‘We shall strike when they camp for the night,’ said Bibhatsaka. ‘There are too many people in the party, including guards. Better to catch them completely unaware. This is going to be fun!’ His men—around two dozen in number—laughed. Their chief knew how to take care of his people. They were going to be rich.
Bibhatsaka was already rich. The clandestine midnight meeting with Sharangrao had ensured he would be paid irrespective of the haul. Sharangrao had then handed over to him the sword belonging to Bhadrashala and asked him to ensure that Dhanananda was killed with it, and that it was left at the scene of the crime.
‘But acharya, wouldn't it be wise to have the coronation of Maharaj Paurus as emperor of Magadha immediately?’ asked Indradutt.
‘The Venus-Charybdis conjunction around twentythree degrees Sagittarius, is tightly wrapped around Maharaj's natal Neptune and, of course, the SaturnUranus opposition is present on Maharaj's natal Mercury. Therefore the theme of this coronation must revolve around His Majesty's critical Mercury-Saturn-NeptuneCharybdis pattern,’ said the plump rajpurohit as they sat in the massive pleasure chamber of Dhanananda. Chanakya suppressed a grin. Astrology was such a wonderful science. You could get it to say whatever you wanted without ever having to actually say it.
‘What does that mean?’ asked a bewildered Paurus.
‘It means that you shall have to wait for two more days and two more nights for the high noon of your coronation, O mighty King,’ interjected Chanakya.
‘But what shall I do till then?’ asked Paurus.
‘I think I have just the solution to keep His Majesty occupied,’ suggested Chanakya, as Vishaka gracefully walked in like a tigress.
‘Is the tiger ready?’ Chanakya asked. Jeevasiddhi nodded. ‘Good. Have your secret agents keep him caged in the jungle till Chandragupta reaches there. You shall uncage him once Chandragupta's in sight, is that understood?’ instructed Chanakya as he handed over the pouch to Jeevasiddhi. ‘Make sure the animal's water is spiked with this. It will make him drowsy and sluggish,’ he said.
The largest member of the cat-tribe and the most formidable of all living flesh-eaters was the preferred sport of kings of Magadha. The most common hunting technique was hanka—the beat—by which the beast would be driven towards the waiting hunter by baiting it with live buffaloes tethered in the jungle while drummers drove it into more tightly defined territory. Chandragupta was stationed in a machaan—a treetop platform— hidden away twenty feet above the ground. Smeared on his face was a disgusting, lipid-rich, foul-smelling fluid that had been previously extracted from the urinary tract of a slain tigress. His helpers lay crouched on other machaans in the area waiting for the mighty cat to make its appearance. There was complete silence in the forest, the only sound being that of bated breath.
The hundreds of beaters and baiters accompanying Chandragupta had no clue of the elaborate manoeuvres that were being orchestrated backstage by Jeevasiddhi. Jeevasiddhi nodded to his aide and the man pulled the rope that opened the gate of the cage and quietly released the magnificent beast into the target area. The drowsy animal walked out of the open cage and sniffed. Tigers were blessed with acute hearing, keen eyesight but not very accurate smell. But this smell was different and any male tiger would be a fool not to pick up on it. It contained pheromones that induced sexual excitement.
As the tiger sauntered into the tightly constricted space that lay below Chandragupta's machaan, the noble king jumped down to the ground and faced the feline squarely, instead of hurling his spear from above. The narcotised animal could barely keep its eyes open—all that it knew was that it needed to find the source of the scent—the pheromones of love.
The animal soon realised that the bouquet was emanating from the cheek of the lovable hunter in front of it. Chandragupta kneeled down, his spear ready to take care of any unfortunate miscalculation, just as the gigantic beast opened its jaws, put out its tongue and lapped up the terrible stinking gob on Chandragupta's cheeks before passing out.
‘It's a divine sign!’ whispered one of the helpers of the hunt. ‘It's a miracle! Chandragupta has heavenly aid. If this isn't a supernatural happening, what is?’
‘I agree,’ said another. ‘This occurrence is one in a million. It's a benediction from God. It's celestial intervention telling the people of Magadha that their true king has arrived and is among them. That king is none other than the great Chandragupta!’
