1.2 Of picking one’s battles

[date:-338|magadha,x]

On the Eastern bank of the Sindhu river, past impenetrable walls of stone lay a densely-populated city of over 2000 acres laid out across four caste-segregated quadrants separated by roads. Further paved roads of great breadth ran across the city in a grid-like fashion, dividing it into sixteen equal units, each serviced by numerous smaller roads of a more chaotic character.

Manufactories, guild housing and innumerable markets lined the busiest streets: the city was itself a center for carpentry and engineering, and goods sourced and manufactured elsewhere – metals, both precious and practical, processed; tools and devices made from them; textiles and various fabrics; clothing and blankets made of them; papers made of cotton, palm-leaf and birch-bark; perfumes and soaps; pottery and other artisan crafts; ivory and various woods and stones; spices, herbs and farm produce; animals and the equipment that pertained to them – made their way to the city’s markets through various trade routes where they would be sold for coins, cattle and cowry shells.

Multistorey housing was not as widespread here as it was in the Eastern cities, except among some prosperous households to whom these were a decorative luxury rather than a necessity arising from scarcity of land. Brick and stone were used more than wood here compared to the East, and while the majority of land use was residential, several facilities could be found in these residential areas. A small number of hospitals were present on the roads that divided the quadrants, and each quadrant housed its own unique facilities: the Kṣatriya quadrant was dotted by stadiums and arenas that were used for various sporting and ceremonial events; the Vaiṣya and Śūdra quadrants housed theatres and such facilities; and numerous ritual altars, stepwell reservoirs and gurukulas decorated the Brāhmaṇa quadrant.

This was not what made the glorious city of Takṣaśilā: this was what most prosperous cities of Vedic civilization looked like.

Near the city centre and bearing the banner of the Solar Emblem, was the royal palace. Excluding government offices and the royal stables and arsenals, the palace itself was under 25 acres in size, despite its splendid and luxurious appearance. To its North at the very centre of the city were four large courtyards arranged in a two-by-two grid that totalled 50 acres in land area: these lands comprised the campus of the University of Takṣaśilā.

One of these courtyards was fully covered in thatched roof, and contained a vast collection of manuscripts, variable in their antiquity, from all over Āryāvarta – the remaining courtyards were variously used for seated instruction, debate, sports and arts. The undecorated yet spacious thatched houses that filled the edges between the courtyards housed the Professors and the students that lodged with them; at the very central intersection of the campus was a memorial shrine to the venerated Sage Uddālaka who, four centuries prior, had migrated to the region from Ayodhya and established the university, and to the first king Dīpaṃkara, who had accepted his teachings with reverence, thus founding the kingdom as it was known.

This was the glorious city of Takṣaśilā.

But Gandhāra had many cities. From within the city you could not see much beyond its tall stone walls and some mountains in the distance. But if you were to exit the rectangular city by one of its eight doors – or by one of its many secret tunnels in case of emergencies – and cross the danger-filled waters of its moat by boat or by a lowered bridge, then cross the Sindhu river to its Western shore, then you would find yourself at Takṣaśilā’s twin city Puṣkalāvatī.

The seat of Persian power in Gandhāra.

That was a dirty little fact, which was secret to no one, yet one which nobody articulated too verbally, a stain on the very sovereignty of the Kingdom of Gandhāra.

Gandhāra was not an independent kingdom.

It had not been an independent kingdom since the Persian conquest of the Western Punjab under Darayavaush I. While the parts of Punjab to the East of Gandhāra were engaged in constant rebellion and uprisings against Persia, Gandhāra had negotiated an arrangement with the Persians that allowed them to best protect the kingdom’s policy of peace and neutrality that was necessary for the university to function.

Gandhāra was taxed at a lower rate than the regions to its East (but received no spending in return either), and was permitted to maintain its own laws and court rituals, and to independently enforce its own justice system without intervention from the Persian emperor. In return, the university was forced to admit a large number of Persians of noble birth as its students, and to maintain a department dedicated to those arts that Persian nobles were expected to learn. The kingdom was also required to supply the required numbers of elite Ārya infantry, cavalry and elephantry corps to the Persian army; and the university had at several points been asked to provide instruction to the imperial government to facilitate the adoption of Ārya military technologies.

