Creation (27 page)

“I am near the exit, child. It is my duty. It is also a proof that I am close to the end. So I have no choice in the matter. I am obliged,” he smiled, “to play with string.”

“You know of Zoroaster?”

Gosala nodded. “From what I have been told, he must have been very young.” The old man wrung out his wet shawl. I began to feel wet, watching him. “It is a sign of extreme youth to worry about correct religious procedures, to invent heavens and hells and days of judgment. I do not mean this unkindly,” he added. “Thousands of years ago I, too, went through the same state. You see, it is inevitable.”

It is inevitable.

That was the chilling message of Gosala, and I have never forgotten it. In a long life I have yet to come across a world view as implacable as his. Although he was much reviled throughout India, there were quite a number of people who saw him as one so close to the exit that they believed every word he said. Naturally, I did not.

For one thing, practically speaking, if Gosala’s vision of an inexorable immutable creation were to prevail, the result would lead to a complete breakdown of human society. If good and evil are simply characteristics of a given creature’s place along that unfurling string, then there would be no need for right action if one were, say, at the beginning of the string, and without right action there can be no civilization of any kind, much less salvation when the Truth defeats the Lie. Even so, I find it curious that not a day of my life has passed that I do not think of Gosala and his string.

SINCE THERE ARE SO MANY RIVERS IN India and no proper bridges, the ferryboat is an absolute necessity. I did not truly comprehend this until it came time for us to cross the swollen Yamuna River. As we put ourselves at the mercy of a pair of villainous ferryboat men, I suddenly realized why the twenty-four so-called saviors of the Jains are called makers of the river-crossing. The Jains see this world as a rushing river. We are born on one bank, which is the life of the world. But then if we submit ourselves to the crossing-maker, we can pass over to the other side, to relief from pain, even to final release. This spiritual ferryboat is the emblem of purification.

The mundane ferryboat at Mathura proved to be nothing but a large raft which was poled across to the other side by a pair of rather weak saviors. I have never studied the Jaina religion sufficiently well to know if they ever enrich their ferryboat metaphor by remarking upon those unfortunates who drown, as we nearly did, in transit to the other side. But we survived the swirling yellow water, just as if we had been duly purified.

We then crossed overland to the Ganges, where several flat-bottomed boats were waiting to take us some two hundred miles downriver to the old and holy city of Varanasi, which is in the kingdom of Koshala but not far from the border of Magadha.

The journey between the two rivers was uneventful. The land is flat. Much of the original jungle has been cleared, and fields of rice have been planted. During the last century the population of the Gangetic plain has more than doubled, thanks to the ease with which rice can be grown. Not only do the monsoon rains feed that water-hungry crop but when the rains stop, the flatness of the country makes it easy for farmers to irrigate their fields with water from the always deep, swift, surprisingly cold Ganges River.

The roads were as bad as I had been warned. In open country, we followed trails of thick mud. In the jungles, we were at the mercy of guides who were paid by the day. As a result we spent more days than were necessary in that hot green wilderness, where snakes slither in the underbrush and mosquitoes of fantastic size drink the traveler’s blood. Although the Persian costume covers every bodily surface except the face and the tips of the fingers, the Indian mosquito’s proboscis can penetrate a three-layer turban.

We found the village people to be shy but kindly. According to Caraka, the country folk are of the old pre-Aryan stock, while the cities are the homes of the Aryan invaders. The two groups seldom mingle.

“It is the same here,” said Caraka, “as in the Dravidian south.”

“But you told me that there are no Aryans in the south.”

Caraka shrugged. “That may be,” he said. Caraka suffered from the congenital Indian vagueness. “But village people are a different breed from city people. They never want to leave their land and their animals.”

“Except,” I pointed out, “when they do.” Most popular Indian tales concern a village lad who goes to a great city, befriends a magician, marries the king’s daughter, and anoints himself with ghee, or clarified butter—a nauseous substance that the wealthy delight in. Periodically, temple priests bathe the images of their gods in this ill-smelling viscous liquid.

Varanasi is a huge city built on the south bank of the Ganges. The inhabitants like to say that it is the oldest inhabited city in the world. Since the world is very large and very old, I don’t see how they would know one way or the other. But I understand the sentiment. Babylonians also boast of the antiquity of their city. But whereas in Babylon there are many written records of previous times, there is not much writing to be found in any of the cities of India. Like the Persians, they prefer—at least until recently—the oral tradition.

For over a thousand years the Aryan conquerors have been reciting their songs or hymns of so-called divine knowledge; these are known as the vedas. The language of the vedas is very old and not at all like the modern dialects. Presumably it is the same Aryan speech that the original Persians spoke, and many of the narratives resemble those Persian stories old men still recite in the marketplace. They tell of the same sort of heroes and monsters, of elaborate wars and sudden revelations of divinity. Curiously enough, the Indian deity most often addressed is Agni, the god of fire.

Throughout India, the Brahmans carefully preserve these hymns. But among the Brahmans, there is a good deal of specialization. Some Brahmans are noted for their mastery of those vedas that deal with, let us say, the god Mithra or with a semidivine hero like Rama; others see to it that the sacrifices are performed properly, and so on.

Although the Brahmans comprise the highest Aryan class, the warriors tend to make fun of them and even their inferiors openly mock them in songs and theatrical performances. Brahmans are thought to be lazy, corrupt and impious. How familiar all this sounded to me! Thus do Persians regard the Magians. Yet the gods that the Brahmans serve are taken very seriously by many people. Agni, Mithra, Indra all have their devotees, particularly among the more simple Aryan classes.

