Divya, page 3
Once again the herald blew a fanfare. The festive music ceased and the kettledrums began to roll. The dance and music events were to be preceded by a contest in martial arts for young men who had returned from Taxila and Magadh, after completing their education in the scriptures and in the art of warfare. It was on the basis of their performance in this contest that young men from noble families were to be selected for posts in the army of the Republic.
The names of the contestants were announced:
‘Vinay Sharma, grandson of Mahapandit Dev Sharma, Chief Justice of the Republic; Indradeep, son of Sarvarth, the feudatory chief; Vasudhir, son of Acharya Pravardhan, Chairman of the Republican Council; Sakrid, son of Kartavir, Election Officer to the Council; Vrishnesh, son of Samarthak, the merchant; and Prithusen, son of Prestha, the business magnate.’
The six young men stepped on to the platform with quivers filled with arrows on their shoulders, swords hanging from their waistbands and lances held upright in their hands. They wore breastplates and helmets.
One by one, they went up to the aged Mithrodus, saluted him, with bowed heads and swords held before the face, proclaiming, ‘I, resident of the town of Sagal in the Republic of Madra, having completed my education in the scriptures and the arts of warfare do hereby offer my services to the Republic. May the Republic test my ability and grant me whatever military rank I may be considered suitable for.’
The President commanded the young men to prepare for a contest of marksmanship. Arrows were drawn in the taut bows. At being signalled a soldier standing nearby began to toss balls of various colours high in the air. The spectators held their breath in suspense, as they watched the arrows strike the targets or stray off into the darkness. The balls had to be hit while in the air. The President and the judges watched intently keeping a tally of the balls each young man hit. Thereafter, the President raised his hand to indicate the end of the archery contest.
The President then ordered the young men to take off their breastplates and arm themselves with a weapon of their choice. Indradeep and Vinay Sharma picked lances while the others chose swords.
‘Each warrior,’ declared the President, ‘shall regard the others as aggressors, and while defending himself against them attack them too. Care should be taken to ensure that the person attacked is not seriously injured. No one should play foul or be partial to anyone. Both these practices are culpable offences under the law of the Republic.’
The President then waved the uttariya1 covering his shoulder to signal the beginning of the contest. Weapons flashed like lightning. The six young men, standing apart from one another, were ready to attack. Their bodies poised, taut like bows, they clenched their fists and bared their teeth like tigers. Each kept his gaze trained on the others. Their weapons for a moment emitted flashes of light under the awning and, like the trembling flame of a lamp came to rest again in their hands. With bated breath and eyes riveted on the young men, the vast multitude of people eagerly watched every move in the combat. Time and again the warriors would charge at their adversaries, sending a chill through the audience. Positions would change and the contestants would stand trembling like blades of grass under a soft breeze. Perspiration ran down their taut necks, bare arms, hairy chests and broad backs. Here and there, streaks of blood mingled with sweat appeared on their bodies. It seemed as though their bodies had been painted with ochre.
At a signal from the President, the herald blew out his trumpet to announce the end of the contest. The young men lined up before the President for appraisal. Both Sakrid and Prithusen had only two streaks of blood on their bodies, Vrishnesh had three; the remaining young were marked with four streaks of blood.
After consulting other members of the Council, the President declared, ‘May the members of the Council and those present listen to what I have to say. Sakrid and Prithusen have distinguished themselves in the use of weapons. Prithusen would have won the first place, had he not wasted much of his energy hitting aimlessly on his left side. Because of this lack, the honour of being the best swordsman goes to Sakrid.’
Then pointing to a coronet of green leaves interwoven with white flowers, the President said, ‘We shall now start the music and dance contest. The girl who, among the pupils of Devi Mallika, wins the title of Daughter of Saraswati, shall have the honour of crowning the best swordsman with this coronet.’
The herald sounded the trumpet. There was a shout of joy from the spectators. The young men paid their obeisance before climbing down the steps of the platform. Prithusen, however, did not move.
Holding his sword straight in front of his face and bowing his head a little, he said, ‘I, Prithusen, son of Prestha, the merchant, seek your permission to say something.’
The President looked at him curiously.
Prithusen continued, ‘With Your Honour’s permission, I beg to submit that I did not waste my energy in aimless backhand blows. I was fighting not five enemies, but six; the sixth being the plantain tree. If you permit, sir, I shall prove it.’
And so saying, he moved towards the left side of the arena, straight to the pillar against which the plantain tree stood. Doing so he struck at it with all his might. The severed pieces of the tree fell in a heap.
There was a gasp of admiration from the audience, impressed by his dexterity and unique swordsmanship.
Bowing before the President, Prithusen said in great humility, ‘Sir, I have overpowered that enemy too. I would now pray for Your Honour’s judgement.’
The President, too, was impressed by this amazing display. He got up and, placing his hand on Prithusen’s shoulder, said, ‘I erred in my previous judgement. It is Prithusen who is the outstanding swordsman of Sagal.’
‘Yes, yes … this is as it should be,’ uttered the members of the Council, nodding assent.
The spectators were thrilled.
