The Boy From Pataliputra Page 2

  It was a no-holds-barred fight. Neither of them gave any quarter and neither would give up. Navinda was clearly the better fighter, and yet, Ajeet somehow held on through sheer force of will. The fight see-sawed throughout but as it dragged on, it was clear that Ajeet was tiring.

  In the end, Navinda finally pinned him down. It had been an excellent fight. Navinda was one of the richest merchants in all of Magadha, but he was also a famous kaantod pehelwaan and a champion of Pataliputra. And Ajeet, who was one of the senior officials in the King’s administration, had run him real close. There was a lot of back-slapping and applause as they walked out of the pit. The two wrestlers, who just a while back, would not have shied away from causing real pain to each other, now showed great camaraderie.

  “I almost got you today old man,” panted Ajeet.

  “Old man yourself, you ass! Do you realize I could have broken your back in there?”

  “I know, Arya, I know; but somehow when I am in the middle, I just can’t give up . . .”

  They sat down on the low stone platform next to the mud pit, while one of the younger pupils brought them milk mixed with almond paste and spices—the favourite concoction of all Indian wrestlers.

  “A man’s got to know when to give up, Ajeet. You know it’s not easy to keep calm during these fights. You get me worked up like that next time and I swear, I might just lose control and break your back.”

  “What? Break my back? Is this how a follower of the Buddha talks?”

  Navinda smiled. “So now a follower of the Sangha is not allowed to wrestle, is it?”

  “Of course not! You should be meditating!”

  “This is meditation, Arya. Even the lord Buddha was fond of it—did you know that Tathagata was a very good wrestler when he was younger?”

  “Really?”

  “Haha, yes he was. But that shouldn’t matter. Me being a Buddhist or you being a hot-shot officer, none of that should matter. This is an akhara, and the moment you step in here, you are my brother. And malla yuddha is our only religion.”

  “Hmm . . . are you saying that there is no god but ‘God’ and that is our Acharya Vishwa?”

  “Hahaha, exactly! And what a loving god he is, isn’t he? Eh?”

  Acharya was famous for using his birch cane liberally. He claimed it helped maintain motivation during the endless rounds of exercises. Generations of men in Pataliputra had been at the receiving end of that cane. Yet they all loved him. Indeed, they almost worshipped him for his dedication to wrestling. He was over seventy years old, and still in the akhara, shouting away and waving his hands, supervising the next group of fighters.

  Ajeet looked at Acharya and smiled. He thought of how he loved malla yuddha—this art that combined brutality and finesse. There was something so pure about it, something very different from the corrupt and deceptive world outside the akhara. He enjoyed the stark, elemental nature of a one-on-one struggle, the purely physical aspect of it that stripped away layers of civilization and appealed to the most authentic part of him. As he looked around, he realized it wasn’t just that. He loved this place—the smell of mud and sweat, the familiar sounds of men grunting and pushing, bodies struggling against each other, the easy camaraderie and friendship, the encouragement that the men gave each other—he loved it al“Where’s Aditya? Bunking again?” Navinda interrupted his thoughts.

  Ajeet frowned as he looked around. Aditya, his younger brother hated to wake up in the mornings and would often find an excuse to get away from the rigorous exercise that Ajeet was so fond of.

  “Hunhh . . .”

  “How’d he get away?”

  Ajeet shook his head, “I don’t know—just couldn’t find him in the morning. I think he sneaked away last night itself . . .”

  Navinda broke into a grin.

  “It’s not funny, Arya. I’m really worried about him. Laziness is one thing but lying and cheating? He promised me he would come today and look, he’s disappeared—no concern about the world or about his future; I don’t know what to do with him. All he wants to do is hunt all day and then hang around with chandals.”

  “Let him be, Ajeet. He’s still a kid, let him enjoy himself.”

  “He’s not a kid. He’s sixteen now, brother. At that age, I was already working, and . . .”

  Navinda never heard the rest of it; for they were interrupted by a huge commotion. A horse had galloped up to the stone gateway of the akhara and was now rearing, neighing wildly. A young boy was sitting astride it, trying to calm it down.