Paurus lay dead with his face nestled in Vishaka's bosom on the silken bedspread of the chamber in Pataliputra's royal pleasure palace, while the peacocks in the royal garden outside continued to dance.
Dhanananda's lifeless body lay in the forest with Bhadrashala's bloodstained sword by its side. Bibhatsaka had taken some of Dhanananda's blood to offer to his diety in Kali Ghat by the riverbank.
The sleeping tiger in the forest snored contentedly.
Chanakya, Chandragupta, Sharangrao and Katyayan were seated in the royal council hall, deliberating their next move. A magistrate of Magadha stood before them, awaiting instructions. ‘Arrest Bhadrashala immediately and have him hanged,’ Chanakya instructed the magistrate who hurried out to obey and please his new master.
‘Bhadrashala helped us, acharya, we should be lenient with him. We know that he wasn't behind Dhanananda's slaying,’ said Sharangrao.
‘He wasn't helping us but himself, Sharangrao,’ said the angry Brahmin, his eyes blazing. ‘He'll be a liability for any ruler, be it Dhanananda or Chandragupta! Kingship isn't about mercy, it's about power.’
‘Rakshas will be upset. Bhadrashala was his ally,’ said Katyayan.
‘How does it matter, Katyayanji? Rakshas will come running to Magadha now that he knows Dhanananda is out of the way,’ said Chanakya.
‘But it seems Rakshas is saying he's very comfortable being in Takshila and that he doesn't wish to return to Magadha,’ argued Sharangrao.
‘I need that rogue Rakshas back here. His mere presence as deputy prime minister will give legitimacy to Chandragupta's reign,’ reasoned Chanakya.
‘Deputy prime minister?’ asked Chandragupta. ‘Wasn't he prime minister under Dhanananda?’
‘Yes. But your new prime minister shall be Katyayanji —someone who's not afraid to tell the king what he thinks!’
The old Katyayan smiled and stood up, went before Chandragupta and bowed to his new master. Turning to Chanakya he said, ‘But acharya, you can't force Rakshas to return. He's living an extremely luxurious life in Takshila apparently.’
‘I trust that Mehir—who I left behind in Takshila specifically for this very reason—has taken care of that problem by now,’ said Chanakya cryptically.
‘And what were your instructions to Mehir?’ asked Chandragupta.
‘To tell Rakshas that I'm holding Suvasini hostage and that she will be held until he returns! Leave a little sugar syrup on the floor and see the ants flock to it! Suvasini is my syrup and Rakshas—my ant!’ roared Chanakya.
‘Acharya! To be frank with you, it seems positively dishonest,’ commented Chandragupta.
‘Son, one should never be too upright. You've just returned from a hunt in the forest, haven't you? Didn't you notice that it's always the straight trees that are cut down while the crooked ones are left standing?’ asked Chanakya.
‘So I should sit on a throne that's won by deceit?’
‘You're the king, aren't you? You've reached the pinnacle. You have power and wealth—use it wisely, O King!’ said Chanakya.
Chandragupta continued to look uncomfortable.
Chanakya spoke once again. ‘Birds don't build nests on fruitless trees, whores have no love for poor men, and citizens don't obey a powerless king! Do your duty, O King!’ he commanded as he tied his shikha for the first time after having untied it in Dhanananda's court all those years ago.
Suvasini looked around the room. It was windowless but comfortable—clean, airy, and well furnished. She tried opening the door but it was locked from the outside. She frantically
banged on the wood, hoping that someone would hear. It was no use. There didn't seem to be anyone outside. Resigned to being held captive, she sat down on the bed and began sobbing quietly. What sort of wretched life was this? To be used by Rakshas, abused by Dhanananda and misused by Chanakya?
As she sat there, pondering over her pathetic life, she heard the shuffling of feet. She then heard the sound of door bolts being lifted. The door creaked open and two guards entered and stood to attention on either side of the entrance. Chanakya strode in purposefully, his hands clasped together behind his back.
