Divya, page 7
Prestha, the magnate, did not remain indifferent to the situation. He contributed to the mobilization of the state army by securing from neighbouring areas hundreds of horses and chariots which he sold to the state, and thereby made a profit of thousands of gold pieces. Knowing that both the Chief Justice and the President were anxious about the war, the magnate voluntarily contributed a thousand gold pieces to the treasury. This gesture earned him not only the confidence and respect of both dignitaries, but also the right to participate in the secret councils of the state. The magnate was of the view that control of the army should be entrusted to well-known and tried senior officers and such army commanders as had lately proved themselves worthy of confidence. The Council met again to examine the question of military organization, but because of the intrigues of Acharya Pravardhan, the distribution of senior posts and the selection of commanders could not proceed smoothly. On the insistence of Kartavir, the feudatory chief, Arya Indradeep and Arya Vrishnesh were appointed the new commanders of the cavalry, while Arya Vinay Sharma was appointed commander of the chariot-borne army.
Little attention had as yet been paid in the Council to Prithusen’s petition for justice, and for a commission in the army. His father would often try to encourage and reassure him, saying, ‘Son, an opportunity is soon to come your way. Be ready and alert to take advantage of it. The wise men of Greece have a saying: “The god of opportunity has his face hidden behind his forelock. It is difficult to recognize him, but you can overpower him only by catching him by the forelock. The back part of his head is bald. It is easy to recognize the god after he had passed you by, but you cannot grab him by his bald pate.” Therefore, it is necessary to be prepared and alert in recognizing your opportunity. Son, if you have courage, valour and intelligence; if you have money, then your worth will be recognized in this very crisis. Have courage and gain the confidence of the people who matter. Go and wait on the aged Chief Justice and the President; establish personal contact with the feudatory chiefs, Okris and Indrasen …’
Despite his father’s advice, the thought of going to beg for acceptance and favour was unpalatable to Prithusen. He felt the cold silence of indifference and disdain towards him and found no satisfaction or sympathy anywhere, be it in the company of friends or in drinking booths or gambling dens. He no longer had any interest in high living or dancing. When time hung heavy, he would sit under a tree in the garden of his palace and shoot arrows at the fluttering leaves of trees, or play chess with the slave Shwang, who was his personal attendant.
In the evenings, Prithusen would sometimes go to the mansion of Mallika or of Vasumitra, but it would be mainly in the hope of meeting Divya there. It gave him great consolation to be near her because she shared his despondency—the one person who befriended him, looking upon him as an equal, who offered her heart to him despite the numerous obstacles in her way, who was his only support, and whom he could truly call his own. He yearned to take Divya away to some unknown place, to some secret hideout, and there, make a new home for himself with new friends; a new world, in which he would not be penalized for his birth; where he would not be a helpless victim of unknown deeds from his past lives; where he would have the freedom to act as he liked; where his energy and his talent would not be futile because of his being the son of a low-born father.
News reached Sagal that the forces guarding the frontier had been routed by Kendras. Panic gripped the town. Everywhere people began to talk of war. Devi Mallika too had contributed money and had thereby participated in the war effort. In the concert hall of her palace, in the midst of the performances of song and dance, the state officers charged with military duties and administration would begin to talk of war. Wine cup in hand, they would ignore the graces of art and get involved in the discussion of the horrors of war. The joys of life were there, no doubt, but concern for its security was stronger. And when the wine took effect, discussion would give place to sheer babble. Prithusen felt irritated by their stupidity and cowardice, but he kept his mouth shut.
Indradeep, deep in his cups and with his chest stuck out, said, ‘Wars are won by the physical prowess of the Brahmins. You need the drive and fortitude of a Pushya Mitra for it. How can our ancient Commander-in-Chief, whose head shakes all the time because of the confusion inside, lead us in battle? … These petty victories and defeats mean nothing. In my veins flows the blood of the Paurav dynasty. Even the Greek king, Milinda, was scared of this prowess and could not rule, although he had come as a conqueror, and renounced everything and took the beggar’s bowl. You will see what happens to Kendras the day Indradeep, the great commander, takes into his hands the reins of military command.’ He burst out laughing and stretching out his arms, he pulled to himself the slave-girl who was standing in front of him, with the wine tray in her hand. ‘On that day, the wives of Kendras will drop into my lap in the same way, ha, ha!’