  “Bhaiyya, save me! This horse has gone mad.”

  It was as if lightning had struck him. Ajeet shot up, his face lined with worry. A number of wrestlers dashed towards the gate.

  At this point, the horse went completely mad. It pawed the earth with its forelegs, kicked the air with its hind legs and started going round and round, churning up dust—a huge ball of kicking legs, flashing mane, and swinging tail. It was a massive beast and no one could get close enough to catch hold of the bridle. Aditya had almost slipped off the saddle, and was somehow hanging on.

  Ajeet was about to rush out when Navinda laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “He’s playing the fool,” Navinda said with a restraining arm, “wait, it’s his own horse. Watch what happens.”

  Just then the horse calmed down a little. Aditya was barely hanging on from its neck.

  “Bhaiyya, I tried to come here in the morning but Ashvaghosha suddenly went mad.”

  “Get him down!” shouted someone.

  As soon as they tried to restrain the horse, it went into a flurry again. Kicking and jumping, it broke into a gallop with Aditya barely hanging on. The horse and its hapless rider went straight down the mud path by the side of the river, and disappeared behind the clump of bamboo trees at the far end.

  Two of the wrestlers were already next to their horses, which were tied up against the fence.

  “Stop, Birju! There is no need. Come back. The boy is playing us for fools. He is making the horse dance—it is not the other way around. Let him be!” Navinda shouted.

  Acharya too, was smiling.

  “Navinda is right,” his voice boomed across the akhara. He looked over at Ajeet, “That boy needs to be disciplined.”

  Ajeet realized he had been fooled once again. He hung his head in shame.

  “Let him come home today. I swear to the gods I’ll give him a thrashing he’ll never forget.”

  Meanwhile, the subject of their conversation had already turned the bend and disappeared from view. The horse was still galloping wildly but as soon as they passed the bamboo thicket, the rider smoothly swung himself back on. A casual observer, were he to catch this fluid movement, would have been highly surprised: for it suggested a level of agility and strength that belied the rider’s lean, thin frame.

  The boy wasn’t much to look at. Deeply tanned, wearing a plainlooking dhoti, he had the typical bony body of a teenager and the faintest hint of fluff on his upper lip. Thick, shiny, shoulder length hair fell over his face, for he wasn’t wearing a turban. But this rather ordinary exterior was animated by a striking energy and joie de vivre that seemed to radiate from every aspect of his being.

  He was standing up in the stirrups and leaning forward as he shouted encouragements into Ashvaghosha’s ears. Going at breakneck speed they turned a corner and almost ran over a pedestrian coming from the opposite direction. Aditya pulled back hard on the reins, and the horse reared and turned at the very last moment to avoid a collision. The man, a farmer who had been carrying his produce to the market had jumped into the ditch by the side of the road and now lay flat on his back with assorted fruits scattered all around him.

  The farmer now looked up, disgusted, at this chit of a boy, who instead of helping him, had started laughing. He was about to let fly a stream of choicest curses, when he saw the golden pommel of the khadga tied at the boy’s waist and restrained himself. In Maharaja Dhanananda’s kingdom, commoners like him could hardly expect just
ice, so he quietly got up and started collecting his goods. The boy laughed again, and then spurring his horse, rode away into the distance.

  ***

  It was almost the second prahar of the night by the time Aditya got back home. Instead of going in through the main entrance, he turned into the narrow, pitch-dark lane behind their house. Everything around him was black, but the night was alive with the chirping of crickets and the croaking of toads. An owl hooted at regular intervals.

  Aditya and Ashvaghosha walked along in absolute silence, and then turned in through one of the small gates to their left. Like most houses in Pataliputra, their house too, was made of wood and had a stable at the back. They made their way to a water trough outside the stables, where they stood together in silence as the horse drank long and deep. Aditya whispered into his ears, rubbed and patted his back. Finally, he said goodbye to Ashvaghosha and stepped into the shed to wake up a stableboy. Handing the horse over, he started walking across towards the front porch.

