the well, not the water inside it. Please let your justice prevail,’ replied another boy, slightly older.
Addressing the senior one, the king grandly pronounced, ‘You’re right. You sold the well, not the water. This would mean that you’re wrongly keeping water in someone else’s well. Please empty it! Next case!’
Chanakya chuckled to himself. He was watching this little drama with great interest. He decided to join the fun. He got up from the terrace where he was seated, walked up and stood before the king with folded hands.
‘Yes, Brahmin? What is it that you want?’ asked the boy seriously.
‘O illustrious King, I’m a poor Brahmin. I need milk and ghee for the yajnas —the rituals—that I perform but I have no cow. Please assist me, O protector of the land,’ said Chanakya earnestly.
‘Treasurer! Give this Brahmin a cow,’ commanded the king as the mock official came forward to hand Chanakya a pebble—the substitute cow.
‘But I don’t have any money to pay for it, my king,’ explained Chanakya.
‘O Brahmin. If your offerings to the gods are inadequate, how will the bounty of my kingdom be adequate? And if my kingdom is not prosperous, from where will I collect taxes? And if there are no taxes, what will happen to the treasury and the army? Who will defend the kingdom if there is no army? So, you see, I am not doing you a favour. I’m simply guaranteeing my own prosperity!’ explained the intellectual giant of a boy.
Chanakya smiled and blessed the boy. ‘Who are you, child?’ he asked.
‘I am Chandragupta. The son of Senapati Maurya.’
‘Shall I take you to meet Shaktarji?’ enquired the senapati emerging from the house. Chanakya nodded. It was time to meet his departed father’s dearest friend —a comrade for whom Chanak had laid down his very life.
The old man that Chanakya saw was frail and battered. Years of deprivation, foul living conditions, food unfit for human consumption, sickness, and brutal repression had taken their toll on the former prime minister. Chanakya’s memories of Shaktar were of an aristocratic and sophisticated noble, always impeccably dressed in the finest silks and adorned with the richest of gold and diamond amulets, rings and necklaces. He could barely recognise what once used to be the second-most powerful man in the kingdom.
Chanakya prostrated himself before Shaktar and the old man asked him to rise. When Chanakya got up and saw Shaktar’s face, the octogenarian had tears in his eyes. He reached out his hand to place it on Chanakya’s head to bless him affectionately.
‘You’re the only son that I have left, Chanakya. My real sons are all dead. And my daughter—Suvasini— whom you loved so dearly, is worse than dead. Your father never broached the topic but I knew that he wanted you and my daughter to eventually marry, merging both families into one.’
Chanakya remained silent.
‘What terrible conjunction of planets in my horoscope has produced this endless nightmare? My wife, dead; my best friend Chanak, dead; my sons, dead; my daughter, a concubine of Rakshas; my body, shattered and weak; the kingdom—in the hands of a psychopath!’ continued the old man as his misery flooded over.
Chanakya gripped Shaktar’s hand and said, ‘The nightmare shall end soon. I promise. But you need to stir yourself from this troubled slumber. One must awake, see the rays of the sun, and realise that it was all just a terrible dream. Help me, Shaktarji and senapatiji.’
‘What do I possess that can help you, Chanakya?’ asked Senapati Maurya.
‘Chandragupta.’
‘And what do I have that can possibly help?’ asked Shaktar.
‘The dwarves.’
The kings of Magadha knew that an army moves on its stomach. The royal treasury—the rajakosh —was even more critical than the army itself because the treasury was the fuel that propelled the fighting machine. Mining was a state monopoly so all the gold, silver or precious stones mined in the
Addressing the senior one, the king grandly pronounced, ‘You’re right. You sold the well, not the water. This would mean that you’re wrongly keeping water in someone else’s well. Please empty it! Next case!’
Chanakya chuckled to himself. He was watching this little drama with great interest. He decided to join the fun. He got up from the terrace where he was seated, walked up and stood before the king with folded hands.
‘Yes, Brahmin? What is it that you want?’ asked the boy seriously.
‘O illustrious King, I’m a poor Brahmin. I need milk and ghee for the yajnas —the rituals—that I perform but I have no cow. Please assist me, O protector of the land,’ said Chanakya earnestly.
‘Treasurer! Give this Brahmin a cow,’ commanded the king as the mock official came forward to hand Chanakya a pebble—the substitute cow.
‘But I don’t have any money to pay for it, my king,’ explained Chanakya.
‘O Brahmin. If your offerings to the gods are inadequate, how will the bounty of my kingdom be adequate? And if my kingdom is not prosperous, from where will I collect taxes? And if there are no taxes, what will happen to the treasury and the army? Who will defend the kingdom if there is no army? So, you see, I am not doing you a favour. I’m simply guaranteeing my own prosperity!’ explained the intellectual giant of a boy.
Chanakya smiled and blessed the boy. ‘Who are you, child?’ he asked.
‘I am Chandragupta. The son of Senapati Maurya.’
‘Shall I take you to meet Shaktarji?’ enquired the senapati emerging from the house. Chanakya nodded. It was time to meet his departed father’s dearest friend —a comrade for whom Chanak had laid down his very life.
The old man that Chanakya saw was frail and battered. Years of deprivation, foul living conditions, food unfit for human consumption, sickness, and brutal repression had taken their toll on the former prime minister. Chanakya’s memories of Shaktar were of an aristocratic and sophisticated noble, always impeccably dressed in the finest silks and adorned with the richest of gold and diamond amulets, rings and necklaces. He could barely recognise what once used to be the second-most powerful man in the kingdom.
Chanakya prostrated himself before Shaktar and the old man asked him to rise. When Chanakya got up and saw Shaktar’s face, the octogenarian had tears in his eyes. He reached out his hand to place it on Chanakya’s head to bless him affectionately.
‘You’re the only son that I have left, Chanakya. My real sons are all dead. And my daughter—Suvasini— whom you loved so dearly, is worse than dead. Your father never broached the topic but I knew that he wanted you and my daughter to eventually marry, merging both families into one.’
Chanakya remained silent.
‘What terrible conjunction of planets in my horoscope has produced this endless nightmare? My wife, dead; my best friend Chanak, dead; my sons, dead; my daughter, a concubine of Rakshas; my body, shattered and weak; the kingdom—in the hands of a psychopath!’ continued the old man as his misery flooded over.
Chanakya gripped Shaktar’s hand and said, ‘The nightmare shall end soon. I promise. But you need to stir yourself from this troubled slumber. One must awake, see the rays of the sun, and realise that it was all just a terrible dream. Help me, Shaktarji and senapatiji.’
‘What do I possess that can help you, Chanakya?’ asked Senapati Maurya.
‘Chandragupta.’
‘And what do I have that can possibly help?’ asked Shaktar.
‘The dwarves.’
The kings of Magadha knew that an army moves on its stomach. The royal treasury—the rajakosh —was even more critical than the army itself because the treasury was the fuel that propelled the fighting machine. Mining was a state monopoly so all the gold, silver or precious stones mined in the
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