex covers more than a hundred acres and finding it without divine intervention would be impossible.’

The half-crazed Nipunaka shut his eyes and started mumbling—loudly enough to be audible to most present at court—‘I prostrate myself before Bali, the son of Vairochana. I pray to Sambara, the master of a hundred magical mantras. I kneel before Nikumbha, Naraka, Kumbha, and Tantukachha, the powerful beast. O Chandali, Kumbhi, Tumba, Katuka, Saraga, I beg you, point me in the direction of those bones!’ He suddenly opened his eyes wide and with an air of hysteria shouted aloud, ‘I have it! Follow me!’

He started running wildly towards the room, the location of which had been explained in detail by Sinharan. As he approached the seventh door, situated along the west-facing passage on the second floor, he stopped. He closed his eyes once again and mustered up all the preternatural energy that he could possibly hope to gather and remarked, ‘I can feel the negative energy of the Brahmin’s ghost right here. I’m not wrong! Nipunaka is never wrong! By the power of Chandali, excavate that room and get rid of Mallayrajya’s worries.’

As the bones were exposed from the shovelled earthen floor, the king went up to Nipunaka and bowed to him, overpowered by the intensity of the tantric’s unearthly power. Nipunaka blessed the king by smearing consecrated ash on the ruler’s forehead. The king took off his sapphire necklace and offered it to the mystic, who picked it up and threw it into the grave that had been uncovered. ‘Of what use are precious gems to me, O King? If I wanted, all the world’s riches could be mine but I neither possess nor desire material wealth,’ he said, meticulously though reluctantly following Chanakya’s instructions to appear incorruptible. There was a hushed, respectful silence as the gathered spectators mulled over the selfless attitude of the profound master.

A day later, the king fell ill. High fever accompanied by chills and convulsions made him weak and unable to attend court. His feverish state made him delusional, too, and in his state of temporary insanity, he hurled filthy abuse at all around him. Nipunaka knew that the sacred ash applied to the sovereign’s head had worked. It had contained powdered
dhatura
seeds, a known formula for inducing hallucinations. The worried queen called Nipunaka back to the palace. ‘Please find a remedy for the sudden inexplicable state of the monarch,’ she pleaded.

‘Do not worry, O Queen. Make the king drink a glass of milk with this unique formulation that I have prepared. You have my word that he shall be healthy by the morning,’ the artful fraud reassured her. His antidote contained powdered
chitrak
roots and black pepper, prepared in advance by Chanakya.

The king’s remarkable recovery the next day propelled Nipunaka to godman status. This was the guru’s second extraordinary achievement in two days. But there wasn’t any time to celebrate. Armed mercenaries, led by a young upstart known as Chandragupta, and assisted by Sinharan—claimant to the throne of Mallayrajya— surrounded the city, and the fortified capital came officially under siege. The siege continued for the entire duration of the waxing of the moon and the city began to run low on critical supplies and provisions. At a hastily convened council meeting, the decision to launch an outright frontal assault on Sinharan and Chandragupta’s forces was being pondered over, when Nipunaka made another grand entrance.

‘King! I have an important message for you,’ began the trickster, blissfully aware that the gullible Cabinet was lapping up his every word. ‘Inside the palace temple stands a statue of Kubera. The daily prayers performed by your royal priests before the deity were flawed and it is precisely for this reason that you face the threat of extinction. Rectify the fault and you shall see the enemy retreat!’

Following his orders and accompanied by a series of incantations and rituals, the earthen idol of Kubera was duly removed and allowed to melt away inside the royal lake while hymns and invocations prescribed by the preeminent Nipunaka continued. At that very moment, Chanakya ordered Sinharan and Chandragupta to withdraw their troops and retire to a hideout a few miles away from the fortified capital. As news of the miraculous withdrawal filtered in, celebrations began and nobles and commoners alike flooded the streets. As music, wine and women took over and the revelry reached its climax, Chanakya’s soldiers of fortune crept back to the fortifications and stormed the unsuspecting town. It was a bloodless coup—sudden, dramatic, and smooth, typical of the Brahmin who had choreographed it all.