by Rahul Mitra
He was an enormously fat man. Dressed in typical Takshashilan fashion, he was wearing a shiny white cotton tunic, a turban twisted fashionably around his top knot, and expensive leather sandals on his feet. This was Naval Setthi, one of the biggest merchants in Gandhara. Copious bundles of fat bunched up at his sides, and his belly rolled about, as he made his way to the unremarkable-looking building, which occupied the entire right side of the alley.
It was a godown. A narrow, wooden staircase on the outside, led to the upper floor where a warren of small rooms stood next to each other, along the corridor. The man went directly up to the staircase and called out, “Oho, Mahinda, mine host, where are you?”
He had come to Mahinda’s godown-cum-office, and had already been spotted. A number of people crowded together at the top of the landing, looking down at him.
“Oh, Mahinda, my brother, what are you doing up there?” asked the fat man in mock surprise. An expression of idiotic good humour animated his face, and through his sparse beard (which had been dyed a shocking red), his cheeks glistened with life and mischief. Yet, the small, sharp eyes betrayed the cunning and ruthlessness for which he was famous throughout Takshashila.
“Waiting for you, Setthi—come on up!” called his host from upstairs.
The setthi now waddled his way upstairs, and took Mahinda’s hands in his own. He was beaming with delight, and his whole attitude was like that of a mother looking upon her most favourite son.
“So?” he said.
“Setthi, I have been waiting for so long, wondering when you will drop by—as usual you are late, Shreeman,” said Buntender.
His guest now stepped back and patted his huge belly with a self-satisfied grin.
“The Seth,
who is never late,
has no importance,
no weight . . .”
recited the jovial man to everyone around, and then burst into loud guffaws.
Everyone laughed. Aditya stood amongst the crowd, observing this man carefully as he had been instructed to. For a princely sum of ten panas a week, he was now working for Mahinda’s trading company, a vast, well-established concern that dealt in such diverse items as cotton and silk, textiles, jewellery, as well as high-quality swords made of wootz steel, which were exported and horses, which were imported into India.
Mahindacalled him out, “Setthi, meet my new assistant, Aditya. He is learning the ropes right now, but soon, you might have to deal with him, rather than me.”
“This little fellow?” The Setthi caught hold of Aditya by the shoulders and studied him carefully. His pudgy fingers clawed into Aditya’s skin.
“So, you think you can trade—do you have the stomach for it?” he asked.
Aditya nodded.
“Uh-huh, you do, eh? Okay then! Sell me something. Quick, I want five hundred top-quality swords of wootz steel. Can you quote me a price? Can you?”
For a fat man, the Setthi’s grip was surprisingly strong. Despite his jolly demeanour, there was something intimidating about his cold, hard eyes.
“Come on son, do you have it in you to sell? Do you have the guts? I’ll buy, just quote me a price and prove to me that I can come to you for a deal—come on!”
Aditya squirmed and looked at Mahinda. This was obviously a challenge; the setthi was testing him in some way. Was he just probing to see if they had wootz swords? Mahinda had told him about the possible war in Avanti janapada. If that happened, prices of khadgas were expected to rise and anyone who held those stocks, would make a killing.
He smiled and returned the setthi’s level gaze.
“We don’t have any stocks of wootz, Shreeman,” he lied as he glanced at Mahinda. If his boss did indeed want to sell right now, he could always say his assistant had made a mistake.
From behind the setthi’s enormous body, Mahinda nodded imperceptibly at him. He had done the right thing.
“Come on, Setthi leave him alone. He’s still learning, let him be,” said Mahinda.
“Hmm . . . you seem to be learning fast Aditya,” said the setthi with a gleam in his eyes, “but you still have to prove to me that I can come to you for deals.”
“Come Setthi, step into the gaddi,” said Mahinda.
The setthi released Aditya, patted him on the back, and followed Mahindainto a small room, which had a huge mattress covered with a clean white sheet, and a writing desk on the side. This was Mahinda’s gaddi—the seat from which all his business was conducted. Servants and workers now ran to fetch bowls of the finest wine, as Mahinda and Naval Setthi sat down on the mattress.
On a raised platform, towards the back of the room, sat Aditya, seemingly busy at another writing desk. In fact, he had been asked to observe the conversation closely. This was a part of his ‘training’.
For a long time, the two traders exchanged mutual expressions of affection, and general news about the markets.
“How come you never sold me any of your horses, you rogue? I heard you got a big order from some Panchala party, eh?”
“Whoever told you that O Setthi? Oh, it’s hard to keep anything from you,” said Mahinda, evincing mock surprise.
Finally, after a lot of beating about the bush, Setthi finally came to the point.
“You will not believe the killing I made on ivory combs brother. They are selling like hot cakes.”
“Really? Magadhan combs?” asked Mahinda.
“Yup, the latest styles—high quality stuff, my friend. In fact, I still have a few left,” said the setthi as he took out a sample from a bundle tied to his waist.
“See, look at the craftsmanship, my friend- with these fancy engravings even the monks are going crazy about them,” he said.
Mahinda turned it over in his hands and nodded.
“This is pretty good. How much are you selling it for?” he asked in an off-handed fashion.
