by Rahul Mitra
“Ajeet you deal with them,” said Indukalpa, and added in an undertone, “bloody beggars.”
“Absolutely right, prabhuji. These bhikshaam dehi jokers used to come to my place as well. One day I got a hold of one of them and gave him such a thrashing!” Vijayendra chuckled, “Since that day, I haven’t seen that clown anymore.”
“Of course. They are parasites, Vijay!”
Meanwhile, Ajeet and the gahapati had gone up to meet the group of monks. One of them, an older scholarly-looking bhikku stepped forward. He was the senior monk Vajrasena.
“What’s the matter, Shreeman?”
“Bhante, this is my land. We plan to use this for agriculture next year,” chimed in the gahapati.
The old monk now looked confused. Correctly surmising who was in charge, he advanced and addressed Indukalpa.
“We don’t want any trouble Your Honour, but this land has already been consecrated for a monastery.”
“So?”
“Your Honour, perhaps there is some confusion. We got the orders and permission to construct from the Bhante Vrishni who is the chief abott of Anand Vihara.”
“So?”
Vajrasena stood there blinking.
“This structure is illegal and will be demolished,” pronounced Indukalpa.
“Please Your Honour, just give us a few days. We will clarify with our abbot or we will ask him to talk to you. If it is illegal, we will dismantle it ourselves.”
Indukalpa now exploded. It was a sight familiar to both Vijayendra and Ajeet.
“Do you think the Government of Magadha has no other work than to wait on your discourses? I am not going to waste my time on this. Clear out of here and let us do our work. If you continue to interfere, I tell you, my soldiers will break your bones.”
The monk was stunned. The other monks now came up and they all started jabbering at the same time. Agitated voices rent the air. Ajeet knew that to pacify them, he would first have to assure the older monk Vajrasena. He got down from his horse and placed his hand on the old monk’s shoulder.
“Bhante, please come this way. Come. You heard what he said?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Please let us do our duty. Please come this way.” Ajeet was talking to a number of the monks, trying to pacify them.
Meanwhile Indukalpa motioned to Malyavan, the captain of the soldiers. The soldiers swung into action. With their spear points pointing outwards they herded up the labourers and ordered them to start breaking down the wall.
But the monks were not to be denied. A number of the younger bhikkus ran over to the wall and sat down“We won’t let you attack our monastery,” one of them yelled. Then they started arguing with the troopers.
Indukalpa had had enough. “Beat up the shudras !” he shouted.
Blows and insults now rained down on the monks, as the soldiers let fly with the carte blanche that had been issued to them. Monks were being dragged away and a number of them started resisting. Fisticuffs broke out at many places, heated words were exchanged, and there was a lot of pushing and shoving. Elderly monks were manhandled and in the melee, one of them suddenly collapsed. When the soldiers tried to clear him off, they discovered that he was dead.
No one knew what had happened to him. Even the soldiers were confused. It wasn’t as if anyone had speared or wounded him. His old body had just upped and died under the blows and the humiliation. Once it was discovered that he was dead, another round of protests began. But the soldiers were highly efficient, as well as ruthless. They soon drove out the monks and got the labourers started on the job of breaking down the boundary wall.
It was precisely these things that Ajeet did not like about his job. The sense of entitlement, the rampant abuse of power and high-handedness when dealing with ordinary citizens, bothered him. Now, with the death of an old monk, he was shaken to the core. Yet, the others around him were barely perturbed.
Indukalpa was certainly pleased, for after the area had been cleared, he rode over to Ajeet and said, “You stay here with Malyavan and the men, and get it over with. I am leaving; I have to meet some merchants in the city today.”
“Yes, Shreeman.”
Indukalpa motioned to Vijayendra, “You and Ajeet, come here. There’s something I want to tell you.”
The three of them went into a huddle at a little distance from everyone else.
“You people need to shape up. I will not be here all the time, telling you what to do, you know!”
“You will not be here?” muttered Vijayendra to himself, and then his face lit up in an oily smile. “Arre prabhuji, good news?”
