Chanakya smiled and blessed the boy. ‘Who are you, child?’ he asked.
‘I am Chandragupta. The son of Senapati Maurya.’
‘Shall I take you to meet Shaktarji?’ enquired the senapati emerging from the house. Chanakya nodded. It was time to meet his departed father's dearest friend—a comrade for whom Chanak had laid down his very life.
The old man that Chanakya saw was frail and battered. Years of deprivation, foul living conditions, food unfit for human consumption, sickness, and brutal repression had taken their toll on the former prime minister. Chanakya's memories of Shaktar were of an aristocratic and sophisticated noble, always impeccably dressed in the finest silks and adorned with the richest of gold and diamond amulets, rings and necklaces. He could barely recognise what once used to be the secondmost powerful man in the kingdom.
Chanakya prostrated himself before Shaktar and the old man asked him to rise. When Chanakya got up and saw Shaktar's face, the octogenarian had tears in his eyes. He reached out his hand to place it on Chanakya's head to bless him affectionately.
‘You're the only son that I have left, Chanakya. My real sons are all dead. And my daughter—Suvasini—whom you loved so dearly, is worse than dead. Your father never broached the topic but I knew that he wanted you and my daughter to eventually marry, merging both families into one.’
Chanakya remained silent.
‘What terrible conjunction of planets in my horoscope has produced this endless nightmare? My wife, dead; my best friend Chanak, dead; my sons, dead; my daughter, a concubine of Rakshas; my body, shattered and weak; the kingdom—in the hands of a psychopath!’ continued the old man as his misery flooded over.
Chanakya gripped Shaktar's hand and said, ‘The nightmare shall end soon. I promise. But you need to stir yourself from this troubled slumber. One must awake, see the rays of the sun, and realise that it was all just a terrible dream. Help me, Shaktarji and senapatiji.’
‘What do I possess that can help you, Chanakya?’ asked Senapati Maurya.
‘Chandragupta.’
‘And what do I have that can possibly help?’ asked Shaktar.
‘The dwarves.’
The kings of Magadha knew that an army moves on its stomach. The royal treasury—the rajakosh—was even more critical than the army itself because the treasury was the fuel that propelled the fighting machine. Mining was a state monopoly so all the gold, silver or precious stones mined in the land automatically found their way to the rajakosh.
The protection and security of the rajakosh was achieved in various ways. The official state treasury would always be located in the capital but be built in such a way that access to the prized metals and gems would be through three underground floors of trapdoors and removable ladders. The wall and floors of the underground structure would lie encased in an extra-thick layer of stone so that any ambitious tunnel thief would find his access permanently blocked. The treasury would usually be located in the northern quarter of the capital, sandwiched between the royal residence and the city's main temple. Concentric circles of guards would police the treasury day and night, while sharpshooters with bows and poisoned arrows would man the innumerable towers that surrounded the rajakosh. It was instant death for any thug seeking material gratification.
The other measure of security was to decentralise the rajakosh and to create secret troves in remote locations. Usually, condemned prisoners would build such remote treasure hides and would be executed shortly thereafter. With the exception of the king and his prime minister, no one would know the whereabouts of such clandestine stores. Very often, the actual storehouse would be built in a pit underground with narrow secret passages for access. On purpose, many of these would be built to prevent access to a full-grown adult and, often, the only way to reach the store would be by sending down trained dwarves. The hoard would usually be camouflaged with dense vegetation, snakes, scorpions and wild animals let loose in the environs to discourage bounty-seekers.
Chanakya knew that the previous prime minister, Shaktar, would be aware of any covert repository of Dhanananda, and that the key to accessing the prize would be Katyayan's dwarves.
The jungles to the north of Pipplivan were vast and foreboding. Arranged in concentric circles like the layers of an onion, each peeled away to reveal another, even more dark and isolated. The outermost skin was that of productive thickets used for producing timber, herbs and medicinal plants; further inside lay the ascetic woodlands reserved for holy men's ashrams and penances; travelling inwards one reached the hunting parks used by kings and nobles for sport; another peel and one reached the elephant reserves managed by the state for breeding of elephants that would be used in the army; and finally, the innermost circle consisted of wildlife sanctuaries, where lions, tigers, leopards and cheetahs roamed free. The secret rajakosh revealed by Shaktar was located within this core.