This had been the state of affairs for the last one hundred and eighty years.

“Yājñapati,” Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga addressed his student, “What makes a man civilized, and what distinguishes a civilized man from a barbarian?”

“It is his precision of speech and pronunciation that makes a man civilized,” said Yājñapati. “Speaking only barbarous tongues, or incorrectly speaking the Civilized Tongue makes a man a barbarian.”

“But under those terms,” Cāṇakya interjected, “Most women and people of śūdra birth would be classified as barbarians, as would all unlearned people of any caste. Yet few would say it is acceptable to enslave them, or that it is unacceptable for a man to marry any woman.”

“Correct,” said Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga. “The terms civilized and barbarian cannot used to designate individuals, only tribes. And language is emphasized only insofar as it is necessary to perform rituals that require hymns, and it is the performance of these rituals that are more immediately relevant to the designation of a tribe as civilized.”

Cāṇakya argued further: “But there are schools of philosophy that reject the central position of ritual in religion, as well as schools that reject religion altogether. If a king were to be influenced by such a philosophy, and as a consequence cease the performance of such rituals in his court, and successfully dissuade the people of his kingdom from officiating and undertaking such rituals, will his kingdom then become barbarian? And if a Scythian chief were to start performing the correct rituals, would he then be regarded as civilized and respectable on that basis alone?”

“Certainly not. The correct performance of ritual requires an understanding of the ritual, which the Scythian would not possess regardless of his imitation of a civilized man. Without this understanding, a ritual becomes devoid of fruit.”

Then Cāṇakya opined: “I believe, Professor, that it is the adoption of correct policies in government, not correct speech in ritual, that bears fruit to a kingdom. And thus my answer to your original question: it is the imposition of correct government policies that makes a people civilized, and the imposition of incorrect policies that makes a people barbarian. When particularly harmful policies are imposed, a tribe may cease to be urban, or even become nomadic, as is observed among the Scythians. When a tribe lives under the rule of barbarians, then its own support for correct policies and the effort it makes to implement the same, are what makes it civilized.”

Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga smiled, intending to cease that conversation, and then joined it back to his own teachings on the question, which were in contrast to both Cāṇakya’s and Yājñapati’s.

“Indeed it is a combination of several traditions that makes a tribe civilized,” he taught, “Good laws are among them, as Cāṇakya rightly says, but so are ritual and its language, so is courtly and respectful behaviour. That is what makes the Persians civilized, even though they perform incorrect rituals in their court.”

This did not end the debate at all in Cāṇakya’s mind; indeed he objected to every word of that statement. For starters: “The Persians are most certainly not civilized.”

Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga gave him a stern look. “The Persians exhibit many noble qualities, and these qualities must not be neglected. Even though their court rituals are technically incorrect, they are still not as incorrect as those practised by some other tribes.”

“Nonetheless their people live in poverty as a result of their bad policies. Their few territories in Āryāvarta are by far the most prosperous parts of their empire. Gandhāra is the most prosperous country in their empire and the Eastern Punjab, which we regard as a relative backwater of our own civilization, contributes a third of all revenue collected by the Persian government. Such is the starkness in the difference between our prosperity and theirs, that while all their other provinces pay their tributes in silver, only we pay ours in gold.”

Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, wishing that Cāṇakya not press further on this matter, said simply that: “Being a prosperous people, it is righteous for us to be charitable towards the Persians.”

“Theft is not the converse of charity — we are being punished for our wealth! Do you not see, professor? A country is not simply born with its wealth, it is policy that makes a country wealthy. It is not race that make a tribe civilized or barbarian, it is not our blood that makes us wealthier than the Persians – we are born with the same organs and all faculties as they do. Yet the policies and culture of our nations allow us to achieve greater goals than their people are allowed to by those of their nation; and when a barbarian tribe imposes its policies on a civilized one, the wealth that the latter would have created in that time frame is lost forever, it is destroyed!”

Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga found his student’s manner of arguing rather odd – not so much that he kept pressing on this matter; indeed, Ṛṣyaśṛṅga had been unable to articulate his desire to not discuss this subject, too embarrassed to say that there were subjects too taboo to be spoken of publicly in a university like Takṣaśilā – but he felt genuine discomfort in Cāṇakya’s desire to repeatedly circle the argument back to the matter of wealth and wealth alone.

“Is wealth all that matters to you, Cāṇakya? What about charity? The service of the aged? The keeping to duties and oaths?”

“Wealth is all that matters, Professor,” said Cāṇakya. “The keeping of oaths is desirable precisely to instill trust among creditors, and charity, service of the aged – these are only achievable through wealth. Indeed, the very cause for charity is the desirable goal that is the elimination of poverty, that is, the lack of wealth.”

Word of Cāṇakya’s debate with Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga, and his foul words for the Achaemenid dynasty soon caught the attention of Vištāspa, a student from a prominent Persian noble family which enjoyed a position quite close to the Imperial throne.

Vištāspa knew better than to complain to his parents about such events at the university. They would hardly find a single student’s offensive words to be worth fighting a political battle over – no, that would not be worth their status. That was the nature of battle as he understood it – a warrior of high status did not prove his worth by fighting many battles, or by killing many enemy soldiers in battle; he proved his worth by picking crucial battles, and by killing enemy targets of importance.

A warrior of high status expected his loyal subordinates to fight minor battles for him, and in this case, he was the loyal subordinate to his parents.

The nine-year-old Cāṇakya was found in the Library of Takṣaśilā, his eyes scouring over a manuscript on battlefield formations, and in his hands another manuscript on siege warfare.

Surrounded by two minions, Vištāspa approached him.

“Cāṇakya!” he cried, attempting to modulate his voice to a cold tone and register to elicit the desired feeling of fear from the younger boy. “I wish to speak with you. Would this be an appropriate time?”

Without looking up from his book, Cāṇakya asked: “How much of my time do you wish for?”

Vištāspa ignored him. “My name is Vištāspa. I heard of what you said about the Persians, and wish to converse with you on this matter.”

“I am glad that you have an interest in improving your government’s policy,” said Cāṇakya, looking cheery. “And I am willing to provide you any instruction you desire in the relevant sciences.”

“You should know that the Persian empire does not tolerate such blasphemy against the throne.” Vištāspa’s words were silky. “Say what you wish to say about the king of Gandhāra, that is up to your provincial ruler to handle. But you are a Persian subject, and must behave as such towards the emperor.”

“Indeed, that is among the laws that causes me to regard you as barbarians.” Cāṇakya stood up, folding his hands sarcastically as he prepared to leave.

Whether it was those words, or the attitude with which Cāṇakya mocked the prince of Persia, this seemed to greatly incense Ariyāramna, one of the aforementioned minions, for he then angrily shoved Cāṇakya towards the ground.

Cāṇakya pulled himself back up. “Lay another finger on me,” he warned most icily, “And I will break it off.”

Ariyāramna did so.

Cāṇakya did so.

Cāṇakya found it frustrating that despite the eloquence in his manner of speaking on academic subjects and in debate, he still had no idea how to behave when being disciplined by a teacher. Vištāspa, Ariyāramna and himself had been summoned to the Head Professor’s workspace, where Professor Caṇin had also been invited. Currently, the Head Professor was saying something about discipline and violence.

At last, Cāṇakya found his voice.

“Professor. I believe the issue of my being assaulted over the thoughts I expressed is of far greater significance than that of me employing violence in defence of myself.”

“You will not continue to defend your actions,” said the Head Professor, “and indeed you will no longer express any ill thoughts you may have about the Persian government, its people or its traditions. It is forbidden.”

“You cannot forbid—”

“The punishment will be expulsion.”

Cāṇakya looked helplessly towards Professor Caṇin, but the latter’s face betrayed no sympathy either.

“And Vištāspa,” said the Head Professor, “There is little that I can reprimand Ariyāramna over, as he is here in your service, and so you must decide the manner in which you discipline him. You must learn to control your friends, and to restrain them when they act in a way that is beneath their dignity.”

