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Seven kaathams from Kanchipuram, the capital city, lay Ashokapuram, a small town en route that famed temple-town, Thillaipathi. Its claim to fame lay in the fact that the town contained a sthambam, a pillar erected by that most just and noblest ruler among the Emperors of India—Ashoka the Great; he who had once ruled a larger portion of the Bharatha Sub-continent than many of his royal predecessors and successors put together.
Once, Ashokapuram had been home to more than a thousand Buddhist minks, committed to the Buddha dharma and spreading the teachings of Lord Buddha. So too had it been the home of thousands of grihasthas—families who followed the Buddhist way of life, flourishing in the aura of serenity that pervaded the small town. Evenings in Ashokapuram would be misted with the fragrance of incense sticks lit in honour of the great saint; the gentle tinkling of bells, signalling the commencement of prayer would accompany the perfume. Rows upon rows of sparkling lights would be lit around the image of the Buddha; monks and commoners alike would troop to the numerous Chaithyas that dotted the town, carrying offerings flowers that would eventually find their way to The Enlightened One’s feet.
The Ashokapuram of those centuries; the town that had been the centre of such piety and devotion—now lay deserted and uninhabited; a mere ghost town, possessing merely the memories of long ago. One building, a combination of a Chaithya and Vihara held a tiny, flickering light within it; the rest of the buildings lay in ruin; the walls crumbling. Darkness had made its home within those buildings that still remained intact.
The only object that remained untarnished, still standing that day even after nearly nine hundred years of neglect, was the magnificent sthambam erected by Emperor Ashoka, proclaiming justice and peace to all those that lived on earth. The moon showered its pearly rays on it, throwing it into sharp relief; the words ‘May Justice prevail for all time’ still revealed themselves proudly to those who would imbibe it.
It was to this place that Aayanar, Sivakami, and the rest of their party arrived, nearly two naazhigais after night had fallen.
They neared the proud sthambam still standing in all its glory; Aayanar raised his head, following its towering incline in the milky white rays of the moon. “Ah,” he breathed reverently, vanquishing the silence that had fallen on the party. “The world is yet to see such another Emperor as just and noble as Ashoka…would that the Emperors, Kings and princes who rule this world were like him—the earth would be a paradise, then, would it not? Of what use is war, after all, and hatred? Why would man want to shed the blood of his brother? Why couldn’t the people of this world accept Ahimsa as their way of existence, and live a life of joy and contentment, spreading love and affection among all?”
Sivakami threw her father a look of amazement, and interrupted his lyrical out-pouring. “Appa, you astonish me. A moment ago, you wished to take swords, spears and the good God knows how many weapons and fight a war, akin to the soldiers marching away to battle—now, you’re talking about love, affection, and ahimsa. I must say, you appear very disturbed—I’ve never known your mind to wander so much.”
“True, my child,” sighed Aayanar. “My mind is disturbed. The great Lord Buddha spent a life-time, spreading love and compassion wherever he went, and establish a kingdom of peace and justice…I cannot help but be concerned that his messages found no place in the hearts of men—that his life and his teachings hold little meaning now.”
The bikshu elected to join their conversation. “Aayanar, what can be done, if mankind hasn’t yet striven to make itself worthy of accepting the Great One’s lessons?”
Much to the surprise of the assembled party, Gundodharan plunged into the discussion, at this point. “Ah, but Swami, how could you group all of mankind under one, huge, undistinguished canopy? Just as there are ferocious tigers and passive cows; slithering serpents and enthusiastic squirrels, so are there many kinds of men, each different from the other. Our very own Emperor Mahendra Pallavar is not unlike the great Emperor Ashoka himself—he tried to establish a kingdom of compassion in his Empire…but there came a Pulikesi, a Dhurvineethan, and a Pandiya King from the South, to disrupt his plans and ruin his carefully constructed reign of peace. What will you? As long as there’s a snake, there has to be a mongoose; else, man himself will have to take a cane into his hands and deliver justice, don’t you think?”
Aayanar looked at his erstwhile student with considerable astonishment. “Good God…I never could have guessed that Gundodharan would prove to be such an orator,” he murmured.
The Buddha bikshu, on the other hand threw a look at the young man that held a wealth of loathing and barely restrained fury in it.
“Gundodharan is right, of course,” chimed in Sivakami. “After all, appa, if there’s evil in the world, we need warriors to vanquish such deadly forces too, don’t we?”
“An excellent point, Sivakami,” Aayanar spoke with renewed enthusiasm. “For if there's only peace and love in this world, what place would there be for valour? What kind of a world would it be, if bravery of spirit did not exist? What of the thousands of epic sagas, poems and works of art that would be meaningless? How would they even be created?”
