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From the Publisher
Conversation with Anshul Dupare
The Lost Words
Kalinga, 261 BC
‘What have I done? If this is victory, what, then, is defeat? Is this justice or injustice? Is it gallantry, or a rout? Is it valour, to kill innocent children and women? Did I do it to expand my empire and make it more prosperous, or just to destroy the splendour of another kingdom? Someone has lost her husband, someone else a father, someone a child, someone an unborn infant… What is this battlefield of corpses? Are these vultures, crows and eagles the messengers of death, or of evil?’ Ashok, the legendary emperor, mourned, looking at the corpses around him—not just of humans, but of animals as well. This was the devastation the Kalinga war had wrought. Was this humanity? Was this what he wanted?
He looked above him, asking god for an answer to his questions, but all he could see were hordes of the aforementioned carrion-feeders. They were hovering all over the sky, as if crowning him with a death-crown sent by Yama. He looked around and saw not a single person standing on their feet. Everybody was on the ground, as if bowing to him, surrendering to him, accepting his victory and admitting their defeat. Warriors, as shattered as their weapons and armour. Innocent wives and children, who had become warriors to fight for freedom, for their motherland, for Kalinga. Everybody, bowing to him.
Ashok realized that he was the only person standing. If he was victorious, were these 1,50,000 corpses his accolades? He mourned, shouted, cried and yet nobody was there to listen to him—nobody was there to understand his agony and his grief.
Just as he hadn’t been there to listen to the cries of the woman whose husband was being slaughtered; just as he hadn’t been there when his army hadn’t hesitated to slaughter the same woman later, when she had come out to the battlefield with her young son; just as he hadn’t been there when his own men died fighting for him.
As the king upon the throne, he bore the responsibility for devastating countless lives. The beautiful breeze, which used to carry the fragrance of flowers and the sound of playful children, was now carrying the stink of dead corpses and the cries of homeless children, torn from their parents and their playful days, and forced to witness the gruesome brutality of war. The breeze also carried the blood of hard working men who had sweated day and night to make Kalinga prosper, to make it invincible. They had fought for their freedom, for the very land upon which Ashok was standing.
They were not dead—the strong wind hitting Ashok’s face carried their spirit, reminding him of the numerous lives he had taken, shaking him profoundly, stirring his insides and churning his soul. The breeze carried the love, devotion and joy of the people of Patliputra, but it also carried grief, desolation, and the curses of those whose lives had been destroyed.
Right or wrong, good or bad—these are all constructs created by those in power. His ministers will laud him, other kingdoms will venerate him, and history will remember him as an emperor who ruled over akhand bharat[1]. But was it right? Was it good? Was it worth it? The wind smacked Ashok’s face, as if slapping him back to his senses.
Ashok was indeed victorious—but there was no reason for him to rejoice. He had destroyed a beautiful city and its people, and as a result he had destroyed himself—his soul. Alone he sat there, mourning his actions until he heard someone cry.
Ashok stood up and turned in its direction. He had taken care of as many men as he could, and had sent those who had a chance at surviving, to hospitals. He wanted to save as many lives as possible, in repentance. The agonized cry continued. Ashok rushed towards the voice, in the hope of saving another man. But when he reached it, he saw that the vultures were eating the bare flesh from a man’s chest and face. The man couldn’t do anything—he was heavily wounded and both his arms were missing. He was unable to move because of a spear protruding from his back. Ashok saw the pitiful condition of the man, his heart filled with remorse, and yet again he blamed himself for the man’s condition. He reached for the man and waved away the vultures.
Ashok looked at the man’s face. One of his eyes had popped out and his face was covered in blood. His shoulders were bleeding where his arms had been cut off. The man, panting heavily, looked at Ashok with his one eye. Ashok saw that he was struggling to open this eye. He bent down to the man and tried to remove the spear from his back, but the man resisted by turning his body away from Ashok. He tried to smile at Ashok with his trembling lips, but the pain made the smile fade. He struggled, still breathing discreetly. Ashok saw tears rolling down the man’s eye. He reached out to wipe them but the man resisted again, gathered his strength, tried to catch his breath and controlled his tears. He shouted and then laughed and said, ‘Look, heavens, who has come here. The man who killed lakhs of my brethren, is in front of me. It’s a pity that I have no arms, else I would have stabbed you and ripped your heart out…’
Ashok could clearly see the anger on his deformed face. He replied, ‘I regret my actions. I regret this war. When I look around and see all these corpses, my heart is filled with sorrow. Let me help you…’ The man retorted, ‘Ashok—the one without shok[2]—now grieves? Is the one, who has been called “Chand Ashok” for his fierce victories, suddenly sad about yet another conquest, another victory? You want me, a dying man, to believe you?’