“Forgive him, Professor,” said Vištāspa, “He is simply loyal to the Empire and to its throne, as I am, and sometimes this feeling of loyalty overrides his better senses.”

The Head Professor continued: “And while princes at your age enjoy the euphoria of fighting, especially if they can justify it with a cause like loyalty or honor – I assure you that this is precisely the sort of matter that your father would not wish to hear of, or to see escalated to the level of politics.”

“I understand, Professor,” Vištāspa agreed, “And Cāṇakya, I regret the pain and humiliation that my dear friend caused you by treating you in such manner in a public place. I do, however, wish that you had responded in a more appropriate manner to his slight aggression.”

Both professors were staring at him expectantly, so Cāṇakya said through gritted teeth: “I ask for your forgiveness.”

Vištāspa made a concillatory gesture. “You will see, Cāṇakya, that the Persians are a very big-hearted people.”

Cāṇakya resisted the urge to ask: Do you wish me to garland him as my wife as well? Or perhaps I ought to touch lips with him out of respect for that Persian custom?

“You may leave now, Vištāspa,” said the Head Professor. “Cāṇakya, stay.”

“What was that, Professor?” Cāṇakya asked with indignance, then looked at Professor Caṇin. “And you too? That vulture-feed dared to attack me, and you discipline me for raising my hand in self-defence?”

“We live under the mercy of the Persians, Cāṇakya,” said the Head Professor. “And as long as this is true, we must live under their rules as well, if we wish to live at all.”

“What use is a life of apology?” spat Cāṇakya, then stopped, realizing he didn’t quite mean those words.

The Head Professor took his leave, allowing Professor Caṇin to speak with his student.

“There are two matters that we must first settle before we address the matter of true importance,” Professor Caṇin announced, “First, here is the truth of the whole debacle of barbarians and the civilized. These terms have nothing to do with wealth, nor to do with the various features of a culture that Professor Ṛṣyaśṛṅga listed—”

Cāṇakya raised his finger in objection, but Caṇin continued.

“—Every known culture has a notion of civilized and barbarian, and classifies the cultures furthest from itself geographically, that is, outside some circle beyond its own boundary, as barbarian. This is motivated by nothing but the natural necessity of men to have an enemy, in order to allow themselves to believe there is something they must protect. It is possible – although also not permitted for you – for one to argue on the policies taken by the Persian government without referring to them as barbarians. Doing so only serves to satisfy this aforementioned emotional need. That is the truth of the matter, and all else is an attempt to base these arbitrary feelings in some rational cause that does not exist.”

Cāṇakya needed some time to process this fully.

Caṇin went on. “Indeed, if a Persian student came to you expressing his agreement with your more specific criticisms of the Persian empire, even as he continued to follow traditional Persian rituals, I believe you would then yourself refrain from referring to him as vulture-feed, and may even feel shame at your previous use of that term. These are words suited for a battlefield for a commander in need of raising his soldiers’ spirits by instilling anger at the enemy; they are not suitable at a university campus.”

Cāṇakya opened his mouth to speak, but Caṇin held out a hand. “I will not entertain any further debate on this matter, even privately. Not because it is too taboo to speak on, but because I believe that you do not truly have any sensible point of disagreement with my words, and will only argue in order to save face by seeking a concession from me on some matter of little importance. If after two days of peace you still have some objection to what I have expressed, you may then again privately meet with me for debate.

“Second: you asked why I disciplined you more harshly than I did Vištāspa and Ariyāramna. I will say this much: if a child is seen to be fighting with his playmate, his mother will discipline him regardless of who initiated the fight or who may be held guilty if the matter were taken to legal arbitrage, because she wishes to better her child, and holds no sway over the playmate that isn’t her own.”

“I never held any appreciation for that argument, even when it was made to me by my own mother,” said Cāṇakya, “But on that same line of reasoning, the mother also makes provisions to protect her child from the dangers his playmate may cause him in future, or to simply prevent them from interacting. Vištāspa and his minions are likely to continue to create nuisances in my way, and what you have done is deny me any means of defending myself or punishing him.”

This response made Professor Caṇin’s expression turn very grave, as if they were finally speaking of a matter of true importance.

