1.8 Mundia and modia

“I see – it appears that matters have deteriorated greatly from the time of Emperor Mahāpadma. I should have known better; you are young and inexperienced, Viṣṇugupta, but I should have made the effort to acquire more information before allowing you so freely to visit Pāṭaliputra.”

Cāṇakya felt somewhat offended. “I cannot blame you for it, Professor,” he said, “I must not consider myself entitled to rely on your wisdom for my protection much longer. If I wish to have an impact in politics, I must learn the art of cunning for myself.”

Professor Caṇin nodded with some amount of unspoken pride.

“I do have one thing to say, though,” Cāṇakya continued, “With no disrespect intended. I believe that your negligence, and mine, can be attributed at least in part to your lack of appreciation for the wisdom of the classification of tribes as civilized and barbarian.”

At Professor Caṇin’s questioning gesture, he explained: “There is a natural proclivity of man to assume that all others are like him. Thus to correct this bias, men need to be warned otherwise. That is the cause for the system of castes, and that is the cause for the classification of tribes as barbarians. Because while we may have wicked practices of our own, those practices are those that do not shock us, unlike the unknown evils that we lack the proclivity to correctly anticipate among a barbarian people.”

The quality that Cāṇakya was rather fond of in Professor Caṇin was his ever-willingness to hear honest criticism, as well as his readiness to change his mind upon hearing correct counter-arguments, even if he had previously stated his opinion in the firmest terms and not made this readiness apparent. It was very beneficial to have a friend of this nature, as you could truly value their considered opinions.

“There is wisdom to your words, Viṣṇugupta,” Professor Caṇin accepted at last. “A visit like yours could not possibly be imagined to have been dangerous in Gandhāra, not even to one’s wildest imagination. So even while I made precautions, I didn’t consider that Magadha could change so substantially from one king to the next. If I had, I could have prepared you better. In not doing so, I have failed in my duty as a teacher.”

They stayed silent for a while.

“On a more practical matter, Professor,” Cāṇakya said, “I have made two friends on my journey: Pabbata, the youngest prince of Magadha, and his informant Candragupta of Kosala. I would like to give them both an education befitting a kṣatriya.”

Professor Caṇin nodded slowly, to which Cāṇakya continued: “Would it be possible for you to accept them as your students, and allow me to teach them independently?”

“No, Viṣṇugupta,” he said, “Your war has begun, and you must fight it yourself.”

Cāṇakya straightened his back.

“I believe it is time for you to be afforded your own gurukula,” Professor Caṇin announced. “It is not traditional to graduate a student in four years instead of the traditional sixteen, but I believe that on account of your famed intellect and your achievements thus far, it should be possible to do so without significant opposition from any relevant parties.”

“I would be honoured, Professor,” said Cāṇakya, “But isn’t the ritual to graduate from studenthood marriage?”

The marriage of a child bride was forbidden in many ways and for many causes; and while Cāṇakya knew that he possessed sufficient intellect to completely ignore his “bride” and regard such a marriage as purely symbolic, that same sensibility could not be expected of the girl.

“Indeed. It would be neither possible nor legal for you to marry a girl of similar age to yourself, except perhaps with a Scythian or such barbarian girl, but there are even more moral objections to that. I believe there should not be much objection to a symbolic marriage of you to an animal or plant.”

Cāṇakya made a mental note that rituals were far less restrictive than they were often written to be, and to simply ask for what he wanted in future.

“I applaud your choice of allies to influence, Viṣṇugupta.” Caṇin’s eyes were distant. “I can only hope that you will choose with similar wisdom those who influence you.”

“ … ”

“ … ”

“Professor, do you believe that if I had planned better, and acted differently in Pāṭaliputra … ”

“No, I do not think there is any means by which you can effectively influence the politics of Magadha from within. No, I do not think there are any means but war against Magadha.”

“Perhaps we ought to spend some time and think about alternative approaches in more detail,” Cāṇakya suggested. “And if we find one, we could send another scholar, trained to that approach, with an apology for my behaviour—”

Professor Caṇin interrupted him with a wry yet sympathetic smile.

“Viṣṇugupta,” he said gently, “What good is a life of apology?”

“ … ”

“ … ”

Finally, Cāṇakya came to the question that was truly pressing in his mind. While he was aware that Caṇin shared his ambitions to some degree – from the conversation they’d had two years ago after the debacle with Vishtaspa – but they had not discussed the matter further since, and Cāṇakya was surprised to hear him mention it today.

“Professor,” he asked, “What did you mean when you said my war has begun?”

At Professor Caṇin’s silence, he continued.

“Many a time, you have said that I and I alone have the capacity to lead a revolution, to defeat Magadha and Persia, to restore the ways of the ancients and to improve upon them. Nothing could be more desirable to me, but I must know the answer to this question: when such sentiment is so widespread, then why, over the past one hundred and eighty years, has no Professor at Takṣaśilā successfully carried out such a revolution, against either Magadha or Persia? Why have you never sought such goals for your own achievement?”

