Metamorphosis
Day 10, the Battlefield of Kalinga
The great battle of Kalinga finally comes to an end. And with that, I, Emperor Ashoka, the grandson of the valiant Chandragupta Maurya, establish my sway over this impudent land. My empire today stretches from the foot of the Himalayas in the north to Mysore in the south, from the Brahmaputra in the east to the Arabian Sea in the west. Yet again I uphold the honor of my forefathers. Yet again I win!
It is the sunset hour now. The huge battlefield lay uncannily silent. No more an ecstatic war-cry to be heard here. The air is filled with the pungent smell of raw blood. Groans of the unfortunate send freezes down my spine. Standing in the milky-white forecourts of the divine Dhavalgiri, I stare at a sea of corpses. Two and a half lakh, if not more — my eyes already know, though the counting will take days.
A sobbing child sits beside his father to perform his last rites. A woman’s hands quiver as they dig through the dead in search for one that is special to her. Very soon, beneath the veil of night, the battlefield will disguise itself as a cemetery and faces that I knew not shall burn. Their blood shall stain my hands as long as I live.
O Ashoka, are you fortunate at the price of scores of fortunes? Does your smile cost your people their own smiles?
Warm tears roll down my cheeks; tears unsuitable for an Emperor, tears too shameful for the Chandashoka*. The crimson rays of the setting sun ignite agony in my heart. My pride turns to ashes. My forefathers, long gone, whisper in my ears — “Remember the day when the royal scepter of the Mauryans was handed over to you. Remember the great promises you had made to your subjects — to bring them happiness, to endow them with unforeseen prosperity. Judge how true you’ve been to your words, Ashoka.”
Oh, what terrible shame darkens their visages!
What about my subjects? Today their Emperor creates a milestone in the history of the world. His name becomes synonymous with power and valor. Do they see the glory in it?
Oh, my lion-hearted martyrs lay bleeding and cold here. I sacrificed them, and they couldn’t but obey!
O Ashoka, place yourself in the mother who lost a robust son today. Imagine a sharpened sword touch your Mahendra’s** neck!
I plunge deeper into the chasm of my heart. A murmur ensues.
Beware, Ashoka, it’s the day of your trial! Understand if this is your conscience speaking, the voice ever suppressed by your endless greed, or if it’s a cursed weakness that’ll flood you like a straw caught in a whirlpool.
A thousand questions bang the walls of my heart. The pillars of the royal ideals I’ve grown up with give way. Who will show me the path in this crisis?
O Buddha, should I then tread in your footsteps? Should I endearingly take in my arms the groaning soldier that lies here and treat him back to life? Is this Kalingan who fought and fell to defend his beloved motherland, my foe?
How is history going to remember you, Ashoka? As an unmanly coward who turned his face away from the duties of an Emperor? As a saint who relinquished worldly lust in search of deeper peace?
Come to my rescue, prudent teacher! Offer me your soothing palm. Pardon my faults. Enlighten me. Chandashoka is too tired today. Awaken a new man from the ashes of his burning heart. Let me rest my humble head on your divine feet and draw from it inspiration.
* ‘Chandashoka’ and ‘Priyadarshi’ are names by which Emperor Ashoka was known during his times. The name ‘Chandashoka’ was conferred on him because of his ruthlessness.
** ‘Mahendra’ was the son of Ashoka.
I wrote this piece in the winter of 2000 as part of a class assignment. I was then a student of Class XI (Science). Much to the dismay of my teachers and parents, I indulged compulsively and recklessly in creative writing and the study of literature, and not that of my core subjects. Exam after exam saw my scores in Science and Mathematics nosedive. That I was excelling in Literature and Language only added to the agony of the world.
It was a period of shame, of guilt, of waywardness, of the pursuit of meaning, of metamorphosis — one that could never complete itself. I left my pupa behind and never turned into a butterfly.
Originally published in the Blogger, ‘Metamorphosis’ has been republished here with some editing.