Terrified at Indradeep’s wildness, Magga, the slave-girl, trembled from head to foot. Mallika put her finger to her lips indicating that he should not frighten the girl.
Irked by Mallika’s censure, Kedar Sharma, son of feudatory chief Shrimukh Sharma, who was sitting next to Indradeep, exclaimed, ‘Is it for such subservience as this that we shall bare our chests to the sword-thrusts of Kendras?’ and holding out both his hands, he looked at all those sitting round him, confident of their approval. ‘See? A noble’s son is helpless even before a slave-girl! He cannot do as he pleases even with a slave-girl! Should we have to seek the consent of such an inferior creature? Should insolent upstarts go about insulting and challenging the twice-born Brahmins in the streets and lanes of Sagal? Should weavers and menials sit next to us as our equals? Do we count for nothing in the administration of Madra, such as it is? And shall we shed our blood in its defence? What do you say, Udaya Bhanu?’ he cried loudly, turning for confirmation to the merchant.
‘It’s all the same to me,’ replied Udaya Bhanu in a tone of listless unconcern. ‘The Republic extorts the bulk of my earnings from me in the form of taxes. Kendras too will rob me of my wealth. The Republic has taken from me a hundred gold pieces as my contribution to the war fund. Will the Republic give me hundredfold protection too? … Is my body a hundred times bigger than that of other citizens?’ he asked, patting his rotund belly. ‘Why should I annoy anyone, brother? They are all alike, so far as I am concerned. I’m only a Vaishya, a humble trader. Let that man go to war who thinks that he deserves to sit on the throne. A Vaishya is only a humble servant.’
‘Devi,’ Indradeep said, turning to Mallika, ‘I swear by the beauty of your art, I swear by Goddess Saraswati when I say that the Republic of Madra has been eaten to the core by the Buddhists as a wooden column is eaten up by white ants—it is all hollow inside. One-third of the state revenue is spent on the Buddhist parasites. What is then left behind? Is it not armed soldiers that will face Kendras? Will these young fawns of the Buddha, the yellow-robed bhikshus with begging bowls in their hands protect Madra? This is what comes of denying food to the hound and feeding the fawn instead. Send Cheebuk, the Buddhist monk to face Kendras; send the head of the monastery to face the sword of Kendras,’ he said, roaring with laughter.
Mallika could not join in. ‘Arya,’ she said to Indradeep, ‘will these mutual rivalries not lead to our surrender to the enemy? … When Madra and Sagal are reduced to rubble, who then will be left to listen to the others’ accusations?’
Such boasting by the sons of the nobility was too much for Prithusen to bear. Making a sign to Divya he left the hall and headed towards the pond, which was situated in the midst of a grove of trees. Divya followed him soon after.
Taking Divya’s hand into his, Prithusen said in a depressed voice, ‘Did you see that, my love? Such are our war preparations! The mighty Kendras has his heels on the throat of Madra, and here are its leaders scheming against one another.’
Confused, Divya covered her eyes with her stole.
Putting his arm around her, Prithusen said, ‘In the eyes of these people, this invasion is a kind of punishment for the sins of Buddhism. Under the cover of war, Acharya Pravardhan is conspiring to re-establish the caste system. It doesn’t occur to anyone that neither Pushya Mitra nor Kendras will come here to shed his blood for the sake of establishing the caste system in Madra. They are interested in the expansion of their empire, in the wealth and resources of Madra. These people think that Kendras, after conquering them, will begin to venerate them, and recognizing their birthright of Brahminism, will set to worshipping them.
