Chankya's Chant (50 page)

The man who had appointed Hameed—Rashid— looked at the happenings through his binoculars from a safe distance. It was time to leave.

‘Hameed could not have planned the sabotage by himself. Someone else guided and influenced him. We must get to the bottom of it,’ said Agrawalji worriedly.

‘No one messes with Chandini and gets away with it, Menon!’ hissed Gangasagar as he turned towards his secretary. ‘If anyone thinks he has the balls to fuck with me, I want his balls!’

‘Hameed was appointed to his post on the recommendation of Ikram, it seems,’ said Agrawalji.

‘It was Intelligence Bureau men, dressed up as cops, who were sent to grab Hameed. Hameed must now be made to talk—he can tell us who wants Chandiniji out of the way. Shall I tell the director of the Intelligence Bureau to make him talk?’ asked Menon.

‘No. I have asked the director to pass Hameed on to Sachla Devi—she’ll do the needful,’ said Gangasagar.

‘Sachla Devi? But she’s a eunuch. What will she do?’ asked Agrawalji.

‘I want his balls. She’ll find them for me.’

Hameed looked around him furtively, terrified by the ferocious eunuchs that surrounded him. He had been forced to drink a mild mixture of milk and opium, just enough to get him to open up, but not enough to lessen the fear. He lay spread-eagled and naked on a hardsurfaced bed, his hands and feet bound to the posts. A cord had been tied tightly around his testicles to halt the flow of blood to his genitals. Every few hours, the head eunuch would tighten the cord causing him to faint. They would throw water on his face to revive him and he would again feel the intense searing pain from the cord around his privates.

The eunuchs surrounding him were praying to Bahucharamata—an avatar of Durga. They were holding him down as their leader, Sachla Devi, took out a sharp, gleaming surgical scalpel, its edges twinkling under the overhead light. She recited some prayers with her eyes closed, holding the scalpel in her cupped hands and outstretched arms, almost as if she were offering the blade to a higher power. She then opened her eyes and said to him, ‘It seems that you aren’t much of a man. I’ve been assigned the task of donating your testicles to a more deserving one!’

Hameed screamed a gut-wrenching wail. Tears poured down his face as he pleaded, ‘Please, I’ll tell you whatever you want! Take whatever money I have! Just don’t hurt me! Please! Mercy!’

‘Hush, little one, hush,’ said Sachla Devi, as she walked over to his face and wiped his tears with her kerchief. ‘This should be the happiest day of your life. Not many people achieve the honour of serving Bahucharamata for the rest of their lives. You are indeed blessed. Stop crying, blessed one.’

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ shrieked Hameed. ‘I just wanted a better life for myself. I would never have sabotaged the chopper. I am a good, decent and honest man—’

‘You’re not a man! You shall never be a man! If you want my blessings, you shall tell me the truth. Who is the scoundrel who convinced you to perform this vile act? Attempting to assassinate the very incarnation of Devi!’

‘I’ll tell you everything! Please don’t castrate me! Please! Oh God, please! The man who put me up to it called himself Rashid—he works for R&S Aviation. I’ve even kept Ikrambhai informed. I’ve told you everything, please let me go!’

‘I’m happy that you’ve told me the truth, blessed one. It is important to make this journey with a clean heart,’ said Sachla Devi, as the scalpel severed his genitals in one single swift movement. Hameed was unable to scream because the intense, incandescent pain caused him to black out. He only awoke when they inserted the wooden plug into where his genitals had once been and poured hot oil in to cauterise the wound.

T
he palace of Nebuchadrezzar II in Babylon was a study in opulence. The king had spared no detail in cedar wood, bronze, gold, silver or precious stones. An underground passage connected the two halves of the city that lay divided by the river Euphrates. A short distance away from the palace stood the verdant Hanging Gardens of Babylon built by the king to heal his ailing wife Amytis. Nebuchadrezzar was the greatest builder of all. Magnificent temples in honour of the various gods of the Babylonian pantheon dotted the city landscape. A marvellous bridge across the Euphrates had been built, supported on asphalt-covered brick piers that were engineered to reduce resistance from and turbulence in the river. The city was virtually impregnable through a triple-layered wall defence system.

It was the eleventh of June and inside the palace of Nebuchadrezzar lay the sick and dying conqueror of the world. Just a month away from thirty-three, Alexander had spent a night drinking excessively at a banquet organised by his dear friend Medius of Larissa. By the time the night was over, Alexander was shaking violently from tremors of malarial fever. Alexander’s royal cupbearer, Iollas, knelt by Alexander’s side, offering him sips of the medicated water that had been specifically sent by Antipater—Alexander’s supreme commander of his European forces—to cure him of the fever. What the divinity did not know was that his medicated water contained hellebore and strychnine—a deadly mixture— that had been transported secretly to Babylon inside a mule’s hoof by Antipater’s son, not to cure but to kill Alexander, once and for all.

As news of Alexander’s sickness began circulating, the troops became anxious. Finally, the generals were left with no alternative but to allow the soldiers to meet Alexander for a final farewell. They were admitted into his bedchamber one at a time. Alexander, who could no longer utter a word, simply gestured mildly with his weak hands as they met him. A day later, the immortal being was dead.

