Chankya's Chant (7 page)

‘What’s the big deal?’ asked Mohanlal. ‘Why’re we getting horny looking at a block of fucking granite? It doesn’t even have tits!’

Gangasagar ignored him and kept digging. Within fifteen minutes he had cleared away most of the soil and exposed the face of a block of stone, around the size of a tombstone lying flat on its back. It was perfectly polished granite and bore inscriptions in a script that Gangasagar could not understand. He knew that it was probably
Brahmi
—the calligraphy used in Mauryan times—but could not be certain.

‘
Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,
’ said the old teacher as he washed the stone with water and a
ghiya-tori,
a loofah. ‘It’s an ancient Sanskrit mantra extolling the virtues of feminine energy,’ said Gangasagar’s old headmaster.

Gangasagar and Mohanlal had taken the help of a couple of tourist guides to pry the block out of the ground, lift it into one of the buses that seemed even more dangerous than the aircraft that had just crashed, and take it into Patna city. From there Gangasagar had taken the train—no more flying—back into Kanpur.

Agrawalji had been happy about his safe return but had been even happier about the magnetometer readings that would allow him to bid with greater confidence for the mining concessions. Gangasagar’s mother had been hysterical with worry and fear. She hugged and kissed him a hundred times, running her hands over his head and face, wanting to reassure herself that her son was indeed alive. His sisters had cooked kheer to celebrate his safe return. Ganga’s mother was also celebrating the engagements of her daughters, dowry having been helpfully provided by Agrawalji.

Gangasagar, after a few days of rest, had taken the granite block—loaded on a bullock cart—to his old schoolmaster, who was the only person who would know how to interpret the rock inscription. ‘You know, Ganga, it was always assumed that all rock inscriptions in Pataliputra were commissioned by Ashoka—the greatest of the Mauryan kings—the grandson of Chandragupta Maurya. But this cannot be an Ashoka inscription!’ exclaimed his old headmaster.

‘Why?’ asked Gangasagar, curious as usual.

‘Because the use of Sanskrit had almost entirely disappeared by Ashoka’s reign. Ashoka became an avowed Buddhist after he massacred one hundred thousand people in Magadha’s war with Kalinga. Buddhists shunned Sanskrit. They saw it as a language of the elite Brahmins and wanted their prayers to be understood by the common man. Ashoka’s inscriptions were thus written in Prakrit, the language of the masses, not Sanskrit. But this is Sanskrit!’ said the excited teacher.

‘I thought this was Brahmi?’ asked the confused Gangasagar.

‘Brahmi is the script, not the language. Irrespective of whether you were writing Sanskrit or Prakrit, the script would have been the same—Brahmi.’

‘So what does this chant mean?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘
Primal shakti, I bow to thee; all-encompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow,
’ he said smiling. ‘It’s the ultimate recognition of female power.’

‘But there seems to be an inscription on the other face of the block too. Is it a repetition of the same chant?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘Ah! No, I took a look at it. It contains instructions on the manner in which this mantra should be recited and its effects.

Gangasagar was wide-eyed in amazement. ‘Tell me what it says,’ he asked eagerly.

His old schoolmaster smiled. ‘I’ve done better than that. I’ve translated and written down what it says on sheet of paper for you.’

Four thousand days you shall pray
Four hundred chants every day.
Chanakya’s power is yours to take
Chandragupta, to make or break.
If there’s a lull, start once more.
King must be queen, to be sure.
Suvasini’s curse shall forever halt
If you can cure Chanakya’s fault

T
akshila lay at the crossroads of two great trade routes, the royal Uttarapatha highway between Magadha and Gandhar, and the Indus route between Kashmir and the fabled Silk Road. Takshila was nestled in the valley kingdom of Gandhar—the Sanskrit word for
fragrance
. Surrounded by hills, orchards and wild flowers, Gandhar was a cornucopia of nature’s abundance.

Shivering from the biting winter winds blowing in from the Himalayas and the Hindukush mountains and with nothing more than his worn-out robes for protection, Chanakya found himself standing before the
dwaar pandit
—the gate principal—of Takshila University. Dawn had just about broken and the air was filled with the smells of temple incense and the sounds of morning recitations of the Vedas. The well-planned streets were being swept and watered and the breakfast taverns had started preparing for their first customers.

‘Whom do you wish to meet, boy?’ asked the dwaar pandit. Chanakya replied that he needed to meet Acharya Pundarikaksha, the dean of the university. Following the gate principal’s directions, Chanakya reached a small cottage surrounded by fruit trees. The dean was in his garden, sitting bare-chested in the biting cold for his morning contemplation and prayers. Chanakya knew better than to disturb him and simply sat down in a corner of the nursery, trembling from the chill. A few moments later Pundarikaksha opened his eyes to find a rather dark, gangly-limbed, ugly and awkward-looking boy sitting in his garden, shaking in the cold.