“May I say something, Master?” intercepted Gundodharan. “I fail to see the use of a sthambam such as this—even if Emperor Ashoka did erect it—standing in the middle of this lost little town, of no use to anyone…how many, do you think, actually read the words etched into it, and follow its message? Shall I tell what I really think must be done…?” Saying so, the young man approached the column, and knocked on it with his knuckle. Not surprisingly, it produced a sharp, metallic ‘dunn…’ sound. “Excellent iron, I wager. Uproot it, throw it into an ironsmith’s smithy, and forge it into a hundred swords and spears—it would easily furnish ten thousand weapons at the very least, I should think…”
Whilst conversation proceeded in this fashion under the sthambam, Naganandhi had utilised the cover it afforded, by walking up to the entrance of the Vihara swiftly. An aged Buddhist bikshu met him there, a small lamp in his hands. Naganandhi pulled out the olai brought to him by Gundodharan and digested its contents with the aid of the illumination.
The expression his features assumed were sufficiently severe enough to shock even the placid bikshu who held the lamp—it was therefore a fortunate circumstance that none of the others had seen them, for it would have shocked them out of all proportion.
Aayanar’s arrival at the front door of the Vihara coincided with the exact moment that the bikshu finished his perusal of the palm-leaf—an event which prompted the monk to assume a serenity of expression in both face and voice. He cast a glance at his fellow bikshu. “Swami, these people who have accompanied me are my friends—I must beg the indulgence of allowing them to stay here for five or six days,” he said.
He turned, next, to Aayanar. “My friend—I have Gundodharan to thank, indeed, for having brought this olai to me, never mind that he pushed its original courier into a lake. I’m needed elsewhere, to deal with the contents of this olai, and must depart at once. Two or three days may elapse, before I return…you may stay here, for that duration. Our bikshu, here,” he glanced at the aged monk, “...will see to your needs. Besides, you have Gundodharan as well. What more can anyone ask for?”
Speaking thus, Naganandhi turned his eyes on Gundodharan—and shot him a piercing glance that seemed to tear a hole through that young man’s heart.
The next instant, the monk had turned to Sivakami, his voice laced with tenderness. “My child, You will not think ill of me, I hope, for having brought you to this outlandish place, and leaving you to fend for yourselves…were it not for an extremely important assignment…” he paused. “Rest assured that I shall return as soon as possible, and join you on your journey.”
Viharas in the Pallava country shared many common aspects of architecture—this one was no exception, holding a Buddhist shrine within its midst. On either side of the shrine were rooms built to accommodate bikshus who desired it. One of these rooms was cleared out for Aayanar and his company—into which the sculptor’s party settled itself.
Naganandhi waited until they had established themselves comfortably, turned to the gloomy rooms on the other side—and vanished into the darkness.
CHAPTER 22
IN ASHOKAPURAM…
Seven kaathams from Kanchipuram, the capital city, lay Ashokapuram, a small town en route that famed temple-town, Thillaipathi. Its claim to fame lay in the fact that the town contained a sthambam, a pillar erected by that most just and noblest ruler among the Emperors of India—Ashoka the Great; he who had once ruled a larger portion of the Bharatha Sub-continent than many of his royal predecessors and successors put together.
Once, Ashokapuram had been home to more than a thousand Buddhist minks, committed to the Buddha dharma and spreading the teachings of Lord Buddha. So too had it been the home of thousands of grihasthas—families who followed the Buddhist way of life, flourishing in the aura of serenity that pervaded the small town. Evenings in Ashokapuram would be misted with the fragrance of incense sticks lit in honour of the great saint; the gentle tinkling of bells, signalling the commencement of prayer would accompany the perfume. Rows upon rows of sparkling lights would be lit around the image of the Buddha; monks and commoners alike would troop to the numerous Chaithyas that dotted the town, carrying offerings flowers that would eventually find their way to The Enlightened One’s feet.
The Ashokapuram of those centuries; the town that had been the centre of such piety and devotion—now lay deserted and uninhabited; a mere ghost town, possessing merely the memories of long ago. One building, a combination of a Chaithya and Vihara held a tiny, flickering light within it; the rest of the buildings lay in ruin; the walls crumbling. Darkness had made its home within those buildings that still remained intact.
The only object that remained untarnished, still standing that day even after nearly nine hundred years of neglect, was the magnificent sthambam erected by Emperor Ashoka, proclaiming justice and peace to all those that lived on earth. The moon showered its pearly rays on it, throwing it into sharp relief; the words ‘May Justice prevail for all time’ still revealed themselves proudly to those who would imbibe it.
It was to this place that Aayanar, Sivakami, and the rest of their party arrived, nearly two naazhigais after night had fallen.
They neared the proud sthambam still standing in all its glory; Aayanar raised his head, following its towering incline in the milky white rays of the moon. “Ah,” he breathed reverently, vanquishing the silence that had fallen on the party. “The world is yet to see such another Emperor as just and noble as Ashoka…would that the Emperors, Kings and princes who rule this world were like him—the earth would be a paradise, then, would it not? Of what use is war, after all, and hatred? Why would man want to shed the blood of his brother? Why couldn’t the people of this world accept Ahimsa as their way of existence, and live a life of joy and contentment, spreading love and affection among all?”