Ashok cried, ‘O, poor soul! Let me help you live—you are struggling in pain…’ The man cut him off. ‘You are the poor soul, Ashok. Your sins are too many to seek repentance for in this life.’
Ashok waved off the flies trying to sit on the man’s face. The man looked at Ashok and saw a face filled with grief. It was as if he could look directly into Ashok’s soul, and there he saw a man begging for forgiveness. He said, ‘I get it… I completely get what you are going through. So, Ashok is really trying to repent? He is trying to wash off his sins by saving as many lives as he can? O poor Ashok, listen to the words of a dying man. Death is beautiful, death is peace, death is the ultimate solace, the ultimate freedom. You attacked Kalinga, because we were freedom loving people who refused to come under your reign. You attacked Kalinga, for it was the only region out of your reach. You attacked Kalinga, for we had the benefit of trade through the sea routes and were prospering. You attacked Kalinga solely for your greedy ambitions—your dream of conquering all of India. But, you know what? I am a Kalingan, and I would rather die than live under your rule. We might have lost the war, but what you have lost is much greater. You have lost the very emotion that makes you human, that makes you feel for another human. Look around you, Ashok.
You tried to snatch the freedom of so many people, but what did you get in return? So many corpses. But these aren’t just corpses. We are all making a mockery of you. All of us are laughing at your face. You think you have won the war, but you have won nothing. You have only lost. You have lost things that can never be recovered.’
The man looked into Ashok’s eyes and saw his tears—saw that he was truly repentant. Ashok tried to reach for the man, but as soon as he did so, the man turned again, making the spear sink deeper into his back. He cried in agony as the wound deepened. Ashok reached for him once again, but the man spat blood on his hand. He said, ‘O Ashok, mighty emperor, I can see the pain in your eyes. I can see it as you helplessly try to save my life. I can see that you really are moved by your deeds, that you truly repent what you have done. But I don’t want to live at your mercy. I don’t want to be saved. The life which I would receive by your hands would not be a life worth living.’ Ashok watched helplessly as the man turned again, crying in pain as the spear pierced his stomach. But before he could reach out for him, the man shouted, ‘Ashok, mark my words, as these are the words of a dying man. They are bound to be true, because men don’t lie on their deathbeds. Ashok, I curse you…’ And as the man took another turn, his body slipped down the slope and right into the depths of the Daya River. Ashok couldn’t hear the man’s last words, as the river swallowed him. Ashok saw corpses floating down the river, which had turned red. He, Ashok, the King of Kings, was responsible for all of this. His reflection in the water was red, as if the man staring back at him was saying, ‘This is the real you.’ The sun’s reflection was also red. He had made the world so bloody, that even the sun seemed to be drenched in blood…
Ashok jumped into the river and swam downwards amidst the corpses, trying to find the man. He emerged after a few minutes, unable to find him. His ministers were standing by the shore, and they saw him, bathed in red, clothes dripping scarlet. They said, ‘Your majesty, we saw you jumping into the river, so we rushed here. Why did you jump? There is a whirlpool up ahead. We could have lost you. Are you fine?’
Ashok simply replied, with a stern face and in a stern tone, combining authority and deference: ‘No more conquests. No more wars.’
Ashok and his ministers left. The water in the Daya River appeared to be calm, flowing silently, taking away all the grief and pain of the people of Kalinga. The river had been a silent spectator to the gruesome and fierce battle of Kalinga. It had a lot of stories to tales to tell: of truth, of lies, of trust, of betrayal, of valour and of fear; tales one might believe and tales one might not.
Even today, if one goes and sits on the shore of the Daya River, one will hear the tale the water is trying to tell. But back then, the water was telling a different tale. A huge wounded fish jumped out of the water, restlessly trying to remove the thing that was hurting it. Piercing the tail of that huge fish, was a spear, and that spear protruded through a man.
The more the fish jumped, the more the spear moved inside the man, making him bleed. Taking one final leap, the fish shook its tail with such force that the man was freed from the spear, and fell on the shore. His dangling eye was no more with him. In its place, there was a hole through which flesh and a bit of skull was visible. He was wet and bleeding, and lay there among his brethren, looking at the sky. He didn’t know what to do with his life. He had no arms, he had lost one eye and there was a hole in his stomach. But there was only one thought on his mind: revenge. He voiced it in his head: ‘I will avenge my people. I will take my revenge on you, Ashok…’
The man rose to his feet, and started limping to where the Kalingan army was stationed. He stumbled upon the corpses of his brethren, as if they were trying to stop him from doing what he was about to. He moved them aside and finally reached the tents, where he collapsed and screamed, ‘Save me…’
[1] Undivided India
[2] Sorrow
Publisher : Rupa Publications India (20 November 2018)
Language : English
Paperback : 224 pages
ISBN-10 : 9353047641
ISBN-13 : 978-9353047641
Item Weight : 238 g
Country of Origin : India
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