However, the Chairman of the Council, Acharya Pravardhan, stood up to object, ‘Sir, I would request the members of the Council to give this matter serious thought. Can a judgement, once given by the President, be reversed?’
The members of the Council, the nobles and other spectators, struck dumb with surprise, looked at the Acharya.
Before resuming his seat, the President raised his hand again and said to the audience, ‘Members of the Republican Council, honourable lords of the nobility and citizens of Sagal, I ask you to reflect on the objections raised by Mahapandit Acharya Pravardhan, Chairman of the Council. I have admitted my error of judgement. In my old age my eyesight is not what it used to be. It is not proper that injustice should be done to a young man on account of my failing eyesight. If the Republic has faith in me, I should be permitted to rectify my mistake.’
The members of the Council looked at each other while the crowd looked at the nobles. The President remained standing on the platform.
Addressing the audience once again, he said, ‘I would like the Council to give its decision in the matter. Shall I take it that the Council will give me a chance to rectify my mistake?’
Noticing that many people nodded their heads in agreement, the President went on, ‘I, Mithrodus, President of the Republic of Madra, do hereby accept the rectification in the judgement given by me as the Commander-in-Chief. If any honourable member has any objection, he may speak up.’
He then resumed his seat. A hush fell over the Council, as an indistinct hum arose from the audience, indicating approval of the President’s action.
Once again the trumpet rang out, and the sound of numerous musical instruments—the lute, veena,1 flute, kettledrums, cymbals and tambourine—filled the air; the dance and music performances were about to begin. When the instruments were tuned, Mallika, surrounded by her large troupe of pupils, looking resplendent like the moon among the stars, sang the prelude in a voice that would have been the envy of a nightingale. As the prelude came to an end, her pupils joined in, and the marquee resounded with their song. Devi Mallika conducted their choral cadence with arms as graceful as lotus stems. The crowd seemed borne aloft on the waves of music. Even when the raga came to an end, the crowd sat silent and transfixed like Sheshnaag, the thousand-headed serpent.
The orchestra started to play the shataji raga. At a sign from Mallika, Madulika began to sing. She was followed by Kusumsena, Divya and Vasumitra the dancer, accompanied by her group. The audience sat on in quiet, collective enchantment.
Devi Mallika rose from her seat, and in a voice ringing with gratitude, said, ‘With the permission of the distinguished and appreciative audience, we would now like to end the music event and move on to the dance contest.’
Released from the spell cast by the music, the audience breathed more easily. The torches had dimmed, but the people were so lost in the music that they did not notice the failing light. The torch-bearers found time to replenish the oil and the stage was again filled with bright light. The instruments broke into a different tune. Flanked on both sides by her pupils, Mallika stepped to the front of the stage. The eyes of the spectators were riveted on her. She started her recital with the raas1 dance. It seemed as though a constellation of stars had begun to swirl. The next dance was of an allegorical nature, with Mallika as Indra, the Lord of Rain, and her pupils enacting the role of the rain-thirsty earth, the plants and the living creatures of the world.
The pupils prayed for rain by adopting different dance postures, making their Lord the centre of their devotion. In the beginning Indra remained unmoved. But soon, their supplications enhanced by their grace and beauty, aroused such irresistible compassion that Indra relented and burst into rain showers. Mother Earth and her children were satiated. The spectators, surrendering their senses to the magical spell of art, sat with their mouths open, silent and still.
After a brief interval, during which the audience relaxed a little, Madulika presented a dance titled ‘The Maiden Keeping her Tryst’, which she had specially prepared for the occasion. This was followed by Kusumsena’s rendering of ‘Urvashi’s Love Plaint’ and finally Divya stepped forward to present ‘The Swan’s Surrender’. Since a fortnight, Devi Mallika had been preparing Divya for the dance, while training the musicians in the intricate modulations of the musical accompaniments.
Divya was dressed in a white costume resembling the plumage of a swan. Her diaphanous stole hung on her soft, shapely arms, like the wings of marali, the swan maiden. Her searching eyes looked anxious and perplexed. Thrilled at her beloved’s presence, the marali, flapping her wings in impetuous enthusiasm, rushed in the direction of the swan’s call. But hardly had she gone a few steps when she got caught in the net of a hunter.
The swan continued to call. Each note made the imprisoned marali restless and desperate. She struggled with all her might to free herself. But despair and helplessness were her only rewards. Still she struggled, in a bid to throw off her bindings. But to no avail. The call of the swan, once so thrilling and provocative, now became a source of intense suffering to her. She would feebly raise her head every time the call was heard, and merely flutter her wings in helplessness.
The swan then appeared on the stage, played by Devi Mallika herself. Ignoring the net in which the marali was held, the male glided into it, getting trapped. The marali was overwhelmed. In the ecstatic moment of reunion, they forgot their captivity in sweet abandon. A brood of young swans, born of this union, flew out in different directions.
The sky rang with the enthusiastic applause of the audience. The roof of the marquee shook and the flames of the torches trembled. From among the audience, a Buddhist monk, dressed in russet robes, stood up with his hand raised and cried, ‘May the wise ones see and understand. Caught in the throes of maya, the individual has a false sense of happiness.’
