0.2 PROLOGUE Pratiṣṭhāna Kāṇḍa

[date:-340|magadha,x]

And thus a hundred and fifty year long war came to an end.

In those hundred and fifty years, the metropolis of Mathura had been surrounded several times, but each of the successive Vṛṣṇi heroes – Saṃkarṣaṇa, Vāsudeva, Pradyumna and Aniruddha – had through their wit and cunning extracted the republic out of the most untenable situations, through deceit, bribery, strategic military maneuvers and by simply being annoyingly difficult.

Seven times total, since Saṃkarṣaṇa and Vāsudeva’s historic victory over Ajātaśatru, had Mathura nearly fallen. Each one of those times, Mathura had been saved by a miraculous twist of events, forcing the Magadhi Army to retreat from the cities of the Śūrasenas. So much so that a religion had formed in worship of the Vṛṣṇi heroes – not only among the people of Mathura, but all across Āryāvarta, a symbol of resistance to Magadhi imperialism.

The true Lords of the Vṛṣṇis.

To men, what Viṣṇu was to the gods.

The Heirs of Saṃkarṣaṇa.

So when Samba, the current Heir of Saṃkarṣaṇa, had instructed the Śūrasena Senate to raise the flag of peace and surrender himself to the Magadhi army, few had raised questions. The Order of Saṃkarṣaṇa, Samba’s close circle of friends and advisors, was itself critical, but the Śūrasena Consul and the Senate obliged to his words.

“The word of the Heir is the word of the Veda,” they said.

When the Magadhi Imperial army had poured into the city streets, plundering and burning, raping and murdering in celebratory elation, the residents of Mathura cowered in their homes, in wait of a miracle.

“Do not, for a second, think I do not understand the game that you are playing. But I grow impatient, now, boy. And I have a saying, a little homage of sorts to my own background,” he gestured at the said boy’s shaved scalp, “A bald head is no use to a barber.”

When the Śūrasena Consul was marched back into the citadel and publicly beheaded amidst cheering from the invading savages, the people of Mathura simply watched in mute horror, awaiting the miracle.

The boy cringed inwardly at the silliness of his companion’s dramatically-phrased idioms.

“It is my pleasure that you understand the game I am playing, indeed, it is to our mutual benefit that we have no unnecessary pretenses between us, as much as we may both wish that benefit were not mutual.”

When the idols of Saṃkarṣaṇa and Vāsudeva were ripped from their sanctum in the city temple, the people of Mathura told each other it would be temporary, rather than an omen of their impending doom, that the Heir of Saṃkarṣaṇa would return to save them.

“In full honesty, boy, I am growing quite tired of your game. I might just kill you.”

“The name of this game is called friendship, General. This game is played through the exchange of benefits, divided into many small gifts of token size spread across a long span of time – for paying the entire gift at once makes one’s own existence useless to his friend thereafter.”

Samba would save them.

Some miracle.

Some unprecedented display of Śūrasena cunning.

The corpses of the royal family of Mathura were paraded through the streets for people to spit on. Those who refused joined the corpses themselves.

"Hear my words, child, and hear them carefully. Your very right to breathe is a gift from me to you. None of your small, token gifts, are worth this liberty that I have offered you."

Any moment now.

“Not even the capture of Mathura, General?”

"..."

"..."

"..."

“All I ask, General, is that you ask your army to treat the people of Mathura with dignity—don’t give me that look, I’m not asking that you actually make an effort to control your army, I just want you to say these words. This will damage your credibility amongst your army thus perpetuate your dependence on me for your future power – you see, I just don’t want our friendship to end with my gruesome murder by your hands.

“As soon as I hear these words from you, I will instruct the people of Mathura to surrender. And then, General, you and I will march back to Magadha with their heads. As the men who realized the dream of Ajātaśatru. The men who defeated Vāsudeva. The men who defeated the Brāhmaṇas.”

A flag was raised in the citadel of a burning city.

A stencil cut, of an elephant crushing a peacock under its feet.

[date:-340|magadha,”but in the sleepy Southern city of Pratiṣṭhāna”,x]

Pulled by two galloping Kamboja mares, and bearing on its banner perhaps the most recognizable symbol in all the lands inhabited by Āryas, the solar insignia of a lost ancient empire – the golden-hued chariot rode into the city.

(“VIṢṆUGUPTA!” a child’s voice cried out— “SOMEONE TELL VIṢṆUGUPTA! SOMEONE HAS ARRIVED – FROM TAKṢAŚILĀ!”)

