¥€¶€¥
'Kaushik, this is not a good idea,'said Divodas. 'Trust me, my brother.'
Kaushik and Divodas sat on a large boulder outside their gurukul, on the
banks of the Kaveri River. The two friends, both in their late thirties, were
teachers at the Gurukul of Maharishi Kashyap, the celebrated Saptrishi
Uttradhikari, successor to the seven legendary seers. Kaushik and Divodas had
been students of the gurukul in their childhood. Upon graduation, they had
gone their separate ways. Divodas had excelled as a teacher of great renown
and Kaushik, as a fine Kshatriya royal. Two decades later, they had joined the
prestigious institution again, this time as teachers. They had instantly rekindled
their childhood friendship. In fact, they were like brothers now. In private, they
still referred to each other by the gurukul names of their student days.
'Why is it not a good idea, Divodas?' asked Kaushik, his massive, muscular
body bent forward aggressively, as usual. 'They are biased against the Vaanars.
We need to challenge this prejudice for the good of India!'
Divodas shook his head. But realised that further conversation was pointless.
He had long given up trying to challenge Kaushik's stubborn streak. It was like
banging your head against an anthill. Not a good idea!
He picked up a clay cup kept by his side. It contained a bubbly, milky liquid.
He held his nose and gulped it down. 'Yuck!'
Kaushik burst into laughter as he patted his friend heartily on his back.
'Even after all these years, it still tastes like horse's piss!'
Divodas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled. 'You need to
come up with a new line! How do you know it tastes like horse's piss, anyway?
Have you ever drunk horse's piss?!'
Kaushik laughed louder and held his friend by the shoulder. 'I have had the
Somras often. And I'm sure even horse's piss can't taste worse!'
Divodas smiled broadly and put his arm around his friend's shoulder. They
sat on the boulder in companionable silence, watching the sacred Kaveri as it
flowed gently by Mayuram, the small town that housed their gurukul. The townwas a short distance from the sea, and the perfect location for this massive
gurukul, which taught hundreds of young students. More importantly, it also
offered specialised courses in higher studies in different fields of knowledge.
Being close to the sea, students from the Sapt Sindhu in the North could
conveniently sail down the eastern coast of India to the gurukul. Thus, they did
not need to cross the Narmada River from the north to south, and violate the
superstitious belief that instructed against it. Furthermore, this gurukul was
close to the submerged, prehistoric land of Sangamtamil, which along with the
submerged ancient land of Dwarka in western India, was one of the two
fatherlands of Vedic culture. This made its location uniquely holy to the
students.
Divodas braced his shoulders, as if gathering resolve.
Kaushik, knowing well the non-verbal cues of his friend, remarked, 'What?'
Divodas took a deep breath. He knew this would be a difficult conversation.
But he decided to try one more time. 'Kaushik, listen to me. I know you want to
help Trishanku. And, I agree with you. He needs help. He is a good man.
Perhaps immature and naive, but a good man nonetheless. But he cannot
become a Vayuputra. He failed their examination. He must accept that. It has
nothing to do with how he looks or where he was born. It is about his
capability.'
The Vayuputras were the tribe left behind by the previous Mahadev, Lord
Rudra. They lived far beyond the western borders of India in a place called
Pariha. The Vayuputras were tasked with supporting the next Vishnu, whenever
he or she arose. And, of course, one of them would become the next Mahadev
whenever Evil raised its dangerous head.
Kaushik stiffened. 'The Vayuputras are intolerant towards the Vaanars and
you know it.'
The Vaanars were a large, powerful, and reclusive tribe living on the banks of
the great Tungabhadra River, north of the Kaveri. The Tungabhadra was a
tributary of the Krishna River farther to the north. The tribe had a distinctly
different appearance: Mostly short, stocky and very muscular, some of them
were giant-like too. Their faces were framed with fine, facial hair, which
ballooned into a beard at the jaw. Their mouths protruded outwards, and the
skin around it was silken smooth and hairless. Their hirsute bodies sported
thick, almost furry hair. To some prejudiced people, the Vaanars appeared like
monkeys and thus, somehow, less human. It was said that similar tribes lived
farther to the west of Pariha. One of their biggest and most ancient settlements
was a land called Neanderthal or the valley of Neander.
'What intolerance are you talking about?' asked Divodas, his hand raised inquestion. 'They accepted young Maruti into their fold, didn't they? Maruti is a
Vaanar too. But he has merit. Trishanku doesn't!'
Kaushik would not be dissuaded. 'Trishanku has been loyal to me. He asked
for my help. I will help him!'