Devi Mallika stood near her seat acknowledging the ovation of the audience. She looked at the bhikshu without much interest. The members of the Council, the distinguished guests and others, all turned their eyes towards him.
In the ensuing silence, a loud voice was heard, ‘Even when the individual has a false sense of sorrow, the eternal activity of life continues in much the same way. Renunciation is nothing but self-deception by the timid. Life moves on; this is the irrevocable and indubitable truth.’
The arena echoed with laughter. The person who had thus replied was none other than young Marish, the master sculptor of Sagal—son of the trader Pushyakant—who had been censured for his public profession of atheistic and immoral views.
After consultation with Devi Mallika and the Council, the President awarded the title of Daughter of Saraswati to Divya, the great-granddaughter of the Chief Justice of the Republic. In turn, Divya presented the flower coronet to young Prithusen, the best swordsman. Both the prizewinners, in their distinctive costumes, looked the embodiment of their respective arts.
The fanfare was sounded to signal the end of the festival. Though it was nearing midnight, the spectators were not tired and showed no intention of moving away. In the clear, star-spangled Chaitra sky, the full moon floated. A crowd of enthusiastic spectators blocked the path reserved for Devi Mallika and the contestants. It was with great difficulty that the state officers managed to clear the way.
It was a custom in Sagal for young men of the nobility to carry to her home, the flower-bedecked palanquin of the girl honoured as the Daughter of Saraswati. Divya stepped shyly into the palanquin after receiving the blessings of her paternal great-grandfather, as also of her uncles and other relatives. The young nobles rushed towards the palanquin, whose four poles had room for only sixteen bearers.
Prithusen had already put his shoulder to the front pole of the palanquin, when Vasudhir pushed him from behind, wanting to take his place. But Prithusen refused to move.
At this, Rudradhir, son of Acharya Pravardhan and older than Vasudhir, shouted, ‘The son of a slave has no right to put his shoulder to the palanquin along with the young men of noble birth.’
Infuriated, Prithusen drew his sword and held it ready, ‘My sword will determine my right,’ he cried. Many swords flashed out of their scabbards on all sides.
Alarmed by the uproar, a number of dignitaries intervened, and disorder and bloodshed were averted. The palanquin of the Daughter of Saraswati, carried on the shoulders of the young nobles, moved towards the town, followed by Devi Mallika’s chariot. The palanquin went rocking over the heads of thousands of cheering people like a boat moving on the waves of the sea.
Trembling with anger like a wounded tiger, Prithusen remained standing in the limpid moonlight. The anger raging in his heart made him restless and agitated. The accident of birth! Is that a crime? … If so, how can it be set right? No power on earth, neither the force of arms nor the power of wealth or knowledge, can alter the status of one’s birth. Should man seek revenge from the gods for the injustice of his birth, or from those who, for their own selfish ends, have instituted the unfair law? Seething with hatred and not finding an outlet for his feelings of revenge, Prithusen clenched his teeth and set out in the direction of his palace, avoiding the crowd.
The Palace of the Chief Justice
HUMANITY IS LIKE A FOREST ON THE EDGE OF THE RIVER OF TIME; inundations enrich the soil of a forest. Similarly the floods of change, which, from time to time, swept the city state of Sagal, left behind rich layers of thought and experience. In this little forest of Sagal, the aged scholar Dev Sharma, Chief Justice of the Republic, stood like a great banyan tree for many years. Every hair on his head had turned white. With the passage of time, the vigour in his body dried up, but his faculties, fed by more than a hundred years of living, were still active and alert.
The eminent scholar was still young when the powerful Greek king Milinda, at the head of a mighty army, invaded the kingdom of Madra—then ruled by the Paurav dynasty—and established his own imperial rule in its place. On the death of Vagish Sharma, who had held the office of the Chief Justice during the reign of the Paurav dynasty, Milinda appointed his son, Dev Sharma—gifted with rare talent and wisdom—to the same post. For many years, Dev Sharma administered justice, giving to the traditional policies and organization of a caste society, the flavour of a Greek way of life. When the mighty King Milinda embraced the Buddhist faith, justice in the state became charged with humanism and a feeling of universal compassion. It was during Dev Sharma’s lifetime that the righteous King Milinda gave up his throne, renounced the world and took to the path of Nirvana. As Milinda was childless, a republican state of the dynastic order was founded and in the new regime, Dev Sharma continued to discharge his office in accordance with the new concepts of justice.
Dev Sharma had three sons by his three wives. Of these, one died. From the other two sons he had four grandsons. The wife of one of these grandsons, the eldest, gave birth to a baby girl. The birth of a girl child in the family, already well provided with sons and grandsons, occasioned great joy, just like the appearance of the half moon, on the eve of a waxing lunar month, holds out the promise of resplendent moonlight, even as the glow of the setting sun still pervades the sky. She was given the name of Divya, the radiant dawn, showing the faith that people had in her bright future and, like the crescent moon, her effulgence only increased with the passage of time.