The horses had been left with a rather relieved band of guards at least one yojana—about four miles—back. The dense vegetation and the virtual absence of any pathway had made it impossible for the beasts to travel any further. Chanakya, Senapati Maurya and Jeevasiddhi—a trusted aide of Katyayan—and their band of dwarves made slow but steady progress. The map provided by Shaktar was proving to be quite useful and most of the key landmarks had been found in spite of the constantly changing forest environment.
The team had been chosen very carefully for the expedition. If one took too many people on a treasure hunt one risked the possibility of information reaching the ears of Dhanananda. If the team was pared, one ran the risk of being killed by wild animals or being left with inadequate hands to cart the loot.
They were nearing a pile of boulders overrun by vines that had aggressively taken over territory in their amorous embrace. Chanakya's calculations told him he was very near the final destination, but before he could consult his map he heard the whoosh of an arrow and felt the heat of the missile graze his left cheek. Immediately alert, he raised his sword to engage in combat with the offender, and found that it was none other than Jeevasiddhi, who was still pointing another arrow—duly loaded in his taut and tense bow—in his direction.
Any ordinary man would have viewed Jeevasiddhi suspiciously, but not Chanakya. From Jeevasiddhi's eyes he could discern that even though his weapons were pointed at him, his eyes were looking beyond him. Chanakya calmly swung around with his back to Jeevasiddhi and saw the body of an enormous tiger that had been caught mid-leap by his protector's projectile. The beautiful beast lay on the ground with the arrow half-piercing his neck.
Chanakya turned around, placed his sword back in its sheath, and raised his hand in a gesture of blessing towards Jeevasiddhi. No words were exchanged but the silent pantomime had conveyed the full import of a thousand words. From that day onwards, Jeevasiddhi would be one of the acharya's trusted lieutenants.
They stealthily crept towards the boulders, thick with a carpet of moss and creepers. Chanakya instructed Senapati Maurya to remove from his cloth pouch a dry powder he had supervised the mixing of. Maurya handed it over to the dwarves who went about sprinkling small quantities of the substance all around the rubble. It was actually a dry rhizome of mint oil, putrescent eggs, garlic, thyme oil and sulphur and smelled positively putrid. Brahmins traditionally shunned many of the ingredients such as eggs and garlic but Chanakya had nonetheless remained present while the dwarves ground and dried the mixture.
As the air filled with the stench of the terrible compound, there was a sudden rustle as scores of snakes slithered out of the stones and fled from Chanakya's reptile repellant. Chanakya nodded, and Senapati Maurya and Jeevasiddhi moved in to clear a path to the trapdoor that would lead to a maze of underground tunnels.
Camouflaged with boulders and overgrown vegetation, the trapdoor was very small—certainly no more than around fifteen angulas wide—around a foot. Senapati Maurya's mace shattered the ancient copper locking mechanism and within a few minutes they could see a dark and narrow vertical duct that led int
o the depths. A long rope was secured to one of the boulders and a dwarf cautiously made his way inside with a small flaming torch strapped to his head. A few minutes later he yelled, ‘It's empty! I need to search for another door. Send down the next man.’ A second dwarf followed the first, carrying carpenter's tools. A while later the sounds of hammering revealed that they had located the trapdoor inside the first level. A third dwarf scampered down holding a loop of rope that would be used to go down the second trapdoor.
‘Praise Lakshmi!’ shouted a dwarf from within. ‘We've hit the mother lode!’ Chanakya, Senapati Maurya and Jeevasiddhi looked at each other and smiled. A few more dwarves were sent down the passage so that a relay team could be set up for conveying instructions and materials. ‘Send up small quantities of whatever lies within,’ instructed Chanakya. ‘We do not have enough men to carry everything away. We should concentrate our efforts on the richest and lightest material.’ An assortment of treasures began to appear before them—diamonds, pearls, rubies, sapphires, pure crystal, beryl, silver panas and copper kakani.