'But Kaushik, how can you create your own version of Pariha? This is not
wise …'
'I have given him my word, Divodas. Will you help me or not?'
'Kaushik, of course I will help! But, brother, listen …'
Suddenly a loud, feminine voice was heard from a distance. 'Hey, Divodas!'
Kaushik and Divodas turned around. It was Nandini. Another teacher at the
gurukul. And a friend to both. Kaushik cast a dark, injured look at Divodas,
gritting his teeth softly.
'Guruji …'
Vishwamitra's eyes flew open, bringing him back to the present from an
ancient, more-than-a-century-old memory.
'I am sorry to disturb you, Guruji,' said Arishtanemi, his hands joined in a
penitent Namaste. 'But you had asked me to wake you when the students
assembled.'
Vishwamitra sat up and gathered his angvastram. 'Is Sita present?'
'Yes, Guruji.'
¥€¶¥€
Shvetaketu sat on a chair placed in a discreet corner. He was clearly elated to
see all the twenty-five students of his gurukul gathered in the open square.
Vishwamitra sat on the round platform built around the trunk of the main
peepal tree. It was the seat of the teacher. The great Chief Malayaputra would
teach his students, if only for one class. This was a rare honour for Shvetaketu
and his students.
The teachers of the gurukul and the Malayaputras stood in silence behind
Shvetaketu.
'Have you learnt about our great ancient empires?' asked Vishwamitra. 'And
the reasons for their rise and fall?'
All the students nodded in the affirmative.
'All right, then someone tell me, why did the empire of the descendants of
the great Emperor Bharat decline? An empire that flourished for centuries, was
annihilated within just two generations. Why?'
Kaaml Raj raised his hand. Shvetaketu groaned softly.
'Yes?' asked Vishwamitra.'Guruji,' answered Kaaml, 'they were attacked by foreigners and had
internal rebellions at the same time. They were like the kancha marbles we play
with. Everyone from everywhere was hitting them again and again. How could
the empire survive?'
Saying this, Kaaml guffawed uncontrollably, laughing as if he had just
cracked the funniest joke in human history. Everyone else remained silent. A
few students at the back held their heads in shame. Vishwamitra stared at Kaaml
with a frozen expression. The same expression was then directed towards
Shvetaketu.
Not for the first time, Shvetaketu considered sending young Kaaml back to
his parents. He really was a strange, untrainable child.
Vishwamitra did not deign to respond to Kaaml and repeated his question,
this time looking directly at Sita. But the princess of Mithila did not answer.
'Bhoomi, why don't you answer?' asked Vishwamitra, using her gurukul
name.
'Because I am not sure, Guruji.'
Vishwamitra pointed to the front row. 'Come here, child.'
Since her last visit to Mithila, Sita had preferred to be alone. She mostly sat
at the back of the class. Her friend Radhika patted her back, encouraging her to
go. As Sita came forward, Vishwamitra gestured for her to sit. Then he stared
at her eyes closely. Very few sages were adept at reading people's minds
through their eyes. Vishwamitra was one such rare sage.
'Tell me,' said Vishwamitra, his eyes piercing through her mind. 'Why did
the Bhaaratas, the descendants of the great Emperor Bharat, disintegrate so
suddenly?'
Sita felt very uncomfortable. She felt an overpowering urge to get up and
run. But she knew she could not insult the great Maharishi. She chose to
answer. 'The Bhaaratas had a massive standing army. They could have easily
fought on multiple battle fronts. But their warriors were …'
'They were useless,' said Vishwamitra, completing Sita's thought. 'And, why
were they useless? They had no shortage of money, of training, of equipment,
or of war weapons.'
Sita repeated something she had heard Samichi say. 'What matters is not the
weapon, but the woman who wields that weapon.'
Vishwamitra smiled in approval. 'And why were their warriors incapable of
wielding weapons? Do not forget, these were weapons of far superior
technology than those of their enemies.'
Sita had not thought about this. She remained silent.
'Describe the Bhaarat society at the time of their downfall,' Vishwamitrademanded.
Sita knew this answer. 'It was peaceful. A liberal and polite society. It was a
haven for arts, culture, music, conversations, debates … They not only
practised but proudly celebrated non-violence. Both verbal and physical. It was
a perfect society. Like heaven.'
'True. But there were some for whom it was hell.'
Sita did not say anything. But her mind wondered: For whom?
Vishwamitra read her mind as if she had spoken aloud. He answered, 'The
warriors.'
'The warriors?'
'What are the chief qualities of warriors? What drives them? What motivates
them? Yes, there are many who fight for honour, for the country, for a code.