Suvasini got up from the bed and rushed over to him, tears streaming down her cheeks and her hair spilling over her face. ‘Vishnu! I am so relieved to see you. You've come to set me free, haven't you? I always knew that you would be my ultimate saviour!’ she wailed, falling to her knees before him.
‘Rise, O Suvasini,’ said Chanakya, clasping her shoulders and pulling her to her feet. ‘I apologise for having had you locked up in this room, but I knew that if you were visible, you would have had no alternative but to leave the city in exile along with Dhanananda,’ he explained.
‘I understand, Vishnu,’ she said gently. She hugged him, nestling her face to his chest. Her heart was beating wildly as she lifted her gaze towards his eyes, silently begging for his love as she continued to mentally pray for the victory that was already his. Om tryambhakam yajamahe, sugandhim pushtivardhanam; urvarukamiva bandhanam, mrityor mukshiya maamrital.
‘Can I now leave this confined space? I want to be free again,’ she murmured, holding him tightly in her embrace.
‘Alas, Suvasini, although I love you, I cannot do what you ask of me. It's in Magadha's interest that I keep you here,’ said Chanakya, controlling the emotion in his voice as he conveyed the news.
‘What? Dhanananda has died and you still wish to keep me locked up? What has happened to you, my dear Vishnu? Doesn't a normal human heart beat inside you anymore? How can you do this to the only woman that you ever loved?’ she asked, angrily withdrawing from the embrace.
‘I may have loved you, my sweet Suvasini, but I love Bharat much more. I'm duty-bound to protect it in whatever way that I can. For the moment my concern is Rakshas. Rakshas holds nothing more dear than you, Suvasini. Do you understand my predicament?’ asked Chanakya.
‘You would hold a woman that you love as prisoner because she's a pawn on your chessboard?’ she howled. ‘O lord of anger and incarnation of death! I consign you to hell for a few thousand years—to suffer tortures for the murders and villainies committed by you in the name of politics! You shall have no lineage to carry forward your name and the knowledge that you so lust after shall have no useful application for anyone. Both you and your accursed philosophy be damned into oblivion!’ she cursed him as she flung herself down on the bed and wept.
‘I don't believe in your curse, Suvasini. There are indeed people—sorcerers and physicians—who can kill others by incantations, become invisible or turn themselves into werewolves. There are black magic spells and chants that can cause blindness, consumption, madness or even death. But the curse should be heartfelt, not feigned. You still love me and would never want your curse to come true,’ said Chanakya sadly.
‘I do love you, Vishnu, but I hate the Chanakya in you!’ she said, crying. ‘And as for the efficacy of chants and curses, let me tell you the power that you so covet would never have been yours had I not prayed to Shiva for your victory every day!’
‘I have no option but to keep you prisoner, Suvasini,’ said Chanakya. ‘As God's my witness, there's no one that I've ever loved more than you!’
‘If my confinement stands, then so does my curse. However, because I love you, I shall offer you a means to redemption. Several thousand years from now, if someone meditates upon a mantra, he shall be able to use Chanakya's knowledge once again, but only if he uses it to advance a woman!’ she said, pointing an accusing finger at her captor.
‘And the mantra?’ asked Chanakya.
‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah,’ said Suvasini. ‘If the chant is recited four hundred times a day for over four thousand days, the orator shall have Chanakya's powers to actualise another leader—so long as it's a woman. In the new age, Shakti must trump Shiva!’
Chanakya regarded her gravely. ‘As you wish, my only love. Now I have a greater duty to still others, and other ages, and I must leave you one last time. My wisdom and experience must not fade in my lifetime. History, that fickle art, may neglect to record my thoughts for the greater benefit of rulers to come—and the greater wealth of their nations. I must write it all down.’
He backed into the shadows and softly left the room. ‘I must write it all,’ she strained to hear him whispering to himself as he walked away. ‘My Arthashastra—my own invention—the science of wealth.’
Chanakya sat down in his austere hut as he recited the mantra to himself. Primal shakti, I bow to thee; allencompassing shakti, I bow to thee; that through which God creates, I bow to thee; creative power of the kundalini; mother of all, to thee I bow.