‘Search for cow dung and sesame oil,’ instructed Chanakya.
The senapati and Jeevasiddhi looked at the acharya wondering whether he had gone mad. Apparently he hadn't, because very soon, bricks of cow dung mixed with sesame oil began to appear via the relay team. ‘Don't be fooled by the cow dung,’ explained Chanakya to his accomplices. ‘All gold is purified with lead and the excess lead is removed using cow dung. If the gold is brittle, it is softened in sesame oil. Thus, the ideal way to store gold is by encasing it in a mixture of cow dung and sesame oil. What you're seeing before you is pure gold!’
‘The first preference is to be given to gold, which is high in value and also easily monetised. The next priority should be silver panas, and finally diamonds and rubies. We do not wish to carry copper, pearls, sapphire, or crystal. Please also ignore other treasury commodities such as sandalwood, aloe, incense, and camphor,’ continued Chanakya. Maurya and Jeevasiddhi were amazed at Chanakya's depth of knowledge in matters of treasure and asked, ‘Acharya, you're a holy man—a revered teacher. Why do you concern yourself with articles of wealth?’
Chanakya answered them, while keeping one eye firmly glued to the little mountain of precious articles that was taking shape before them. ‘What should a man strive for? Kama—love, dharma—duty, artha—wealth, and moksha—salvation. But the fact is that neither your wife nor your children will love you if you're poor, no single citizen will ever perform his duty if he's not motivated by financial incentives or penalties, and which man can renounce his worldly life in quest of salvation if he does not have wealth to support the family he leaves behind? I'm a teacher—but a teacher of arthashastra, the science of wealth. The source of livelihood of men is wealth, and the science of the means of attaining and protecting it is politics!’
Chanakya and his accomplices headed back to Pipplivan, their horses laden with abundant treasures and armed guards in tow. That evening, sitting outside with a campfire for warmth, Chanakya broached the topic. ‘Senapati, you have done your duty and lived your life. But your vision of a grand and prosperous Magadha can only be realised through Chandragupta, who has all the traits of a king. Let me take him to Takshila where I can prepare him for kingship. In the meantime, you can start using the treasury that we've just gained to help me build an army.’
The commander reflected on Chanakya's words and spoke. ‘Acharya. He's my only son. I can't bear to be parted from him. Can't you stay here with us instead?’ Chanakya smiled. ‘I wish it were that easy to unite a kingdom, Senapati. As we speak, the borders at Gandhar are in imminent danger of being attacked by Alexander's battalions. If Gandhar falls, the rest of Bharat will follow. How does one keep the enemy out if the door has already been forced open? The army that I wish to raise from the wealth that we've acquired is to fight the Macedonian intrusions, as well as to create a glue that can consolidate the fractious petty kingdoms that never seem to unite on any issue—not even critical ones,’ he elucidated.
‘In that case, should my wife and I come along with you and Chandragupta to Takshila?’ asked Maurya. ‘I don't think that's a good idea,’ argued Chanakya. ‘Chandragupta has far greater chance of success if you're not with him. You're a direct enemy of Dhanananda and his spies will always be on the lookout for you. Studying among hundreds of students at Takshila will keep Chandragupta anonymous and out of danger. Above all, I need you, Shaktarji and Katyayanji, to be in or around Magadha so that we have adequate feet on the street to give Dhanananda the trouble he deserves by the time Chandragupta returns.’
The senapati called out to his wife who had been listening to the conversation from within the house. As she came out and warmed her hands from the campfire, Maurya asked her what she thought of the acharya's suggestion. Her words bore the stamp of a true Kshatrayin—the wife of a warrior. ‘We were among the few lucky ones to receive some of Buddha's ashes. Let's remember that our revered lord renounced his entire kingdom in his quest for moksha. As Kshatriyas, our duty lies in protecting all life. If we must renounce our son for a greater purpose, so be it,’ she said simply. ‘A Brahmin without knowledge or a Kshatriya without courage is of little use to society.’
