Chankya's Chant (10 page)

‘Om! Salutations to Brihaspati and Sukra, the gurus of the gods and antigods, and the originators of the science of politics,’ started Chanakya as an opening invocation, facing Dhanananda seated on his royal throne with Rakshas standing at his right hand. ‘Om!’ chanted the assembly in chorus.

‘O enlightened teacher, how can society work in harmony towards the progress of the kingdom?’ asked Rakshas.

‘By performing one’s duty. The duties of a
Brahmin
are studying, teaching and interceding on man’s behalf with the gods. The duties of a
Kshatriya
are bearing arms and protecting all life. The duties of a
Vaishya
are trading, manufacturing and producing wealth. The duties of a
Shudra
are to serve the three higher
varnas
,’ declared Chanakya, knowing fully well that the king seated at the throne was a Shudra.

Rakshas was malevolently pleased. He had already lit the spark. It would not be too long before an explosion occurred. Surprisingly, Dhanananda maintained his composure and allowed the remark to slip.

‘Acharya, what should be the qualities of a king?’

‘An ideal king should be eloquent, bold, endowed with sharp intellect, strong memory and keen mind. He should be amenable to guidance. He should be strong and capable of leading the army. He should be just in rewarding and punishing. He should have foresight and avail himself of opportunities. He should be capable of governing in times of peace and times of war. He should know when to fight and when to make peace, when to lie in wait and when to strike. He should preserve his dignity at all times, be sweet in speech, straightforward and amiable. He should eschew passion, anger, greed, obstinacy, fickleness, and backbiting. He should conduct himself in accordance with the advice of elders—’

‘Oh shut up! I do not need this sermon!’ interrupted Dhanananda in a fit of rage. The court was stunned into a silence one could touch. Rakshas was at a loss for words. He had not expected such an instant result.

‘I agree with you, O King. You do not need my advice. My advice is meant for those who have the intrinsic capacity to absorb and implement my advice. You, unfortunately, have neither!’ thundered Chanakya. Katyayan cringed inwardly. Why had he brought Chanakya here? He had unwittingly placed his own hand within the lion’s jaws.

‘Rakshas! Who is this ugly oaf that you deem a revered teacher? He’s not fit to be amongst us, leave alone lecture us!’ demanded Dhanananda.

‘O noble King. He is Chanakya, the son of the dear departed Chanak,’ explained Rakshas slyly.

‘Ah! I now understand. When I ordered for that impudent dimwit’s head to be cut off, I should also have done the same for his son. Rats have a nasty habit of multiplying,’ observed Dhanananda.

‘Once again, I must agree with you, O King,’ said Chanakya, ‘you were unwise to leave me alive. An enemy should always be destroyed to the very final trace—just as I shall destroy you and your perverted dynasty one day,’ predicted Chanakya calmly.

‘Have this wretch arrested and sent to Nanda’s Hell. He can think up ways for my downfall under the tongs and probes of the talented Girika! Catch him by his puny pigtail as one catches a rat by its tail!’ shrieked Dhanananda as his royal guards moved towards Chanakya.

Chanakya’s hands went to his shikha and untied the knot that held the individual strands of hair together. In spite of his fury, Dhanananda’s curiosity was piqued and he remarked, ‘Untying your tail isn’t going to help you! A monkey shall always remain a monkey!’

‘O stupid and ignorant King, I have made it my sacred duty to unite the whole of Bharat so that it may stand up to the might of the foreign invaders at our doorstep. My first step shall be to expunge you from history. Today I take a sacred oath! I swear upon the ashes of my wise father and loving mother that I shall not re-tie my shikha until I have expelled you as well as the Macedonian invaders from my country and united it under an able and benevolent ruler!’ swore Chanakya as the guards caught hold of him by his now untied hair and dragged him towards Nanda’s Hell.

A
grawalji, I would like, with your blessings, to relinquish my service in your employment,’ said Gangasagar. Over the years he had learned everything that Agrawalji possessed in his bag of tricks. He was grateful but wanted to move on.

‘Why, Ganga? You’ve learned so much under my tutelage. Why throw it all away?’

‘Sir, I think that I can help you better from outside than from within.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In India’s untidy democracy, politics and business shall always need each other. The former is about power but needs money to realise it; the latter is about wealth but needs power to create and sustain it. Let me become your political strength.’

‘And what would you want from me?’

‘Economic support. I shall repay it with political support when you need it.’

‘My blessings are with you, Gangasagar.’