“For you brother I’ll sell it at cost price if you want it. I was saving some for the Bahlika market but if you want it, take it.”
“Hmmm, I don’t know Setthi, what’s the price?”
“Forget the price my brother, would I ever make money off you? Come on, if you like it, it’s yours.”
Mahinda shook his head.
“I don’t know if I could sell this stuff, Setthi. You know there’s cheap stuff from Kuru Panchala flooding the markets these days,” aNaval Setthi took the comb and put it back in the pouch.
“Too bad then. I was only giving it as a personal favour. You know, these are the only ivory combs in the market right now,” he said.
“Look Setthi, for you, I would give the skin off my back but you know things are a bit tight right now. I could buy the combs, but I can’t offer more than one pana-a-piece for this right now.”
“What? One pana-a-piece for genuine Magadhan ivory? That’s ridiculous! Do you want my wife and children to come onto the roads? Come on Shreeman!” Naval Setthi seemed furious
From his place at the writing desk, Aditya smiled as he watched the familiar dance unfolding before him.
Such meetings were a regular feature in Mahinda’s gaddi. Local and foreign traders often dropped in to discuss deals, or swap information, and Aditya observed—as they all sat in the shop over bowls of drinks, spoke in strange accents and professed their brotherhood and respect for one another—all the while engaging in cut-throat negotiations to try and squeeze the last few gold coins out of each other.
This was the nebulous realm of international trade and commerce, and sometimes, it felt as if he had been thrown headlong into it. The vast spider-like networks of contacts extending across the land, the unceasing flow of goods and money, the daily exchange of information and the guessing, speculating, and gambling, constitute a parallel universe that often exists in the shadows of our normal, everyday lives. Contacts are sacred here, verbal agreements inviolate, and information is the source of both power and wealth.
For Aditya, this was a brave new world. Everything was strange and unfamiliar, and he threw himsel
f into mastering the nitty-gritties of this life. Apart from the intricacies of trading, Aditya was also taking classes in Kharoshti, the standard script of the north-western regions of India. He now showed more determination in learning the new language than he had ever displayed, when he was being taught the Brahmi of his native Magadha. It was almost as if the old, irresponsible Aditya had died and a new, reborn Aditya was taking his first baby steps.
***
Time flew by. Aditya and Rishabha were so busy trying to establish themselves in their respective fields, that they would sometimes not see each other for days. Rishabha often worked at the agraharas in lieu of gurudakshina till late into the night, and then walked all the way back home in the last prahar of the day. Aditya would often sleep over at the storehouse when important work was to be done.
Interspersed in this frenetic period, were some moments of quiet repose, days when both friends were free, and would spend their time telling each other about the new and fascinating aspects of their lives. Such moments, few and far between, were imbued by a sense of mellow joyousness. The busier their lives got, the more valuable did these moments of rest seem. They delighted in each other’s company, and their friendship grew several folds.
On the professional front, Aditya was rapidly finding his feet. By now, he had learnt that one of the biggest tasks of a trader, was to constantly talk to all his contacts, to exchange information and to keep tabs on market sentiments. Information was valuable, and even when no deals were struck, the market around them, was buzzing all the time. Their trading company had a well-established network of offices and contacts in most of the bigger janapadas in India, as well as abroad, and a continual stream of messages went back and forth between these distant nodes. Decisions to buy or sell, would often be based on the valuable inputs contained in such messages.
Over time, his job became better defined, as he was given charge of looking after the logistics. On most days, he sat in the storehouses overseeing and recording deliveries being given to customers. At other times, he worked to arrange men and materials for Mahinda’s caravans or supplies, and for other caravans passing through the city. In this way, he met new people and learnt new things all the time.
He was also growing in proficiency with the khadga. Pandi was still in Takshashila, waiting for an important commission to commence and Aditya would go over to meet him in the evenings and nights that he was free. He would often join in Pandi’s sword-fighting classes. He had fallen in love with the khadga so much that he would even practice after he got back home at night, often ignoring hunger and fatigue. This obsession had long since, overstepped the boundaries of mere interest; what it had become, could be called gluttony and he eagerly devoured every bit of instruction offered by Pandi.
Their relationship had come full circle. Aditya realized how much Pandi had helped him grow, and was deeply thankful for it. Animosity was replaced by a deep respect both for the man as well as the master. For his part, Pandi considered Aditya to be his most talented student. Only in Aditya, did he see a reflection of the deep ecstasy and oneness that he himself felt when fighting with the khadga, and he tried to communicate and pass on everything he knew to Aditya.
On many nights, they sat together for long hours after classes, as Pandi tried to explain the spiritual and psychological side of this art. According to Pandi, sword-fighting was a microcosm of all that was good and honourable in life and the philosophy of the fight was the philosophy of life itself. The values that one developed during fighting were the ones that would stand a person in good stead all his life, while the values and ethics that were important in life were always to be applied in the fight.
Aditya lapped it all up. There were only a few weeks left before Pandi’s departure, and he was determined to spend as much time with his guru as possible.
***
“Well then, are you ready or not?” asked Aditya.