“That brings me to the main topic I wish to discuss with you, Viṣṇugupta. What, precisely, would you have done if we had not forbidden you from speaking against the Persian government?”

Cāṇakya stared.

“To say that you would have fought, against Vištāspa or indeed against the Persian government itself, is insufficient. What would you have done about all the consequences of such actions? Here would have been the consequences of your actions if hot-headed, indignant boys like you had populated the ranks of this university and of the government of Gandhāra. First, Vištāspa, to save his honor among his peers at Takṣaśilā, would escalate the matter to his own father. His father would then demand an audience with the King of Gandhāra. Then the King of Gandhāra, if he were also similar in manner to you, would refuse to comply, at which Vištāspa’s father would submit an exaggerated and indignant report to the Emperor about the state of Persia-Gandhāra relations. Then the Emperor of Persia would summon the King of Gandhāra to his court, and subsequently when the king refuses to interfere in the matters of the university, order his replacement. If all the influential houses within Gandhāra’s government were also of your nature and outlook, they would refuse and proclaim their loyalty to the King of Gandhāra, at which the Persian Emperor would send his enormous army to the walls of Takṣaśilā. Loyal to their king and country, the armies of Gandhāra will defend the city against an army that hopelessly outnumbers them, fighting till their last breaths. Gandhāra will be denied the special treatment it has been receiving so far – to the contrary, the armies of Persia will reduce Takṣaśilā to flour, massacre our scholars, and burn every last manuscript in the library.”

Cāṇakya’s throat felt dry.

If there were a hymn in the Vedas whose purpose was to utterly humiliate the addressee, this would have been its source text.

It destroyed his pride to hear these words. To hear that his professor considered him so foolish and rash, and rightfully so. To hear that he would have in his irresponsibility, for what now seemed so petty a purpose, caused the destruction of what was perhaps the last great center for Vedic civilization. To hear how pathetically impotent the glorious kingdom of Gandhāra was at defending itself.

But most terribly of all, to have the fact reaffirmed that he wasn’t free to speak.

For any commoner, this desire quite probably seemed alien, for it was a feeling that could only be shared by a man who had ever had an original thought of his own, who had ever had something to say that was worth saying. Yet the fulfilment of this desire was an unstatably obvious goal among the Brāhmaṇas.

Cāṇakya had forever sought to pursue truth as the noblest goal, he had always held nothing to be more sacred than it, and had believed that to kill a thought was to point a sword to the neck of the Goddess Sarasvati herself. And now he was being asked to censor himself, to hold more sacred than the truth an emperor's scepter.

He would have expressed these thoughts in as many words, but Professor Caṇin seemed to read his mind.

“It is a tightrope to tread for a Brāhmaṇa with political ambitions,” he said, “For it is the truth and truth alone that a scholar must seek – and yet it is upon precisely these men to employ deception and strategy to achieve their political goals, for it is their intellect upon which all strategy rests. If you do pursue a career in politics, Viṣṇugupta, you will learn that you will not only need to omit the truth, but also to lie, to betray the truth in order to serve it.

“Āryāvarta lies divided between two empires of darkness: the Persians on the West and the Magadhas on the East, leaving in between only some militant confederacies of the Punjab and the ancient land of the Kurus that no longer retains its former glory. In Gandhāra we pretend, out of fear of consequences, that it is only the Magadhas are objectionable, that the Persians allow us to be free and to maintain our own rules. But as these events demonstrate, as my own prohibition on you demonstrates, Gandhāra is not free. The Vedic way of life, the culture of scholarship in which no sentence is unspeakable and no thought blasphemous, is dying out under the Persians in more ways than you too are aware.

“It is not merely change that is needed, but a revolution. You have the capacity to lead this revolution, Viṣṇugupta; yet there is much that you need to learn first. I will quote back to you a sentence that you spoke earlier this year in one of my classes, which impressed me greatly: a war whose outcome’s truth is known in advance to both sides should never be fought. Yet those are the sorts of wars that spirited princes spend their lives fighting: in pursuit of victories that serve only to be undone shortly after, victories that even when in effect changed nothing but the symbol of a flag on a fortress, victories that will never distinguish their name in history. These princes have spirit, but no ambition.