‘Who are you, my son?’ he enquired. ‘Sir, my name is Chanakya. I’m the son of Acharya Chanak of Magadha. I have here a letter for you from Katyayanji, a minister in the Magadha cabinet. He said that he knows you,’ explained Chanakya.

Katyayan’s name brought an immediate beam to the dean’s face. It was quite obvious that the two had been childhood friends. He took off the shawl that was casually thrown on his right shoulder and covered Chanakya with it. He put his arm around the youth in a comforting gesture and took him inside where the warmth of the kitchen hearth was inviting. He quickly instructed his servant to get the boy a tumbler of hot milk and some laddoos. Chanakya realised he was ravenous and wolfed them down between gulps of warm milk.

Pundarikaksha was busy reading the letter Katyayan had written. It spoke of the fact that Chanakya was one of the brightest students of Magadha and was the son of Acharya Chanak, the leading authority in the field of political science and economics. ‘Katyayan wants me to get you admission in the university,’ said Pundarikaksha.
Doesn’t my friend know that princes from all over the world wait for years to get accepted into these hallowed portals?
wondered Pundarikaksha as he continued reading the letter. His mind wandered to the days when Katyayan and he were students in Takshila. Pundarikaksha had been a poor orphan and Katyayan’s father had financed his education. The dean knew that his old friend Katyayan was calling in the favour. Refusal of admission for this boy was not an option.

‘You must be fatigued, Chanakya. You should rest. I shall ask my manservant to prepare a warm bed for you. I shall be meeting the admissions director to discuss this matter. I may send for you later in case he needs to test your knowledge,’ said the perspicacious dean as he rose to leave.

‘What is the purpose of good government, Chanakya?’ asked the admissions director. They were seated on the floor in his office, a sparsely decorated room filled with musty scrolls, parchments and manuscripts. The room smelt of the eucalyptus oil lamps that illuminated the area in the evening.

The reply from Chanakya was prompt and confident. ‘In the happiness of his subjects lies the king’s happiness and in their welfare, his own welfare,’ he replied emphatically.

‘Son, what are the duties of a king?’

‘A ruler’s duties are three.
Raksha
—protecting the state from external aggression;
palana
—maintenance of law and order within; and finally,
yogakshema
—welfare of the people.’

‘O son of Chanak, what are the possible means by which a king can settle political disputes?’

‘There are four possible methods, sir.
Sama
—gentle persuasion and praise;
daama
—monetary incentives;
danda
—punishment or war; and
bheda
—intelligence, propaganda and disinformation.’

‘What is the difference between a kingdom, a country, and its people?’

‘There cannot be a country without people, and there is no kingdom without a country. It’s the people who constitute a kingdom; like a barren cow, a kingdom without people yields nothing.’

‘What constitutes a state, wise pupil?’

‘There are seven constituent elements, learned teacher. The king, the council of ministers, the territory and populace, the fortified towns, the treasury, the armed forces and the allies.’

‘Why does a king need ministers at all?’

‘One wheel alone does not move a chariot. A king should appoint wise men as ministers and listen to their advice.’

‘What is the root of wealth?’

‘The root of wealth is economic activity, and lack of it brings material distress. In the absence of fruitful economic activity, both current prosperity and future growth are in danger of destruction. In the manner that elephants are needed to catch elephants so does one need wealth to capture more wealth.’

‘What is an appropriate level of taxation on the people of a kingdom?’

‘As one plucks fruits from a garden as they ripen, so should a king have revenue collected as it becomes due. Just as one does not collect unripe fruits, he should avoid collecting revenue that is not due because that will make the people angry and spoil the very sources of revenue.’

‘To what extent should a king trust his revenue officials?’

‘It is impossible to know when a fish swimming in water drinks some of it. Thus it’s quite impossible to find out when government servants in charge of undertakings misappropriate money.’

‘How important is punishment in the administration of a kingdom?’

‘It is the power of punishment alone, when exercised impartially in proportion to the guilt, and irrespective of whether the person punished is the crown prince or an enemy slave, that protects this world and the next.’

‘How should a king decide which kings are his friends and which are his enemies?’

‘A ruler with contiguous territory is a rival and the ruler next to the adjoining is to be deemed a friend. My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’

The admissions director looked at the boy in amazement. He then turned to Pundarikaksha and smiled. ‘I have no doubts regarding his knowledge, analytical skills and intelligence, but who will pay his tuition?’ he asked. The dean grinned sheepishly. ‘My childhood chum Katyayan has called in a loan, my friend. I shall bear the cost personally,’ he revealed.

Chanakya prostrated himself before Pundarikaksha and requested him to accept the ten gold panas that remained from the fifty that Katyayan had provided for his trip. ‘Keep it, Chanakya. I will call in the loan as and when I deem appropriate,’ declared Pundarikaksha. ‘You shall unite the whole of Bharat; your brilliance shall be a flame that attracts kings like fireflies until they are humbled into submission; arise, Chanakya, our motherland needs you,’ pronounced the dean. The grateful lad touched Pundarikaksha’s feet wordlessly and left.