‘The vanquished are never worthy of respect. Kendras considers himself a god. This “holy sacrifice of war” is for his own satisfaction; it will turn the whole of Sagal into a sacrificial pyre. And in that fire, the bodies of these Brahmins, these nobles and their possessions will serve as oblations. Only those people will survive who, bereft of self-respect, will kiss the foot that kicks them. Do you call that survival? Their high-born ladies, whose feet had never so much as touched the ground, will become a reward for the hungry, lecherous soldiers of Kendras. People proud of their aristocratic ways and noble birth will go about with fetters on their feet, like slaves. Ladies of the nobility and Brahmin virgins, shrieking with terror, will be gathered up in the spoils of victory. In that fire of utter ruin all our hopes will be consumed.’
Lost in that nightmare of his own thoughts, Prithusen’s eyes gazed at the reflection of the stars swirling in the water of the pond. His hand slipped out of Divya’s and rested on the hilt of his sword hanging from his girdle. He did not notice that Divya was staring hard at him. Lost in thought he continued to murmur, ‘In the light of burning palaces, the arrogant soldiers of Darva, drunk with victory, will put their hands on you, and I, chained and fettered, will look on, helpless. But rather than such a moment should come, I shall have lost my life by the enemy’s sword, or shall have killed myself with my own hand. To imagine that such a thing can happen to you even after my death is a thought I cannot bear.’
Prithusen was interrupted in his thoughts by the sound of Divya’s sobs. He put his arm around her and pressed her tightly to his chest. He kissed her on her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth, and then, holding her face between his hands, said reassuringly, ‘What do we gain by fear and panic, anyhow? It is far better that we live to the fullest, the moments of life that are given to us and then put an end to it with courage.’
In his effort to console Divya, he himself began to seek comfort in her lithe body. Her arms became limp and he gathered her waist more closely in his embrace. Her breasts swelled in her bodice, as if to comfort his pounding heart. His chin rested on Divya’s head. The intoxicating fragrance of Divya’s hair was driving him wild. The terrifying flames of destruction and war receded farther and farther from his eyes, as the wick of a lamp grows dimmer and dimmer when the oil runs out.
Prithusen’s eager soul, seeking fulfilment, yearned for her lips, and finding them, clung on in ecstasy. His unruly hands in search of her throbbing heart became restless on her bodice.
Divya trembled and shrank away from him. Torn between the pleasure of surrender and the instinct for self-protection, she held Prithusen’s hand in hers. Prithusen heaved a deep sigh and restraining himself, bit into his lower lip. The terrifying spectre of war which, for a moment had disappeared from his eyes, returned once more. He swallowed hard to cleanse his mouth of the bitterness born out of frustration. Resting lightly one of his hands on Divya’s shoulder and the other on her waist, and turning his eyes once again towards the reflection of the stars in the pond, he said, ‘I am not afraid of death, Divya … what is death? The end of one’s being. He who has no being, who is devoid of feeling, cannot feel fear either. If I am afraid, it is of being alive to bear the pain of subjugation, the lifelong agony of subjugation. To have you in my arms and then die will satisfy my desires. Then what is there to be afraid of? That will be a happy end to a happy existence. I cannot bear the thought of being conquered and overpowered in war, and then to die a slow death. The fulfilment of life lies in power and affluence. For these people, war is only an opportunity to carry out a treacherous conspiracy. They look upon one another as enemies but regard their real enemy as a potential friend and accomplice. Mourning the death of his son, the Commander-in-Chief has become a recluse from the world, and wants to follow in the footsteps of King Milinda. For hours he listens to the discourses of savant Dharma Rakshit about the joyful path of Nirvana and draws comfort from them. The Chairman of the Council will gladly see Madra in ruins, if thereby, like his predecessors, he can obtain some position of power under Kendras. The life of the entire population of the Republic is dependent on the selfish intrigues of these people, whose petty interests are dearer to them than the lives of millions of people,’ Prithusen went on, his eyes still resting on the starlit water in the pond.
Divya took Prithusen’s hand and placed it on her cheek. She said in a pleading voice, ‘Why don’t you go and speak to my great-grandfather, dear? He is as much worried about the dreadful consequences of the war as you are. He saw with his own eyes the devastation of Madra at the hands of King Milinda and he took a vow that he would rather die than live to see that holocaust again. He can do a lot. Neither the Commander-in-Chief nor the Acharya can afford to disregard his opinion.’