Senapati Maurya was born of the union of Mahanandin, the powerful Shishunga ruler of Magadha, and his wife Mura, the only daughter of the chief of the Moriyas—the warrior tribes of Pipplivan. Although Senapati Maurya would have made an excellent successor to Mahanandin, the old king had many other sons who were considered more appropriate for the role. As it turned out, none of his better-qualified sons would ever make it to the throne. Old Mahanandin was very fond of his barber, a shrewd, smooth-talking fellow called Mahapadma. Mahapadma was the illegitimate child of a Kshatriya father and a Shudra mother.
The wily barber Mahapadma ingratiated himself not only with the king but also his queen, Sunanda. Before long he had graduated from shaving the king to fornicating with the queen. Having screwed the queen, the barber, with the help of the queen, decided to screw the king as well, by bumping him off and all other claimants to the throne. The only one left alive was a little boy—Maurya—who was simply too young to be perceived as a threat.
Although Mahapadma was a mere barber, he possessed an uncanny raw intelligence. He recognised the talent of Senapati Maurya and eventually made him the commander of his armed forces. Mahapadma was a tyrant, but a benevolent one. Under his reign, crime became virtually nonexistent and the petty nobles who had become tyrants during Mahanandin's reign were ruthlessly put down. Mahapadma conquered most of north Bharat and the Deccan, and brought vast tracts of land, from the Himalayas to Kuntala, and from the Jamuna to the Brahmaputra, under his authority and made Magadha into the most powerful state in north Bharat. Though he was a Kshatriya-Shudra, he patronised Brahmins and learned gurus such as Vararuchi, Vyadi and Varsha. High levels of efficiency, strong military authority, fair taxation, massive irrigation projects, and an overall attitude of benevolence and tolerance characterised his reign.
The golden period would change dramatically under his son Dhanananda. Senapati Maurya was seen as a liability rather than an asset by the twisted son. The man who had helped Mahapadma conquer most of Bharat was now a fugitive himself—and was seething with anger for having been made one.
Chanakya loved anger. It was a wonderfully energetic emotion and could be used very productively if channelled in the right direction.
CHAPTER SIX
Present Day
Miss Feversham slowly looked her up and down. ‘I'm going to be brutally honest. Your shoulders are rounded, your knees are tight and your tummy's sticking out.’ It was another excruciating hour of intensive instruction. Chandini instinctively pulled in her tummy and tried lifting her shoulders. The result was even more awkward. Miss Feversham sighed. This was going to be very difficult indeed. Chandini was in Miss Feversham's finishing school in London—and was utterly finished. ‘You have one shoulder higher than the other and your feet rol
l outwards. Your slouch is unladylike.’
Chandini was made to stand up and sit down several times, and her movements were observed in excruciating detail. ‘You're taking up a lot of space. And look at all those angles when you stand up. You also fidget too much with your hands. You look a bit like a mouse. A mouse is a humble thing. When you walk you must lead with the solar plexus, situated somewhere around the bottom of your bra. Hold your head up and keep your neck elongated!’ said Miss Feversham, running a stick between Chandini's arms and back to keep her shoulders down, and straight.
Over the past month, Miss Feversham had focused on the girl's English. Chandini's English skills, acquired in a slum school of Kanpur, were fine for impressing her own parents but were of no help in communicating in England. Miss Feversham's lessons concentrated on helping Chandini communicate effectively and confidently in everyday, idiomatic English. The wideranging syllabus was geared to improving her listening, reading, writing and speaking abilities.
But knowing the language was insufficient. Chandini needed to be taught how to use a fork and knife—if there are several pieces of cutlery, use forks, knives or spoons on the outside first; how to order food in a pub—could you tell me what the soup of the day is, please; how to attend a party—take a bottle of wine or some flowers or chocolates to present to the host; how to pay a restaurant bill—if the bill says service not included, it's usual to add about ten per cent by way of a tip; how to drink tea—if the teapot contains loose tea, place the tea strainer onto the cup before pouring; and how to eat scones the proper way—use a knife to cut the scone into two halves, put jam on each side, there's no need to add butter first, then spread clotted cream on top carefully. Eat the top and bottom halves separately and please do not try to make them into a sandwich.
Chanakya's Chant Page 9