Indukalpa started smiling.
“Yes, my dear cousin the King wants me to take over the position of Dandayana or Minister of Justice for Magadha. That’s why I’ve been telling you both to shape up. You need to be more assertive. This is Magadha’s work, after all. Now . . .” said Indukalpa, and here he paused and looked significantly at Ajeet, “I have nominated Ajeet’s name to be the next kotwal.”
Ajeet’s face was ashen.
“Congratulations Shreeman,” he muttered.
“What are you upset about, Ajeet? You cannot undertake this heavy responsibility if you vacillate like this. You need to be decisive and forceful. People need to fear the might of the State, and not take it lightly, do you understand?”
Ajeet remained grim. A sickly smile covered Vijayendra’s face as he addressed Indukalpa.
“Congratulations prabhuji, I always knew it. Actually, I always knew you would become an amatya of Magadha some day. This is really great news.”
“Thank you. And congratulations to you too, Ajeet. I hope you will maintain the same high standards that we have set in this role,” said Indukalpa.
“Oh Ajeet, congratulations, my friend!” said Vijayendra. But the smile had disappeared from his face and he was breathing heavily.
in front of it, obstructing the soldiers.
The Monk
Pataliputra is notorious for its cold winters and as a consequence, the mellow warming sunshine that characterizes Magh, is much celebrated by the locals. During this month, the nobles of the court, along with their families and servants, shift out to the numerous pleasure palaces that dot the banks of the Ganga and among the commoners, it’s almost a fashion to stroll along the ghats by the riverside, soaking up the afternoon sun. The glitterati comes to see and be seen; the citizens come to relax and enjoy the sunset with their families; and the young men come to feast their eyes on the abundance of beauty, for which Pataliputra is so justly famous.
So it was, the next day, at the Ugrasena ghat. It was the third prahar of the day and the place was packed with people. Daintily dressed ladies with kajal in their eyes, and hair piled up high in the latest fashions, walked up and down the promenade accompanied by their maids. The Mahashvapati of Magadha was there with his retinue, and they had set up a picnic spot under the trees atone end of the ghat. Common citizens sat with their families on the steps at the riverside and munched on roasted peanuts and gram, exotic fruits brought from the far reaches of the empire, cakes of dry fruit, and sweets of jaggery and milk. There were acrobats, fortune tellers, minstrels, sweetmeat vendors, and toy sellers, all of them performing and trading their wares. The road leading up to the ghats was choked with the chariots of the rich. The coming and going of all these vehicles raised a constant stream of dust, of which the merrymakers seemed to be oblivious.
At one end of the ghat, next to the flight of steps which led down to the river, was a public pyaau. Two men had stopped here for a drink of water. One of them was slightly overweight, with a bald patch on top and canine teeth which stuck out as he smiled. He stood respectfully to one side as the other drank water from a lota. This man, a tall and wiry type, was dressed in the garb of a Buddhist arahant. His smile looked more like a sneer and this, together with his high cheekbones, hawk-like nose and narrow, beady grey eyes, all combined to give him a menacing look.
Among the crowd
of carefree revellers, these two stood out, for they were evidently in the middle of a serious discussion. They strolled on the path leading away from the main walkway, and soon left the crush and commotion of the ghats far behind.
The plump man was doing all the talking.
“He is a bigot, he hates Buddhists.”
“I tried to stop the soldiers, prabhudev, but he ordered them to break down the wall and beat up the monks. The venerable monk Sushena died under the blows!”
“Only you can help me, great soul. I humbly beg you to do something. Every day, I am forced to listen to slander against followers of the Buddha in my department. It makes my blood boil.”
The monk, who had been listening to the entire diatribe in silence, suddenly stopped and gave his companion a beady-eyed sneer.
“It’s so nice of you to come and tell me about this, Vijay. I had no idea that you were such a religious man.”
“Prabhudev . . .” Vijayendra bowed humbly with his hands folded.
“Now that you have told me the problem, you might as well tell me what to do about it as well, eh?”
