food from the leaves and left them as symbolic charitable offerings for animals—cows, dogs, crows and ants—to please the gods. Even though they had not seen each other for over a decade, the meal was consumed in silence following Vedic custom.
It was only after they had risen and retired to the courtyard that Chanakya spoke. ‘I have come to Pataliputra to take back my mother, Katyayanji. How is she?’ he enquired. The silence that followed was protracted and deafening. Finally, Katyayan spoke. ‘Vishnu… Chanakya… how do I tell you this? After your father’s brutal execution and your departure for Takshila, I did everything to keep her in good stead. At my insistence, she was sent to Kusumpur, your family’s ancestral home near Pataliputra. I reasoned that she would be better off away from Pataliputra—a place that she associated with the murder of her husband and the disappearance of her son. I would send her money and provisions regularly and would visit her whenever possible but, my dear Chanakya, she was pining for you and mourning the death of her beloved husband. She stopped eating, and withered away. She passed away around six or seven years ago. Forgive me, Chanakya. I have now been the bearer of bad news twice in your life.’
The blank and distant look that Katyayan had witnessed in Chanakya’s eyes when he was told about the slaying of his father seemed to have returned. The old man held Chanakya’s hand and tried his best to coax a reaction but failed. The armour of dispassionate determination had once again enveloped Chanakya and he quickly changed the subject, almost as though the demise of a parent was just one among several equally relevant topics for discussion.
‘Is prime minister Shaktar alive? How is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s still in prison. Dhanananda destroyed his family. Rakshas and I regularly bribe Girika to keep him alive. You know that it’s impossible to leave Nanda’s Hell— the prison complex and torture dungeons managed by that monster Girika—alive and well. I’m told by my informants that Shaktarji’s life is a living hell and that he dies a thousand deaths each day!’
‘So Shaktarji’s daughter—Suvasini—is also dead?’ asked Chanakya, hesitatingly.
‘I know that you always had a soft corner for her, Chanakya. But what can I say? Her life is worse than death. She survived due to the benefaction of that adulterer Rakshas, but ended up his mistress.’
‘My dear beloved Suvasini, a harlot? My mother dead! The prime minister in a hellish dungeon! Where is justice in Magadha?’
‘The only recompense is that the persecution of Brahmins has ceased. Ever since Rakshas took over as prime minister, he has succeeded in keeping Dhanananda immersed in wine and women. The result has been royal lethargy in the anti-Brahmin policy. Rakshas, being a Brahmin himself, has even convinced Dhanananda to establish an endowment that provides grants to learned Brahmins. Who could have thought that a Shudra would ever do anything to even remotely favour Brahmins?’
‘So Dhanananda and Rakshas have succeeded in buying the silent acquiescence of the Brahmins through endowments, have they? Mother earth is weeping at the betrayal right now—Brahmins were supposed to be her guardians, the protectors of righteousness, devoutness, godliness, honesty, fairness, truth, virtue, dignity and integrity. Instead we have become common whores, available to the highest bidder for the night!’
‘Sshh… Chanakya… not so loud, my son… even walls have ears. Yes, you’re right, we’re no better than concubines. I also stand guilty before you. It’s just that I saw what happened to your father—the illustrious Chanak—when he tried to speak up for what was right. I’m still witnessing the horrors that our erstwhile prime minister Shaktar has to endure for having sought to put the monarch on an appropriate course. There’s no point brandishing a bow if your quiver holds no
It was only after they had risen and retired to the courtyard that Chanakya spoke. ‘I have come to Pataliputra to take back my mother, Katyayanji. How is she?’ he enquired. The silence that followed was protracted and deafening. Finally, Katyayan spoke. ‘Vishnu… Chanakya… how do I tell you this? After your father’s brutal execution and your departure for Takshila, I did everything to keep her in good stead. At my insistence, she was sent to Kusumpur, your family’s ancestral home near Pataliputra. I reasoned that she would be better off away from Pataliputra—a place that she associated with the murder of her husband and the disappearance of her son. I would send her money and provisions regularly and would visit her whenever possible but, my dear Chanakya, she was pining for you and mourning the death of her beloved husband. She stopped eating, and withered away. She passed away around six or seven years ago. Forgive me, Chanakya. I have now been the bearer of bad news twice in your life.’
The blank and distant look that Katyayan had witnessed in Chanakya’s eyes when he was told about the slaying of his father seemed to have returned. The old man held Chanakya’s hand and tried his best to coax a reaction but failed. The armour of dispassionate determination had once again enveloped Chanakya and he quickly changed the subject, almost as though the demise of a parent was just one among several equally relevant topics for discussion.
‘Is prime minister Shaktar alive? How is he?’ he asked.
‘He’s still in prison. Dhanananda destroyed his family. Rakshas and I regularly bribe Girika to keep him alive. You know that it’s impossible to leave Nanda’s Hell— the prison complex and torture dungeons managed by that monster Girika—alive and well. I’m told by my informants that Shaktarji’s life is a living hell and that he dies a thousand deaths each day!’
‘So Shaktarji’s daughter—Suvasini—is also dead?’ asked Chanakya, hesitatingly.
‘I know that you always had a soft corner for her, Chanakya. But what can I say? Her life is worse than death. She survived due to the benefaction of that adulterer Rakshas, but ended up his mistress.’
‘My dear beloved Suvasini, a harlot? My mother dead! The prime minister in a hellish dungeon! Where is justice in Magadha?’
‘The only recompense is that the persecution of Brahmins has ceased. Ever since Rakshas took over as prime minister, he has succeeded in keeping Dhanananda immersed in wine and women. The result has been royal lethargy in the anti-Brahmin policy. Rakshas, being a Brahmin himself, has even convinced Dhanananda to establish an endowment that provides grants to learned Brahmins. Who could have thought that a Shudra would ever do anything to even remotely favour Brahmins?’
‘So Dhanananda and Rakshas have succeeded in buying the silent acquiescence of the Brahmins through endowments, have they? Mother earth is weeping at the betrayal right now—Brahmins were supposed to be her guardians, the protectors of righteousness, devoutness, godliness, honesty, fairness, truth, virtue, dignity and integrity. Instead we have become common whores, available to the highest bidder for the night!’
‘Sshh… Chanakya… not so loud, my son… even walls have ears. Yes, you’re right, we’re no better than concubines. I also stand guilty before you. It’s just that I saw what happened to your father—the illustrious Chanak—when he tried to speak up for what was right. I’m still witnessing the horrors that our erstwhile prime minister Shaktar has to endure for having sought to put the monarch on an appropriate course. There’s no point brandishing a bow if your quiver holds no
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