Gazing deeply into Divya’s eyes in the darkness, Prithusen said, ‘Dearest, even now, if I am given a chance, I can block the way of the barbarian, Kendras. I am sure I can. But what can I do if I have no support?’
Divya took Prithusen’s hand in hers and insisted, ‘You must go and meet great-grandfather. You must. Just go once and you’ll see. I’ll speak to him myself. I must go now, my love, it’s getting late … the attendant is waiting.’
Paying little attention to the groom waiting for him at the main gate of Mallika’s palace, Prithusen set off on foot towards his own house. He left the main street and took to the weavers’ lane. The lane was almost deserted. But for a glimmer of light here and there it was dark on all sides. The lane, paved with flagstones, rang with hoofbeats as the groom led the horse behind his master. Prithusen walked on, lost in thought.
From the narrow weavers’ lane he came to the comparatively broader blacksmiths’ lane. It was late at night and most of the shops were closed. The lane was almost deserted. Dim lights could be seen, however, in a few shops from which came a strong reek of cheap liquor. Here and there meat and other foodstuffs were being roasted. At one place there was more light and the sound of many voices. Hearing the clop of horses’ hoofs, the knot of people turned towards Prithusen. As their eyes fell on his clothes, they became confused and a hush fell on them. Being the centre of attention, Prithusen came to himself with a start. He realized that here too people were talking about war.
Prithusen moved on, and after a little while removed his turban and gave it to the groom, telling him to return home, taking the horse with him. He then covered himself with his uttariya and went on alone. Only a close look at his jewelled earrings, swinging under his curly hair, revealed that he belonged to the upper class.
At the end of the blacksmiths’ lane he came to the prostitutes’ square. Light fell from the terraces of the houses of the prostitutes on the group of people standing below. Some boys and girls went about selling garlands and flowers, shouting loudly that the garlands were just the thing for lovers and amorous men. One boy, in a shrill, loud voice, was inviting bystanders to taste soft roasted meat. An old woman stood in front of a wine shop, holding onto a drunkard’s shirt and demanding money. A large number of people gathered around, laughing at her.
‘No, no, I won’t let you go from the shop without getting my money,’ said the old woman in a sharp irritated tone. ‘What if you have become a soldier? That has nothing to do with me. Tomorrow you may be packed off to Darva, then who will pay me my money? Is wine made without money? You are a clever one, aren’t you? Came along to have a few drinks without any money in your pocket. What do I care if you’ve enlisted as a soldier? Get your liquor from the noble lord who has recruited you into his army and whose life you’re going to guard! Why should you cheat a poor old woman like me? The tax collector has already grabbed two gold pieces from me for the war fund, and here you are, refusing to pay for the drinks.’
‘Give money to the war fund and make the officers rich! Ha, ha!’ someone shouted, interrupting the old woman. ‘Of the two gold pieces you’ve given, Grandma, one will go to the treasury while the other will find its way to the officers’ pockets. There will be little left for Kendras to loot! Grandma, you serve wine free of charge and cheerfully to state officers who extort money from you by force, but from us poor folk you charge double the price for thimblefuls of wine which is one-half water, anyway!’
‘Such is the way of the world, friend,’ laughed another drunkard, slapping the speaker on the back. ‘One dog bites another and protects the wealth of his master. You and I will kill one another at the whim of some civil servant. Friend, if you had an officer’s belt round your waist, you too would growl at every passer-by, just as a dog tied to his master’s porch barks at every dog passing in the street. Feeding the Brahmins is a greater virtue than having your own dinner. Do you know why? Because the Brahmin is the dog of the gods.’
Prithusen, standing in a dark corner on one side, recognized the voice of the speaker: it was Marish, the sculptor–philosopher. Marish’s clothes and hair were so dishevelled that it was difficult to recognize him. To what depths of poverty had Marish sunk after having been dismissed from his assignment, Prithusen thought. Just then, his attention was again drawn towards the old woman, who was holding onto the shirt of the errant customer and was still berating him.
‘You old miser,’ someone was saying to the woman, ‘don’t be so hard on the poor fellow. What if he has drunk a couple of glasses to drown his sorrow after being forcibly recruited into the army?’