“How can an insignificant life-form like me suggest anything to you who art an antaryami yourself? All I want is your blessings.”
“Come, come Vijay. Only a person with a soul as pure as yours, a true follower of the Tathagatha can be so humble despite having such a brilliant and overactive mind. Really, I am beginning to believe now that you are the maryada purushottam of this age.”
“Hey dev, I am but the dust beneath your feet.”
“Then tell me, how do I bless you, O dust beneath my feet?”
“Thank you prabhu, but my wants, as few as they are, are more than satisfied by my own means. Thanks to the blessings of our Lord, I am perfectly content, but it is for our faith that I seek your protection.”
Vijayendra was positively glowing with self-righteousness and humility as he said this, but his companion seemed to be losing patience. The monk fixed his piercing grey eyes on him and something about the cold, expressionless face seemed to suck all the good humour and pietistic pretence out of Vijayendra’s soul. He got directly to the point.
“Prabhudev, the followers of the Buddha are in a majority in Magadha. The richest families, the most powerful ones, all the traders, everyone, now follows the righteous path. Then why should we live in fear? Why should we keep quiet when our monasteries are demolished and our monks beaten todeath?” Vijayendra looked towards the heavens, “We can fight this prabhudev, and you are the person who can lead us in this fight.”
“But maryada purushottam, why did you come to me? Why don’t you take this issue to Bhante Satyajit?”
“Hey dev, I am willing to knock on any door if it helps our Sangha. But Bhante Satyajit is just too old, too inert, and too engrossed in the spiritual world. He hardly cares about what is happening to us in this world.”
“Maryada purushottam . . . I hate to disappoint you, but I hardly have any influence with him and as long as he is alive, I can’t even change the decisions of the Council.”
“That’s not what I am saying. The Bhante Satyajit is old and sick. Everyone knows it. If something were to happen to him today, you are next in line to be our leader in Pataliputra. And who is better-suited than you for this job? You can bring in a new era of co-operation between the wealth of the Sangha and the power of the Magadhan State. The stars are in alignment, dev, for you to lead the Sangha.”
“Whatever makes you think I aspire to such a position, Vijayendra?”
“Prabhudev, it is the need of the hour. Today, our King is desperate to get the support of the Buddhist Sangha, for the only ones who can finance his wars are the traders and the mercantile classes—and they are all Buddhists! He would do anything to be seen as a supporter and protector of our community.”
The monk’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Vijayendra.
“Keep talking,” he said.
“Just think prabhudev, if today our King receives complaints from Buddhist leaders or faces public protests from lay followers of the Buddha, it is almost certain that he will accept their demands. Not only that, if he sees that there is a leader of the Buddhists who can mobilize the masses, he will do everything possible to please and win over such a person. Not only would such a person’s influence grow with the King, but with the King himself behind him, his standing in the community too, would be unquestioned. All that is needed right now is an issue and Sushena’s death is just the right one to agitate the masses . . .”
“The Bhante Satyajit can’t do it, for the King has already reached out to him a number of times but the old man is stubborn and doesn’t want to get involved in politics. Only you can do it, prabhudev, only you . . .” Vijayendra’s voice trailed off.
The man in saffron gazed across the river. A lazy wind blew over the Ganga, ripples and eddies disturbed the water’s surface, and the sun reflected off it like a thousand shimmering points of light. Far off in the distance, was a convoy of merchant’s vessels floating low in the water, weighed down by the produce meant for the markets of Pataliputra. Bales of Kashi muslin, silk from Sakala, jewels and diamonds from Amaravati, cotton from Bhrigukaccha perfumes from Mahasthana, and all manner of exotic food items from the distant corners He finally turned towards Vijayendra with a chuckle.
“Such concern for our religion! By god, you are the maryada purushottam of this era.”
“Prabhudev, a monk has been beaten to death, a monastery has been demolished, and I know who ordered it. Then how can I stand by and let such atrocities continue? All I want is, for the guilty to be held accountable and you, as the leader of Pataliputra’s Buddhists, can help me do it. And that’s all I want prabhudev, all I want.”