Sivakami threw her father a look of amazement, and interrupted his lyrical out-pouring. “Appa, you astonish me. A moment ago, you wished to take swords, spears and the good God knows how many weapons and fight a war, akin to the soldiers marching away to battle—now, you’re talking about love, affection, and ahimsa. I must say, you appear very disturbed—I’ve never known your mind to wander so much.”
“True, my child,” sighed Aayanar. “My mind is disturbed. The great Lord Buddha spent a life-time, spreading love and compassion wherever he went, and establish a kingdom of peace and justice…I cannot help but be concerned that his messages found no place in the hearts of men—that his life and his teachings hold little meaning now.”
The bikshu elected to join their conversation. “Aayanar, what can be done, if mankind hasn’t yet striven to make itself worthy of accepting the Great One’s lessons?”
Much to the surprise of the assembled party, Gundodharan plunged into the discussion, at this point. “Ah, but Swami, how could you group all of mankind under one, huge, undistinguished canopy? Just as there are ferocious tigers and passive cows; slithering serpents and enthusiastic squirrels, so are there many kinds of men, each different from the other. Our very own Emperor Mahendra Pallavar is not unlike the great Emperor Ashoka himself—he tried to establish a kingdom of compassion in his Empire…but there came a Pulikesi, a Dhurvineethan, and a Pandiya King from the South, to disrupt his plans and ruin his carefully constructed reign of peace. What will you? As long as there’s a snake, there has to be a mongoose; else, man himself will have to take a cane into his hands and deliver justice, don’t you think?”
Aayanar looked at his erstwhile student with considerable astonishment. “Good God…I never could have guessed that Gundodharan would prove to be such an orator,” he murmured.
The Buddha bikshu, on the other hand threw a look at the young man that held a wealth of loathing and barely restrained fury in it.
“Gundodharan is right, of course,” chimed in Sivakami. “After all, appa, if there’s evil in the world, we need warriors to vanquish such deadly forces too, don’t we?”
“An excellent point, Sivakami,” Aayanar spoke with renewed enthusiasm. “For if there's only peace and love in this world, what place would there be for valour? What kind of a world would it be, if bravery of spirit did not exist? What of the thousands of epic sagas, poems and works of art that would be meaningless? How would they even be created?”
“May I say something, Master?” intercepted Gundodharan. “I fail to see the use of a sthambam such as this—even if Emperor Ashoka did erect it—standing in the middle of this lost little town, of no use to anyone…how many, do you think, actually read the words etched into it, and follow its message? Shall I tell what I really think must be done…?” Saying so, the young man approached the column, and knocked on it with his knuckle. Not surprisingly, it produced a sharp, metallic ‘dunn…’ sound. “Excellent iron, I wager. Uproot it, throw it into an ironsmith’s smithy, and forge it into a hundred swords and spears—it would easily furnish ten thousand weapons at the very least, I should think…”
Whilst conversation proceeded in this fashion under the sthambam, Naganandhi had utilised the cover it afforded, by walking up to the entrance of the Vihara swiftly. An aged Buddhist bikshu met him there, a small lamp in his hands. Naganandhi pulled out the olai brought to him by Gundodharan and digested its contents with the aid of the illumination.
The expression his features assumed were sufficiently severe enough to shock even the placid bikshu who held the lamp—it was therefore a fortunate circumstance that none of the others had seen them, for it would have shocked them out of all proportion.
Aayanar’s arrival at the front door of the Vihara coincided with the exact moment that the bikshu finished his perusal of the palm-leaf—an event which prompted the monk to assume a serenity of expression in both face and voice. He cast a glance at his fellow bikshu. “Swami, these people who have accompanied me are my friends—I must beg the indulgence of allowing them to stay here for five or six days,” he said.
He turned, next, to Aayanar. “My friend—I have Gundodharan to thank, indeed, for having brought this olai to me, never mind that he pushed its original courier into a lake. I’m needed elsewhere, to deal with the contents of this olai, and must depart at once. Two or three days may elapse, before I return…you may stay here, for that duration. Our bikshu, here,” he glanced at the aged monk, “...will see to your needs. Besides, you have Gundodharan as well. What more can anyone ask for?”
Speaking thus, Naganandhi turned his eyes on Gundodharan—and shot him a piercing glance that seemed to tear a hole through that young man’s heart.
The next instant, the monk had turned to Sivakami, his voice laced with tenderness. “My child, You will not think ill of me, I hope, for having brought you to this outlandish place, and leaving you to fend for yourselves…were it not for an extremely important assignment…” he paused. “Rest assured that I shall return as soon as possible, and join you on your journey.”
Viharas in the Pallava country shared many common aspects of architecture—this one was no exception, holding a Buddhist shrine within its midst. On either side of the shrine were rooms built to accommodate bikshus who desired it. One of these rooms was cleared out for Aayanar and his company—into which the sculptor’s party settled itself.
Naganandhi waited until they had established themselves comfortably, turned to the gloomy rooms on the other side—and vanished into the darkness.
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