It was the last day in Takshashila for Pandi and his men, and a night of feasting and drinking had been organized. Aditya was raring to go.
“Wait . . . let me change,” said Rishabha.
“Hmm . . . okay, but be ready by the time I get back,” said Aditya as he picked up the garbage in the cane basket and rushed out of the room. Within moments, he was back with the empty basket in his hands.
“Where did you drop it?” asked Rishabha.
“In the lane behind. No one saw me,” Aditya said with a grin.
“We could have walked to the soakage pit.”
“We don’t have time, my friend. Now do you want to get going or not?”
“Okay, let’s hit it, brother,” said Rishabha, pulling Aditya along.
Outside, it was still bright, but they had to hurry, for the party was likely to leave for the taverns as soon as the sun set.
As they emerged onto the street, someone called out from behind, “Hey you, hey—”
They turned around to see what the commotion was about, and a young woman came running up to them.
“You—you dumped a load of garbage on the street. I saw you!” she said, pointing towards Aditya.
“What?”
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” she said, all in one go, breathless from the running.
Aditya considered the question and decided that no, he wasn’t ashamed of himself. Meanwhile, another young man came running up.
“Radha, stop!” he panted.
Rishabha recognized him at once. It was Nala, who was also in Acharya Shalya’s class.
“Is she—?”
“She’s my sister,” interjected Nala. He looked embarrassed.
“Don’t you know that these stupid habits of yours spread diseases in the city? Don’t you know what soakage pits are for?”
Aditya stared at her in alarm. She wasn’t bad-looking at all, but there was something spare and no-nonsense about her entire personality. She was wearing a simple cotton saree, her hair was pinned back in a bun, and her language, and gestures were direct and confident. Thin, fair, and bony, she was one of those girls, whose figure as well as comportment could be said to be tomboyish.
“Looks like one of those university liberals. Just say sorry,” whispered Rishabha.
Aditya stared at her. He noted with some surprise, the sword hanging by her waist.
“Okay, calm down! Calm down. Now where did you dump the garbage?” This was Nala who had stepped between the two. He seemed to be quite used to these types of situations.
“Look, she must have seen wrong. I didn’t dump garbage anywhere,” said Aditya.
“How dare you? I saw you with my own eyes,” said the girl.
“Must be something wrong with your eyes then,” he replied coolly, noting with satisfaction, that her face was reddening. It was amazing, how red some girls could get!
“Come on, Rishabha,” he said and turned around.
“Hey, you—” said the girl from behind him, but Aditya was already on his way.
He had barely taken two steps, when he felt the sharp tip of a khadga pushing into the small of his back. She had drawn a sword on him.
“You will have to pick it up and throw it in the soakage pit,” she said.
“What? Are you crazy?” exclaimed Rishabha when he realized what had happened.
Now Aditya was truly irritated. Whirling around, he faced her and then slapping the side of the sword away with his hand, he stepped forward, reaching out to grab her wrist. But the girl had moved back and was out of reach. The sword was again, level with his chest.
Aditya thought of drawing his sword, but quickly realized it was a foolish idea. He didn’t want to look stupid, duelling with a girl.
“Put it back,” Nala wrested the sword from her hand.
Meanwhile, a crowd had gathered around them. Many known faces milled around to see what this was all about. Some no-good loiterers now pitched in.
“Give it to him sister!”
“What’s going on?” another busybody was now ready to make someone els
e’s fight his own.
She had created quite a scene, that too in his neighbourhood. Aditya gritted his teeth.
“Nothing is going on. Clear off,” said Rishabha, grabbing Aditya by the arms. He whispered to him, “We are getting late. Just do what she’s saying.” Turning around, he said to Radha, “We’ll clear the garbage, okay?”
Rishabha led the way to the alley behind their house, while Nala admonished Radha and Aditya quietly followed. The crowd slowly dispersed, though with some resentment at the show having been cut short.
Rishabha explained that they were in a hurry and Nala apologized for his sister’s impetuous behaviour. Both Nala and Radha helped them gather the garbage and take it to the pit.
This was how Aditya first met Radha, on the day of Pandi’s departure from Takshashila.
nnounced Mahinda, as he returned the comb.
Tanku’s Dhaba
Three months later, Aditya completed his first independent deal, selling five lots of textiles to Naval Setthi. He also earned himself a tidy commission—all of eighty panas.
Eighty panas, what could he not do with all this money? The possibilities were endless. Aditya smiled at strangers on the way home, and basked in the warm glow of security and affluence. Once home, he immediately lay down and started counting his money all over again. He felt like the King of the World.
What should he do with all this money? How should he spend it? Should he save it so he could buy a horse and become a gentleman? Should he use it to buy a gift for Pandi, when he returned? And he definitely had to buy something for Navinda bhaiyya who had helped him so much.
His thoughts drifted back to earlier times. If his brother had been alive, he would surely have surprised him with lots of gifts. His brother would never have guessed that he, Aditya, was doing so well at work. How delighted, how proud he would have been! If only they had known what was going to happen.
He was still brooding when Rishabha came in.
“Oye, did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“Ohhh, look at that . . .” Rishabha now gloated over the coins, “eighty panas . . . we’re rich, baby!”