  He could see that the lamps were lit and the main door was open. The chik curtain hanging across the doorway glowed with a faint orange light. Aditya walked up to it and lifting it ever so slightly, peered in. His brother was sitting cross-legged at a writing desk. A big lamp shaped like a gandharva holding a copper brazier overhead, stood next to the table and threw a flickering light across his face. Aditya studied this for a moment and then deciding that all was well, he lifted the chik curtain higher, and stepped inside.

  Ajeet looked up. “Finally, Your Majesty has arrived! Where were you? Hunting with chandals?” Turning his head, he shouted out, “dasi!”

  A servant emerged from inside with a metal pot full of water and a thin cotton towel. Aditya went outside with her, to wash his hands and feet.

  When he cameback in, there was a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then the storm clouds burst.

  “You have become so big and yet you don’t have an iota of sense! Do you think this is life? Bunking classes, hanging out with robbers and chandals, and spending your time in the jungle? Have you ever thought about what you will do in life?”

  Aditya stood still, his head bowed. He had assumed the most pitiful expression he could muster. Innocence and repentance dripped from every pore of his countenance.

  “Oh please, now don’t act all sorry, or really, I’ll thrash you. By the gods, this acting! Why don’t you join a jatra party? Now, that’s one thing you can do.”

  Yet, the mock distress on Aditya’s face, made a small smile buildup on Ajeet’s. He shook his head in annoyance and controlled himself.

  “Now you’ll want some dinner, I suppose? Have you eaten?”

  Still staring at the ground, Aditya shook his head.

  “Come to the kitchen . . . idiot!” he added gruffly.

  Ajeet led the way with two mashaals and then put them into the sockets in the wall. He brought out a stone bowl filled with puffed rice and yoghurt, and placed it on the ground. Next to it, he placed a pitcher of milk and started peeling a banana. Aditya took his place on the aasan.

  “Is that enough? There is ksheer as well, made with jaggery.”

  “Yes,” Aditya said as he mashed everything together.

  Ajeet sat down opposite. He made a huge shadow on the kitchen wall.

  “Did you catch anything?”

  Aditya shook his head. His brother sat looking at him and then filled his kullad with milk from the pitcher.

  “What happened? What’s bothering you?”

  “Bhaiyya, Yuyutsu will be going away to Rajagriha along with his father.”

  “Yuyutsu?” Ajeet tried to place the name. “That chandal’s son?”

  Aditya nodded.

  “Don’t you have anybody other than these chandals to spend your time with?”

  “But Bhaiyya, he is the best hunter I have ever seen; he’s taught me everything I know . . .”

  “How nice! He’s taught you everything—so now you too can become a snake charmer and a bird catcher.”

  “No Bhaiyya—I mean things like bird calls, animal calls, tracking prey, and the marks of different animals, making traps, cures for snake bites, even magic!”

  “Magic, huh? You are falling into bad habits Aditya. Do you really want to become a hunter or an elephant tamer? Is that your ambition in life?”

  Aditya kept quiet. Outside, there was the sound of wagon bells. Someone was returning late from the madhushala.

  “It’s not easy to make one’s living Aditya. Life is tough and one has to put up with a lot of nonsense, swallow humiliation, and stress, from time to time, and work very, very hard. You need to understand this.”

  Aditya kept quiet.

  “Okay fine, I won’t lecture you today. Anyway, there’s good news that I have to give you.”

  “What?”

  Ajeet smiled, “My marriage to Atreyi has been fixed.”

  “What-what-what-what?” There was a big smile on Aditya’s face, “You didn’t tell me . . .” The Aditya of a few moments ago had disappeared, and was replaced with a young boy who looked both shocked and delighted.

  “You—” Aditya threw open his arms and launched himself at Ajeet with such force that his brother toppled over. They ended up on the floor laughing like kids as the older brother affectionately ruffled the younger one’s hair.

  Later as he lay on his bed, Aditya thought about how their lives would change, once his brother got married. It was the most exciting day of his life, and yet, he could not stop thinking about Yuyutsu. He thought about what his brother had told him once—that if he spent time with a chandal, he would spend an infinite number of years in hell, and his time in heaven would be reduced.

