student who had fled his homeland owing to the Macedonian invasion. Sharangrao was the brightest Brahmin boy in the university. All three were his endeared disciples, although they remained consistently at odds with Ambhi, the crown prince of Gandhar—an arrogant and brash freshman in the university. ‘Keep him in check, Sinharan,’ advised Chanakya, and then having taken permission for a sabbatical from the university chancellor, started preparations for the long march to the city of his birth.
The arduous journey to Magadha brought flashbacks not only of his parents but also of dear Suvasini. She was the daughter of the imprisoned prime minister Shaktar and had been his childhood friend. As a little girl, she had been delicately built, like an exquisitely carved statue. Her rosy cheeks and piercing brown eyes had driven Chanakya quite mad. He had always remained in love with her but had never plucked up the courage to tell her. He knew that she knew, but she had derived mischievous fun from pretending she didn’t. As he inched his way towards Magadha, he found himself reminiscing more frequently about his adolescent infatuation.
Pataliputra had not only grown in size but also in indulgence, licentiousness, corruption and debauchery. Betting and gambling halls were on every street corner and it was not uncommon to observe disputes breaking out over claims of loaded dice, sleight of hand or doctored animal fights. Alcohol was consumed to excess and it was a familiar sight to see wine-soaked men staggering out of madiralays, having overindulged in kinva, asava, maireya, medaka, madhu or prasanna —the wide assortment of cocktails that Magadha pubs had on offer. The other wide assortment consisted of ganikas, rupajivas and pumsachalis —prostitutes, independent escorts and concubines. Magadha’s courtesans offered the finest talent—singing, playing musical instruments, conversing, dancing, performing massages, preparing perfumes, stringing garlands, shampooing, bathing and, of course most importantly, the art of lovemaking. A celebrated guru of Magadha, Vatsyayana, had just published a bestselling treatise, the Kama Sutra , with over twelve hundred verses detailing seventy-seven different positions for making love.
When Chanakya arrived at the gates of the capital, Pataliputra, the inebriated immigration officer at the city gates could barely bring himself to cursorily examine his travel documents, leave alone ask him any relevant questions, even though it was only noon. The guards at the city gates seemed dishevelled and red-eyed after heavy drinking the previous night. Magadha was a kingdom in denial—it seemed to be refusing to acknowledge the threat of a Macedonian invasion that loomed large for the bordering kingdoms of Bharat. Both the king and his people simply did not want the party to end even though the night was over.
Most of the city seemed to be unchanged, though, and it was not too difficult for Chanakya to navigate his way to Katyayan’s house. The streets, the houses and even the street corner oil-fired lamps looked unchanged. What had changed was the appearance of Katyayan. Ten years had aged him by twenty-five. He instantly recognised Chanakya approaching the house and rushed outside to meet him even though he had last seen him as a mere runt. Tears welled up in his eyes as he hugged Chanakya and refused to let go. As they went inside, he instructed his manservant to wash Chanakya’s hands and feet and to have the cook organise the noon meal.
The two men sat down on the floor of the kitchen as the servant placed banana leaves and earthen tumblers of water before them. In Brahmin tradition, they each sprinkled a little water around their leaves, a ritual purification of the earth. Next, the servant brought rice, lentils and vegetables, which he proceeded to place on their banana leaves. As was the custom, both men— before commencing to eat with their hands—removed small morsels of their
The arduous journey to Magadha brought flashbacks not only of his parents but also of dear Suvasini. She was the daughter of the imprisoned prime minister Shaktar and had been his childhood friend. As a little girl, she had been delicately built, like an exquisitely carved statue. Her rosy cheeks and piercing brown eyes had driven Chanakya quite mad. He had always remained in love with her but had never plucked up the courage to tell her. He knew that she knew, but she had derived mischievous fun from pretending she didn’t. As he inched his way towards Magadha, he found himself reminiscing more frequently about his adolescent infatuation.
Pataliputra had not only grown in size but also in indulgence, licentiousness, corruption and debauchery. Betting and gambling halls were on every street corner and it was not uncommon to observe disputes breaking out over claims of loaded dice, sleight of hand or doctored animal fights. Alcohol was consumed to excess and it was a familiar sight to see wine-soaked men staggering out of madiralays, having overindulged in kinva, asava, maireya, medaka, madhu or prasanna —the wide assortment of cocktails that Magadha pubs had on offer. The other wide assortment consisted of ganikas, rupajivas and pumsachalis —prostitutes, independent escorts and concubines. Magadha’s courtesans offered the finest talent—singing, playing musical instruments, conversing, dancing, performing massages, preparing perfumes, stringing garlands, shampooing, bathing and, of course most importantly, the art of lovemaking. A celebrated guru of Magadha, Vatsyayana, had just published a bestselling treatise, the Kama Sutra , with over twelve hundred verses detailing seventy-seven different positions for making love.
When Chanakya arrived at the gates of the capital, Pataliputra, the inebriated immigration officer at the city gates could barely bring himself to cursorily examine his travel documents, leave alone ask him any relevant questions, even though it was only noon. The guards at the city gates seemed dishevelled and red-eyed after heavy drinking the previous night. Magadha was a kingdom in denial—it seemed to be refusing to acknowledge the threat of a Macedonian invasion that loomed large for the bordering kingdoms of Bharat. Both the king and his people simply did not want the party to end even though the night was over.
Most of the city seemed to be unchanged, though, and it was not too difficult for Chanakya to navigate his way to Katyayan’s house. The streets, the houses and even the street corner oil-fired lamps looked unchanged. What had changed was the appearance of Katyayan. Ten years had aged him by twenty-five. He instantly recognised Chanakya approaching the house and rushed outside to meet him even though he had last seen him as a mere runt. Tears welled up in his eyes as he hugged Chanakya and refused to let go. As they went inside, he instructed his manservant to wash Chanakya’s hands and feet and to have the cook organise the noon meal.
The two men sat down on the floor of the kitchen as the servant placed banana leaves and earthen tumblers of water before them. In Brahmin tradition, they each sprinkled a little water around their leaves, a ritual purification of the earth. Next, the servant brought rice, lentils and vegetables, which he proceeded to place on their banana leaves. As was the custom, both men— before commencing to eat with their hands—removed small morsels of their
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