“You, on the other hand, Viṣṇugupta – I believe that you were born for greatness. If you seek to cause a true revolution, whose effects will be long-lasting, then you cannot act in the manner of such princes. You must learn to rise above ideals like honour and dignity, and to fight for an actual goal. You must learn to identify this goal and understand what it means to achieve this goal, to learn the difference between fighting and winning.”

And at last Professor Caṇin said those words that would one day come to define Cāṇakya’s life, that would for centuries forth become synonymous with his very name:

“You must learn the art of cunning.”

A month and a fortnight later, the Persian emperor visited Puṣkalāvatī on a diplomatic occasion.

Each Persian family in the city paid its respects to the emperor with various exotic and expensive gifts.

Ātarepāta too gracefully presented to the emperor his gift: a particularly rare breed of parrot, which, according to the merchant who had sold it, sourced from the Eastern sea trade. Such opportunities to ingratiate one’s family with the Emperor were rare, and Ātarepāta regarded himself as fortunate for the opportunity.

“My son himself taught it praises of you, Emperor,” his wife added helpfully with a smile, their son nodding in agreement. “When you want to hear your praises, Emperor, just say: Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām.”

Parrots were always a treasured bird in Persia, but this was a different parrot from any common one – its colours looked almost as if they had been painted on. Ātarepāta had no trouble at all in believing all the claims that the merchant had made of it. He was quite fortunate indeed, to have found such a unique gift for the Emperor at such an opportune time.

“Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām,” said the Emperor’s bard.

And then the parrot said:

“Darayavahauš is the most exalted of his dynasty!—like a one-eyed man among the blind! Like a pig among rats!”

“ … ”

“ … ”

(DEAD SILENCE)

“ … ”

Ātarepāta did not so much as dare to raise his eyes lest it meet the Emperor’s.

“That … that must be a mistake!” he blurted frantically. “We did not teach him that, Emperor, I swear it— and, see, there are many more praises: Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām!”

The parrot said:

“Every generation, the dynasty of Haxāmaniš halves in intellect and splendor! The Emperor is bad enough, but I would rather be ruled by a dead eunuch than by his idiot son!”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“NO— oh Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām, there has been a mistake, I swear it Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām! This must not be my parrot, Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām! Or perhaps all parrots of this breed are like this, I had bought it thinking it was special, but not in this way Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām!”

The parrot said:

“MAYBE WE SHOULD MAKE HIS IDIOT SON A DEAD EUNUCH!”

“THAT IS CORRECT. IF WE GROW CLOSE TO THE EMPEROR, THEN KILL ALL HIS SONS, MAYBE OUR SON VIŠTĀSPA CAN BE THE NEXT EMPEROR!”

“THE DYNASTY OF HAXĀMANIŠ WILL END. OUR SON WILL BE EMPEROR.”

“YES, I WILL BE!”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“ … ”

Ātarepāta watched in horror, as the Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām – the King of Kings – raised his finger, and pointed, not at him, but at his son.

NO, he tried to scream, but no words would come out.

“Make him a eunuch,” said the Emperor, his voice smooth as the fabrics that came out of Kaśmīra. “And then kill him. Kill every single member of this rotten family – one, by, one – in front of one another’s eyes.”

“Yes, Xšāyaθiya Xšāyaθiyānām,” said an attendant dutifully, then bit his tongue—

“KILLING THE EMPEROR’S SONS! KILLING THEM ONE-BY-ONE ONCE THE OLD MAN IS DEAD! I LOVE KILLING THE EMPEROR’S SONS!” (the parrot said)

“AND KILL THAT HELLBORN BIRD!”

(Somewhere in the crowd, among the delegation from Takṣaśila, Professor Caṇin looked exasperatedly at that Cāṇakya boy, who wore the most innocent of looks as he stared idly at the parrot flying in the air as the Persian archers tried, to no avail, to shoot it down.

“It’s such a tragedy,” Cāṇakya said to those whocould hear it. “Vištāspa was such a brave young prince. Upheld the honour of his race, willing to stand up even—to me! And now, his entire family is dead. Why do the best among us meet the most terrible fates?”)