***
“Do not think I don’t know what is going on.”
“You are deluded, Bhante Satyajit. Someone has been poisoning your ears.”
Dusk had fallen at Bhaja Vihara, the most prestigious monastery in all of Magadha. Outside, in the vast cavernous study hall, rows of young students were chanting the Kalama Sutra by the light of countless butter lamps. The two monks stood alone in Bhante Satyajit’s sparsely furnished cell. As the head of the Bhaja Vihara, Satyajit was the chief religious authority among the Buddhists of Pataliputra. He was a thin, old man; his protruding lower lip trembled and his voice quavered with emotion as he spoke. The other monk with him was a tall, wiry man with a hawk-like nose, narrow beady eyes, and a smile that looked like a sneer.
“Bhante Vrishni, I may not be able to get about much, but I keep myself well-informed. I know that—”
At this, the old man collapsed into a fit of coughing and wheezing, till he slowly got back his breath.
“I know what you are trying to do. I have reports that land-grabbing is being done and that too in the name of the Sangha. I know that you have inducted dubious and corrupt elements into the Sangha and I warn you, the day that I get proof, I will have you thrown out.”
Bhante Vrishni stared at him, and his nostrils expanded and contracted with every breath.
“I am telling you for the last time Shreeman, cease and desist from such activities. Please, this is a warning,” said Satyajit, as he collapsed into another fit of coughing.
“Take care of yourself Bhante. I feel concerned for your health. Getting so angry at your age is not good,” said Vrishni.
Bhante Satyajit drew himself up to his full height.
“That will do. Thank you for your concern Shreeman and now if you please, I wish to meditate, please leave me alone. Good night.”
“Good night, Bhante.”
***
The Bhante Satyajit had a fever, his nose was blocked, and he was delirious. As he passed in and out of consciousness, vague terrifying creatures, fantastic apparitions, and improbable events swam before his eyes. At one point, he dreamt that there was a serpent crawling over his chest, slowly shedding its skin, its new skin anominous jetblack. At another point of time, he felt that Tathagata was standing in h
is room, next to his mattress. The Buddha smiled at him, and the Bhante felt a profound sense of gratefulness surge through his entire body, as he passed out.
Later, at an indeterminate time, as he hung midway between sleep and consciousness, the Bhante sensed a stifling, malevolent presence in his room. It felt so real that every cell in his body sprang to attention, the breath caught in his nostrils and his ears scanned the room for any sound. From the corners of his eyes, he saw that the door to his cell was open. In the light of the lamps that remained lit all night in the prayer hall, he made out a tall, lean, shadowy apparition standing by the door, as immobile and silent as Mara, the angel of death.
He wanted to get up and cry out, yet he found he could not move a finger. An indescribable terror gripped him, and his hands and chest seemed to be crushed underneath an enormous weight. His reason told him that this again was a fancy, a product of his disordered imagination, and yet there was a very real, living presence, right beside him in his own room. Very slowly, the monk opened his eyes and saw the apparition glide noiselessly across the floor towards him. In the dim light that filtered into his room, the Bhante could only see the outline of a dark shadow, its eyes glowing like those of wild animals caught in the glare of a powerful lamp.
The Bhante reached out with his hands and the apparition leapt forward. Grabbing the cushion below his head, the figure now pressed it down with relentless force over his mouth. Bhante Satyajit clawed desperately at the forearms, which were pressing down on the pillow, but they were like bands of steel. The old man kicked and struggled, his whole body convulsed, and his mouth let out a soundless scream until finally, with a horrible shudder, his eyes rolled up in their sockets and his body went limp.
of the empire made their way to this city.
An Eventful Day
The moon passed from the house of Magh to Uttaraphalguni, and the auspicious day which had been fixed for the marriage, dawned bright and clear. The bridegroom’s house looked resplendent—newly washed and decked up in garlands of marigold and jasmine. A small pandal had been erected in the courtyard to welcome the guests.