But equally, there are those who simply want a socially sanctioned way to kill.
If not given an outlet, such people can easily turn to crime. Many great
warriors, celebrated by humanity, narrowly escaped being remembered as
social degenerates. What saved them from becoming criminals and instead,
turned them into soldiers? The answer is the warrior code: The right reason to
kill.'
It's difficult for a child to surrender certainties and understand nuances. Sita,
after all just a thirteen-year-old, stiffened.
'Warriors thrive on admiration and hero worship. Without these, the warrior
spirit, and with it, the warrior code, dies. Sadly, many in the latter-day Bhaarat
society despised their soldiers and preferred to condemn them. Every action of
the army was vehemently criticised. Any form of violence, even dharmic
violence, was opposed. The warrior spirit itself was berated as a demonic
impulse that had to be controlled. It didn't stop there. Freedom of speech was
curtailed so that verbal violence could also be controlled. Disagreement was
discouraged. This is how the Bhaaratas felt that heaven could be created on
earth; by making strength powerless, and weakness powerful.'
Vishwamitra's voice became softer, almost as if he was speaking only to
Sita. The assembly listened in rapt attention.
'Essentially, the Bhaaratas curbed their Kshatriya class drastically.
Masculinity was emasculated. Great sages of yore who preached absolute non-
violence and love were glorified and their messages amplified. But then, when
barbaric invaders attacked from foreign lands, these pacifist, non-violent
Bhaarat men and women were incapable of fighting back. These civilised
people appeared like weak wimps to the brutal warriors from abroad.' With an
ironic laugh, Vishwamitra continued, 'Unexpectedly, for the people of Bhaarat
society, the Hiranyaloman Mlechcha warriors did not care for their message oflove. Their answer to love was mass murder. They were barbarians, incapable
of building their own empire. But they destroyed Bhaarat power and prestige.
Internal rebels finished the job of destruction.'
'Guruji, are you saying that to fight foreign monsters, you need your own
monsters?'
'No. All I'm saying is that society must be wary of extremes. It must
constantly strive towards attaining a balance among competing ideologies.
Criminals must be removed from society, and meaningless violence must be
stopped. But the warrior spirit must not be demonised. Do not create a society
that demeans masculinity. Too much of anything creates an imbalance in life.
This is true even of virtues such as nonviolence. You never know when the
winds of change strike; when violence may be required to protect your society,
or to even survive.'
There was pin-drop silence.
It was time.
Vishwamitra asked the question he had steered the conversation towards. 'Is
there an extremism that the Sapt Sindhu surrendered to which allowed Raavan
to defeat them?'
Sita considered the question carefully. 'Yes, resentment and hatred towards
the trading class.'
'Correct. In the past, because of a few monsters among their warriors, the
Bhaaratas attacked the entire Kshatriya way of life. They became
pathologically non-violent. There have been societies that have attacked the
Brahmin way of life, becoming proudly anti-intellectual, because a few of their
Brahmins became closed-minded, elitist and exclusivist. And the Sapt Sindhu in
our age began to demean trading itself when a few of their Vaishyas became
selfish, ostentatious, and money-grubbing. We gradually pushed trade out of
the hands of the 'evil-moneyed capitalists' of our own society, and into the
hands of others. Kubaer, and later Raavan, just gathered the money slowly, and
economic power flowed naturally to them. The Battle of Karachapa was only a
formality that sealed long historical trends. A society must always aim for
balance. It needs intellectuals, it needs warriors, it needs traders, it needs artists,
and it needs skilled workers. If it empowers one group too much or another
too little, it is headed for chaos.'
Sita recalled something she had heard in one of the dharma sabhas of her
father. 'The only "ism" I believe in, is pragmatism.'
It was said by a Charvak philosopher.
'Are you committed to Charvak philosophy?' asked Vishwamitra.
The Charvak School of philosophy was named after their ancient founder,an atheist who believed in materialism. He had lived near Gangotri, the source
of the holy Ganga. The Charvaks only believed in what could be sensed by the
physical senses. According to them, there was neither a soul, nor any Gods.
The only reality was this body, a mix of the elements, which would return to
the elements once it died. They lived for the day and enjoyed life. Their
admirers saw them as liberal, individualistic and non-judgemental. On the
other hand, their critics saw them as immoral, selfish and irresponsible.
'No, I am not committed to the Charvaks, Guruji. If I am pragmatic, then I
should be open to every school of philosophy. And accept only those parts that
make sense to me, while rejecting other bits that don't. I should learn from any
philosophy that can help me fulfil my karma.'
Vishwamitra smiled. Smart, very smart for a thirteen-year-old.