There was only one explanation—]

The king of Pratiṣṭhāna bowed to the visitors with folded hands, welcoming them with genuine warmth and respect – for the Kingdom of Gandhāra, small and remote, had no enemies, it had maintained peace through strength and neutrality, by forging diplomatic ties whenever an enemy could not be crushed. No ruler would attack the kingdom, for his sons probably studied there, and its honour was without blemish.

(Seven-year-old Viṣṇugupta turned his head towards the band of his playmates running towards him – even comprehending the implication, his expression remained blank.)

“… there is a parallel,” the king was saying with reverence, “Between the history of your country and mine – just as the sage Agastya travelled Southward to establish great cities such as this one, the sage Uddālaka travelled Westward to tame the wild realm that was once your country, setting the foundation for the University of Takṣaśilā, and the city that grew around it, transforming it from a nomadic land of uncultivated pastures into one of the brightest-shining stars of civilization—”

The bards sang the tale of Gandhāra’s history. A tale of social transformation through peaceful means – by hosting Brāhmaṇa and Ājīvaka scholars from across the world, and students not only Ārya but also of many Iranic tribes, who in turn shaped the politics of Gandhāra. Today, the soft empire of Ayodhya was no more, except in the ethos of the people of Gandhāra, who continued to hold their country to be an extension of it.

(Viṣṇugupta approached the shrine just as the formalities were ending—

—all these formalities were pointless—there had been only one applicant to the University of Takṣaśilā that year from Pratiṣṭhāna—)

“ … ”

“—Viṣṇugupta—acceptance to the university—

“—Professor Caṇin was greatly impressed—the clarity of thought—

“—your upanayanam will be overseen—the scholarship—”

A far younger, and more familiar voice: “—when you become a big shot, come back to make me the king of Aśmaka—”

“—or more realistically an ox-cart driver—” More young voices.

“—or a servant at a whorehouse—”

Viṣṇugupta delivered the news to his mother.

She smiled, more widely than she had in months now.

It was said that mere months after Viṣṇugupta’s birth, a Nāga ascetic had visited his family’s home in search of alms. With one look at the child’s face, the ascetic proclaimed to his father:

“Rejoice, young man! Your son has canine teeth, the mark of royalty! He will surely be king! And a very noble one at that, who will devote all his attention to his work as a statesman, sparing none for even those closest to him!”

Drunk, irrationally infuriated and brought to tears, the man broke his infant son’s teeth, permanently scarring the boy’s jaw.

Elakṣi, horrified at what she saw on her doorstep, rushed her husband and fled with the baby Viṣṇugupta Sage Paramācintya’s ashrama in a small village on the outskirts.

“Foolish man! Just as burning a flag does not uproot a kingdom, just as killing the witness does not undo a murder already committed, just as stealing the literal throne does not remove a king’s power, similarly, destroying the basis for my prophecy will not destroy the ambitions already present in your son! You do not wish for your son to be king? – very well! He will be the power behind the throne – behind EVERY throne!”

And today, in her time of sickness, Viṣṇugupta was abandoning that very mother.

“This relieves me so much, my son … that I can die knowing you have gotten what you want, that you are on your path to accomplish whatever it may be your heart will desire … ”

He did not lie to himself about the reality of the choice he was making. He did not avoid the harsh truth: by abandoning his mother, he was likely hastening her impending death. Clichés like “that’s what she would want” were excuses people told themselves to make themselves do things that were right but did not feel right – but Viṣṇugupta did not need such excuses.

The choice he was making was his, and it was his responsibility alone.

“Do not feel guilty at my plight, Viṣṇu. I am paying the price for my own deeds. You bore the price for my foolish decision to marry your father, and I shall bear the price that you must pay for your education and your future wealth.”

“If there were such a thing as divine retribution for one’s deeds, mother, then it is that very deed that I owe my entire existence to, as well.” As Viṣṇugupta was only seven years old, he did not quite fully understand the concept of counterfactual utility; consequently he also did not yet know that the entire notion of divine retribution was a falsehood.

“Perhaps I will be rewarded for it, then,” said his mother, smiling. “In my next life.”

Viṣṇugupta fought back tears.

“Boys do not waste their rage on tears,” his mother whispered gently, “Hold them in, and channel it to accomplish great things … ”

“ … ”

“ … ”

The boy walked towards his mother’s feet, and grabbed them tightly, touching them to his forehead.

Then, folding his hands before her one last time, he turned—

He didn’t know what the future held for him.

But he knew that his acceptance had opened to him a world of opportunities that had up to this point seemed a story from fantasy.

—and walked way.

Choosing his education over years of his mother’s life.

The choice, put in those terms—

—a constant reminder of just how much he had to accomplish – whatever that may be – to justify the cost he was paying now.

It was a fortnight and a half to Takṣaśilā.

History awaited Viṣṇugupta.