‘Alexander has died in Babylon!’ shouted the infantry.

‘And Phillipos has been killed in Bharat!’ yelled the cavalry.

‘This is the time to strike!’ urged Chandragupta.

‘What are we waiting for?’ asked Sasigupta.

The combined forces of Chandragupta and Sasigupta thundered out of their temporary camp, as thousands of horses pounded the earth and threw up a huge dust storm. The rumble of the hooves of the beasts was a dreadful, ominous sound, the roll of a machine of death.

Over the next few days they would overrun all the provinces directly administered by the Macedonians. This was relatively easy, given that the structure of command of the Macedonian forces had completely broken down following the assassination of Phillipos. The death of Alexander was an added advantage as it had resulted in a power struggle at the very top of the Macedonian hierarchy with Seleucus’ own position compromised.

‘The death of a single Alexander is viewed as a tragedy by the Macedonians, but the thousands of deaths caused by his imperial ambitions is considered a mere statistic,’ said Chandragupta angrily to Sasigupta. It made his blood boil.

Rakshas seemed to have made himself quite at home in his new surroundings after his exit from Magadha. At his new residence in Takshila, he sat on a gilded chair in the courtyard, his rich cream turban twinkling with diamonds. A pair of gold-handled yaktail flywhisks swished in tandem, held by a pair of utterly gorgeous courtesans. A golden umbrella held by a
chhatradhara
— umbrella-bearer—shaded him from the sun, while another of his attendants held his sapphire-ruby encrusted sword. He sat barefoot, his boar-skin and silver sandals lying to one side. Another courtesan waved a fan woven from palm leaves,
usira
grass and peacock feathers to keep him cool. All his female attendants wore transparent long
antariyas
with loose
kayabandhs
tied in a knot at the centre, the diaphanous material leaving very little to the imagination.

As Chanakya walked in unannounced, Rakshas hastily arose from his chair shooing away the nubile maidens that guarded his elegant person. ‘I see you’ve made yourself quite comfortable, Rakshas,’ commented Chanakya, grinning as he saw the opulence that surrounded the inimitable erstwhile prime minister of Magadha. ‘I also see that the gifts intended for Alexander by Dhanananda have been put to good use,’ said Chanakya, his voice like satin. Rakshas winced. He knew that nothing ever escaped the ugly bastard’s eyes.

‘A man must eat,’ said Rakshas good-naturedly. ‘I’m sure you are delighted I am depleting Dhanananda’s wealth.’

‘As also that of the unfortunate citizens of Magadha,’ said Chanakya, not allowing Rakshas the luxury of having the last word. ‘In any case, my dear friend Rakshas, I’m not here to discuss the penury that surrounds you. I need to chat with you regarding a rather important matter— your contribution to the overthrow of Dhanananda!’

‘I am with you, acharya. The scoundrel took away from me the only woman I truly loved,’ he said as he gestured for his sword-bearing nymph to bring it over. He picked up the heavy sword by its handle and theatrically declared, ‘I shall fight to the finish! Only one of us—Dhanananda or I—shall live!’

Chanakya snickered. ‘Oh no, my dear Rakshas. I do not need you to do something as mundane as fighting with a sword. Your delicate hands and your precious life cannot be compromised.’

‘Are you questioning my bravery, acharya?’ asked Rakshas indignantly.

‘My friend, what is the much-touted bravery that we talk of? Bravery is simply being the only one who knows that you’re afraid! Tchah! Your value lies in that scheming brain of yours, not bravery. I need your little grey cells— your
know-how
. Even more importantly—your
know-who
!’

‘I’m at your service, acharya. I shall help you in whatever way I can to fight Dhanananda,’ said Rakshas bombastically. ‘No, no, no, Rakshas, I don’t need your help in fighting Dhanananda. I need your help in winning without a fight. And the solution lies with someone that you know intimately. His name is Bhadrashala.’

The alehouse at the corner of Yama road and Rangopajivi avenue was one of the best in Magadha. Unlike the other pubs that had a common drinking area, this one had independent rooms that could be booked by serious drinkers. Each room had comfortable mattresses, round cushions to rest one’s elbows in Roman fashion, low tables, large windows for ventilation, fresh flowers and perfumed water. Very beautiful female attendants—
ganikas
—served customers from a long list of alcoholic brews fermented from rice, flour, beans, grapes, liquorice, jaggery, mango, honey, wood apple, pepper and other spices.

Adjoining the alehouse was another equally profitable venture—a gambling parlour. This one was famous for dice as well as wagers on every conceivable event. A seasoned gambling master—a towering hulk of a man with the physique of a bouncer—lorded over the house, ensuring that patrons followed his rules and that only undoctored dice were used. He was particular to a fault. His licence from the chief controller of Gambling and Betting was under review and he couldn’t afford any cock-ups. Five per cent of the aggregate winnings went to the state exchequer of Magadha as taxes, and additional sums went unofficially to keep the government off his back.

The patron at table six used to be a favourite of the gambling master. He had spent the last few hours throwing dice and losing heavily, as was almost always the case. His debts were becoming unmanageable but the gambling master couldn’t pluck up the courage to tell him that further credit would not be extended.