  As he drifted off to sleep, he decided that he would much rather go to hell and spend his days hunting with Yuyutsu, rather than heaven, where they might make him have a bath every day, force him to learn ganit, or wake him up early to go running.

  l. This was his favourite part of the day.

  The Incident

  A couple of days later, Ajeet found himself inspecting a newly-constructed boundary wall in the village of Pipaliya, about three kos from Pataliputra. He was on horseback and so was his colleague Vijayendra, who was sniggering uncontrollably, his ponderous belly shaking with every laugh. Comfortably plump, Vijayendra had a conspiratorial look on his face, a balding patch on top and canines that stuck out prominently as he laughed. He was updating Ajeet on the latest item of gossip, but would dissolve into giggles after every sentence.

  They were waiting for their superior Indukalpa, who was the kotwal or head of police, the man charged with maintaining law and order in Pataliputra.

  “Bugger will come thundering in by the second prahar,” as Vijayendra always put it.

  On this occasion however, Vijayendra was wrong, for Indukalpa arrived pretty quickly, accompanied by the gahapati or landlord Arunaswa and twenty-odd soldiers led by their captain Malyavan.

  “Here he comes, the prize pompous ass!” muttered Vijayendra through gritted teeth as he wheeled his horse around to meet the party. His entire manner changed abruptly, the moment he turned.

  “Good morning, prabhuji!” Vijayendra grinned obsequiously, his arms folded in a namaste and his aforesaid teeth sticking out from under his lips. Ajeet too, joined them.

  “Did you check it out?” asked Indukalpa.

  “Yes, it’s the same place Shreeman,” said Ajeet.

  “Of course it is, Your Honour, you’ve seen the tamprapatra yourself. All of this land was granted to my family by the Emperor Mahapadma Nanda, Your Honour. We were just leaving it fallow for a year and now see what’s happened,” said the gahapati.

  “Looks like a lot of work has already been done here . . .” remarked the kotwal. He was starting to get a little irritated.

  “They’ve almost completed the boundary wall Shreeman, and dug a ditch for the foundation. I just talked to the monks over there,” said Ajeet, pointing to a row of temporary shacks that had been erected some distance fr
om them. A number of bhikkhus could be seen sitting around, clutching palm leaf fans in their hands. They were overseeing the work.

  “They say it’s for a vihara,” he added.

  They waited for the kotwal to say something. He was a well-built man with a thick bull neck, a scanty, though well-trimmed beard, and had white overgrown patches of leucoderma around his eyes. There was a hint of a sneer on his face as he turned and fixed his gaze on the gahapati.

  “So . . . so, gahapati. What prevented you from coming to us earlier? Work has been going on here for at least two weeks.”

  “Hahaha . . . prabhu, you are great!” Vijayendra gestured and winked at Ajeet. “The man’s land is occupied, he’s in trouble and you also give him the stick. Prabhuji, truly thou art the giver and thou art the punisher,” he said, quoting a famous Sanskrit shloka, his hands folded in salutation.

  “Your Honour, I was away in Nalanda with my family, but I rushed back as soon as I got the message.”

  “You should have come earlier—seriously, I mean, I don’t know what you people expect from me.” Indukalpa’s voice was rising but he controlled himself, “Anyway, now that I am here, I will fix everything.”

  He turned to Ajeet.

  “All this construction is illegal. Get the labourers to break it down and drive these squatters off,” he said gesturing towards the monks.

  “But Shreeman . . .”

  “But what? I have spoken—I don’t want to see a single brick here—by tomorrow.”

  “Shreeman!”

  Indukalpa looked at him.

  “Shreeman, this is a religious building. Perhaps we should talk to the monks first so that—”

  “So? I mean I don’t understand—how many times do I have to tell you people? I don’t have time to spend on such trivial matters. Just . . .”

  “Arre, if prabhuji says done, then done. You don’t worry, prabhu, we’ll manage it,” said Vijayendra.

  At that moment, they saw that the entire group of saffron-clad monks, almost twenty in number was coming towards them. Whether they thought it necessary or not, a discussion seemed inevitable.