Chanakya chanted—his eyes closed in prayer— knowing that he had achieved his ambition of uniting Bharat under Chandragupta. But to achieve that he had sacrificed his one chance for love.
Suvasini went on to live till she succumbed, at the overripe age of thirty-eight, to sexual hyperactivity and lovelessness. Even though Chandragupta's deputy prime minister—Rakshas—was ready and willing.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Present Day
The corridors of the All India Institute of Medical Sciences were deserted at this hour. The doctor had requested Gangasagar to meet him just before midnight so that he might run the tests without anyone else being any the wiser. They now sat in his office—Gangasagar and Menon—like accused awaiting the final order of a judge or jury.
‘You have lung cancer, Gangasagarji,’ said the doctor sympathetically.
‘But I don't smoke,’ complained Gangasagar, almost hoping his usual powers of persuasion would get the doctor to agree that he didn't have the dreaded disease.
‘It isn't only smokers who get it. You live in a highly polluted atmosphere. The black exhaust fumes of autorickshaws can be just as deadly. It can be any number of things that could cause it—smoking, passive smoking, air pollution, asbestos—’
‘I never had any symptoms till now,’ said Gangasagar, defending his life.
‘Around twenty-five per cent of patients will not feel anything till it's too late,’ explained the doctor gently.
‘Will I live?’ asked Gangasagar, suddenly aware of his mortality.
The doctor shook his head slowly. ‘Miracles do happen, Gangasagarji. Unfortunately, we did not pick up any symptoms until the cancer had metastasised. At this stage, neither surgery nor chemotherapy will be of much help.’
‘How much time do I have?’ asked the old Pandit.
The doctor shrugged. ‘It's difficult to predict these things. My guess would be a month—at most.’
‘That's long enough to make her prime minister,’ declared Gangasagar, leaving the doctor puzzled. ‘You're to keep this information completely confidential, doctor. I'm leaving now. I have too much to do.’
‘But Gangasagarji, we must admit you to hospital. We need to monitor your—’
‘Listen, doctor. There's nothing glorious about dying—anyone can do it. Menon will bring me in when I'm about to meet my reluctant maker!’ he said as he briskly walked out of the doctor's office.
Menon hastily followed and found that his master was murmuring softly under his breath ‘Adi Shakti, Namo Namah; Sarab Shakti, Namo Namah; Prithum Bhagvati, Namo Namah; Kundalini Mata Shakti; Mata Shakti, Namo Namah.’
‘She's about to become prime minister and we're about to expose her love child,’ said Somany to Gangasagar. ‘The newspapers are going to love it.’
‘I would think very carefully before doing any such th
ing,’ said Gangasagar speaking softly to prevent another coughing spasm.
‘You have no leverage on us, Gangasagar. In any case, why are you bothered? She's ditched you for good,’ said Rungta.
‘When thousands of people pray to a stone idol, they vest in it their own power. It's irrelevant what the idol thinks. Chandini is the idol and I don't care what she thinks of me. My single-point agenda is to make her prime minister.’
‘Your agenda is screwed! A conservative country like India will never allow a woman of loose moral character to become prime minister, Gangasagar,’ said Somany.
‘Speaking of women with loose moral character,’ said Gangasagar, ‘I'd like to introduce both of you to a very dear friend. She's been a great pillar of strength to the ABNS,’ said Gangasagar.
‘Who?’ asked Somany curiously.
Anjali, the Bollywood siren, looking positively delicious in a black body-hugging saree walked out. She ignored the men in the room and sat down on the sofa and proceeded to light her cigarette seductively.
‘As you know, we were most grateful when you gentlemen requested Anjali to endorse Chandini during the Uttar Pradesh state assembly elections. To express our gratitude our party nominated her as a Rajya Sabha member from our state. Anjali has been updating me quite regularly regarding a special nocturnal friend who visits her almost every night at her elegant sea-facing Mumbai mansion,’ said Gangasagar.
Somany's face turned red. Gangasagar continued. ‘This special friend is apparently affluent, but it seems that his wife is unable to meet his needs. The question in my mind is this: is a conservative country like India— more particularly Somanyji's charming wife—ready to hear of the bedroom frolics of a tycoon?’