Professor Caṇin answered after some delay. “There is honour in scholarly pursuit,” he said, “It is not necessary that every Brāhmaṇa here at Takṣaśilā must have political ambitions. Academic ambition is even more respectable.”

“Indeed, in the same way that the steel of the South is more respectable than the steel of Kosambi; nonetheless there is only so much steel that the South produces, and those who lack the wealth to purchase it must make do with the steel of Kosambi. Or how a wife of equal caste is more respectable than a wife of one caste lower; yet as men marry multiple women, a man must have wives of one caste lower. Or similarly of the horses of Kamboja against Eastern horses, or the elephants of Magadha against local ones. There is much profit to be made in such a revolution, and surely there must have been someone who rose to pick up this torch? What is it that causes you to believe that I am uniquely equipped to succeed in, in a manner that no one else has been?”

There was another pause.

“Do you know, Viṣṇugupta, why I so readily accepted you as my student all those years ago?”

“Because of my obvious intelligence?”

“That too.”

Before Cāṇakya could guess again, Caṇin continued: “In your brag, you mentioned the story of the Nāga ascetic who proclaimed, based on your teeth, that you were destined for kingship. You said that even after your father broke your teeth, the ascetic had said that if not king, you will be the power behind the throne. Do you understand what I am saying?”

Cāṇakya’s face must have shown his disappointment at that explanation, for Professor Caṇin continued: “Do not be silly – I do not care for what any ascetic has to say anything; in fact, I would much rather learn that you fabricated the entire story.”

After some brief deliberation, Cāṇakya answered: “You were impressed that I had chosen to include this story in my brag, not at the story itself. Forgive me, Professor, but I still do not see why.”

“Indeed you don’t – for what impressed me was that you saw no dishonour in the ascetic’s words. You neither considered the job of a king as something beneath your caste, nor were you then offended to be relegated to the power behind the throne.”

“You liked that what mattered to me was the actual consequences of my actions,” Cāṇakya completed, “Not social positions or titles, or the view that people might possess of me. That what matters to me is the actual accomplishment my goals, the realization of my ambitions, not my image or signalling of popular traits.”

Professor Caṇin nodded. “As you know, Viṣṇugupta: there are only three personality types of man: sattva (goodness), tamas (wicked) and rajas (greatness or ambitiousness) – and there is a certain invariance to these types. Even if you may have erred in these past fortnights, if you were deficient in your use of cunning, I believe that that judgement I made of your person four years ago remains true, that the qualities I believe you to possess – specifically, that of rajas – are innate to you.”

“It is,” Cāṇakya assured.

“Too many aged men emphasize sattva alone, but sattva without rajas is like an archer without his bow. Such a man, even as he goes to great lengths to do good rather than bad, never accomplishes any significant amount of good, for he is lacking in ambition. Certainly, the quality of sattva is to be honoured, as we honour cows – for the cow symbolizes sattva, as the vulture symbolizes tamas, yet neither of them is capable of ruling the world. No, it is man, and man alone, who possesses rajas, who is equipped to rule the world.

“Too many young men emphasize rajas alone: princes who spend their lives rallying armies to battle, never quite identifying what it is they are fighting for. Such men’s names are never immortalized in history, for in all their lives they accomplish nothing but the change of the colour of a flag on a fort, or some letters on a writ. For rajas alone, without sattva or tamas, is ambitiousness without ambition, it is passion without purpose. Such ones are mere tools to those men who possess true ambition.

“Sattva without rajas causes a small amount of good; tamas without rajas causes a small amount of evil; rajas alone causes a great amount of nonsense; a combination of sattva and rajas accomplishes a great amount of good; and a combination of sattva and tamas accomplishes a great deal of evil. Thus it is a combination of sattva and rajas that is necessary.

“Ajātaśatru, in his day, was a brilliant inventor and an ambitious conqueror,” Professor Caṇin continued. “Yet he was completely devoid of morality, and brought great ruin to the nations of the civilized world.”

“A combination of Tamas and Rajas,” Cāṇakya noted. “And on the other hand, all the rulers of the Mahājanapadas of the Central Country possessed Sattva but no Rajas, and thus they fell to Ajātaśatru.”

Professor Caṇin smiled. “All but one. The Consul of Mathura, the mighty Sage Saṃkarṣaṇa. He alone possessed both qualities of sattva and rajas, and he alone successfully resisted Ajātaśatru’s invasion. And to forelong his legacy, he sought to find a worthy successor who possessed in him these very qualities: who possessed as much rajas as Ajātaśatru did, and who possessed as much sattva as Ajātaśatru possessed tamas. And these were the qualities that Saṃkarṣaṇa found in Vāsudeva, whom he made his heir.”

“And these are the qualities you found in me,” Cāṇakya finished. “As the Heirs of Saṃkarṣaṇa resisted Magadhi conquest for one hundred and fifty years, you believe that I, possessed of these qualities, can invite a golden age of prosperity and Vedic scholarship.”

“Not quite, Viṣṇugupta,” said Professor Caṇin. “For these are the qualities you already possess, and they are the qualities that you must seek in your own Vāsudeva.”