Gupta, the paan vendor, was blissfully smoking his cheroot as he lovingly layered lime, cardamom, areca nuts, and rose-petal paste onto a bright green betel leaf for Gangasagar. The filth surrounding his stall was unbearable, a thick stench of sewage making it impossible to breathe. ‘That’s why I smoke these cheroots,’ said Gupta, ‘they make it easier to breath in this foul air. I don’t mind the carcinogens!’

Kanpur was home to some of India’s biggest tanneries, and the area housed one of them. Hides came to the tannery with animal flesh and hair still hanging on them and the tannery used urine and limestone sludge to remove the residue. The workers then treated the hides with pigeon droppings. A permanent and disgusting smell of rotting flesh, stale urine and pigeon shit hung over the entire area. The poorest of the poor worked in tanneries like this one and they had no alternative but to live in shanties around the area. The result was a burgeoning slum.

For the wealthy of Kanpur, slums like this one were embarrassing boils that needed to be lanced; for those who lived in them, the slum was their only source of sustenance—no matter how wretched. With just one lavatory for every fifteen hundred dwellers, most residents were left with little alternative but to defaecate out in the open drains. Stinking slaughterhouses that supplied the hides to the tanneries discharged bloody remains into the very same open sewers choked with untreated human and industrial waste. Typhoid, cholera and malaria were common conditions in this hellhole.

Along its perimeter were little shops like those of Gupta. The slum was a self-sufficient little community and paan and cigarette stalls, tea shops, grocery stores, and chemists did roaring business because they had captive consumers who lived right there. ‘Are there any schools here?’ asked Gangasagar, masticating his paan.

‘There used to be a municipal school but the teachers ran away. The local mafia thugs wanted the space to set up their bootlegging operation,’ said Gupta, blowing a puff of acrid smoke. ‘The local politicos are quite happy to wax eloquent about the need for schools to educate our young, but the reality is that they wish to keep us illiterate and uneducated. It’s the perfect way to maintain a vote bank,’ said Gupta conspiratorially.

‘If I open a school here, will parents send their children?’ asked Gangasagar.

‘I don’t know about the others, but I’ll send my daughter happily,’ said Gupta.

‘What’s her name?’

‘Chandini. She’s just ten.’

He was a rough and uncouth character but his clothes were immaculate. His paan-stained teeth matched the colour of his eyes, blood-red. Not that Ikrambhai ever drank. It was against his religion. He ran extremely profitable ventures in land-grabbing, illegal betting, extortion, and bootlegging. But he refused to drink. His eyes were red because he rarely slept. Hard work was essential, even if you were a slumlord. His swarthy skin boldly contrasted with the pure-white embroidered kurta that he wore. The buttons were sparkling diamonds and on his fingers he wore several rings, each set with a different stone.

He wore a ruby to give him good health and longevity, although his own longevity often meant the reduced life-expectancy of others. He wore a cat’s-eye to bestow him with patience, and he often remained exceedingly patient while his thugs beat up a poor sucker who refused to fall in line. That’s why he also wore a white pearl, to keep him cool and calm. The yellow sapphire was for increasing his wealth, which seemed to multiply quite miraculously, and the diamond was to keep him sexually potent, not that he needed any aid in the virility department. The green emerald was to enable him to communicate better and the coral was to protect him from the evil eye—of which there were many, given his profession.

‘Why aren’t you wearing a blue sapphire?’ asked Gangasagar as he looked at all the various stones that embellished Ikrambhai’s fingers.

‘Why? What will that do for me?’

‘It will give you power and influence—real power and influence.’

‘Bah! I already have that. No one in this slum dare do anything without my say-so,’ he said with pride, his eyes boring into Gangasagar.

‘But what about the rest of the world? Your universe is this tannery and the slum. There’s so much good that someone with your abilities could do for the entire city— even the state perhaps.’

‘You mean setting up gambling dens and bootlegging warehouses across the city?’ asked Ikrambhai earnestly.

‘There’s not much difference between running an empire such as yours and running a city administration. I often feel that take-no-shit guys like you would run the city better. That’s why I’m here to suggest that you enter politics. I shall be your guru!’

Agrawalji had happily advanced the sum needed to finance the school. It wasn’t a very large sum though —just enough for lights, fans, a blackboard, basic furniture, a lick of paint and lots of books. Ikrambhai inaugurated it. Gangasagar knew that he needed the support of Ikrambhai.

‘Why are you giving him any credit?’ asked Agrawalji. ‘You’re doing all the hard work—including teaching the children history—and I’m coughing up the cash.’

‘You can do much more with a kind word and a gun than a kind word alone,’ answered Gangasagar. ‘Allowing him to take some of the credit for the school has ensured that we’re not bothered by his goons. Do you know he’s threatened all the parents that he’ll thrash them if they don’t send their kids to the school?’ laughed Gangasagar.