I do not believe that anyone on earth understands all the complexities of the overlapping Indian religions. When confronted with a somewhat similar confusion of deities, Zoroaster simply denounced the whole lot as devils and swept them into the holy fire. Unfortunately, as smoke, they keep coming back.

In a heavy rain we docked at a wooden wharf in what looked to be the center of Varanasi. The governor of the city had been warned of our arrival, and we were met by a delegation of very wet officials. We were congratulated on our safe arrival. Most politely, we were told that no one travels in the rainy season. Obviously, the gods were pleased with us.

I was then brought a ladder so that I could climb to the top of an elephant. Since this was my first experience with an elephant, the driver tried to reassure me with the information that these beasts are quite as intelligent as men. Although I suspect that he was not the best judge of men, it is certainly true that elephants respond to a variety of spoken commands; they are also both affectionate and jealous. In fact, each elephant regards his driver as
his
driver, and should the driver show the slightest interest in another elephant, there will be a tantrum. A stable of elephants resembles nothing so much as the harem at Susa.

I sat on a sort of wooden throne beneath an umbrella. The driver then spoke to the creature, and our journey began. Since I had never before traveled so far above the ground, it was a long time before I dared look down at the muddy street, where a large crowd had gathered to see the ambassador from the far west.

Until quite recently, the name of Persia was unknown in the Gangetic plain. But as the growing kingdom of Magadha lacks good universities, the most intelligent of their young men are sent either to Varanasi or to Taxila to be educated. Naturally, Taxila is preferred to Varanasi because it is farther away, and young men always like to put as much distance as possible between themselves and home. As a result, at Taxila, the young Magadhans not only learn of the power of Persia but they are able to meet Persians from the twentieth satrapy.

We were received in the vice-regal palace by the viceroy of Varanasi. Although dark as a Dravidian, he belonged to the Aryan warrior class. At my approach, he bowed low. As I made my usual speech I saw that he was shuddering like a willow tree in a storm. He was plainly terrified, and I was deeply gratified. Let them fear Darius, I thought to myself,
and
his ambassador.

When I had finished my gracious remarks, the viceroy turned and indicated a tall pale man with a fringe of coppery hair just visible beneath a turban of gold cloth. “Lord Ambassador, this is our honored guest, Varshakara, lord chamberlain to the king of Magadha.”

Varshakara moved toward me with the ungainliness of a camel. Face to face, we greeted each other in the formal Indian manner. This involves numerous nods of the head and claspings of the hands—one’s own hands. There is no physical contact.

“King Bimbisara awaits with eagerness the ambassador of King Darius.” Varshakara’s voice was surprisingly thin for such a large man. “The king is at Rajagriha, and hopes to receive you there before the rains stop.”

“With eagerness the ambassador of the
Great
King looks forward to meeting King Bimbisara.” By this time I was able to conduct ceremonial conversations without an interpreter. By the end of my Indian embassy I was teaching the court language to Caraka.

At first I always referred to Darius as the Great King. But when Bimbisara’s courtiers started to use that title for Bimbisara, I then referred to Darius as the king of kings. They were never able to match that one.

“It is the happiest of coincidences,” said the chamberlain, tugging his green beard, “that we are both in Varanasi at the same time. It is my dearest wish and hope that we will be able to travel together to Rajagriha.”

“That would bring us joy.” I turned to the viceroy, wanting him to join in the conversation. But he was staring wildly at Varshakara. Obviously it was not I but the Magadhan who had so terrified the viceroy and his entourage.

Intrigued, I set aside protocol and asked, “What brings the Chamberlain to Varanasi?”

Varshakara’s smile revealed bright-red teeth; he was a constant chewer of betel leaves. “I am at Varanasi to be near the stallion,” he said. “At the moment he is in the deer park outside the city. He doesn’t like the rains any more than we do. But presently he will continue his sacred journey, and should he enter Varanasi—” Varshakara did not finish the sentence. Instead, he showed me all his bright-red teeth. Meanwhile, the viceroy’s dark face looked like the ashes of a long-dead fire.

“Whose horse,” I asked, “is in the deer park? And why is his journey sacred?”

“At least once in the reign of a truly great king, he arranges for the horse sacrifice.” I did not like the chamberlain’s use of the word great, but I said nothing. There would be time enough to set him straight. In my mind’s eye, I saw the eagle of Darius raised high above all India, and dripping with rain.

“A stallion is driven with a broom into the water. Then a four-eyed dog is clubbed to death by the son of a whore. As an Aryan priest, you will grasp the significance of this.”

I looked solemn; grasped nothing.

“The body of the dog then floats under the horse’s belly to the south where the dead live. After that, the stallion is set free, to roam as he chooses. Should he enter another country, the people of that country must either accept the overlordship of our king or fight for their freedom. Naturally, if they capture the horse, the king’s destiny is seriously ... shadowed. As you can see, the horse sacrifice is not only one of our most ancient rituals but, potentially, the most glorious.”

I now understood the nervousness of the viceroy of Varanasi. If the horse were to enter the city, the inhabitants would be obliged either to recognize Bimbisara as their king or to fight. But fight whom?

The chamberlain was happy to tell me. He was enjoying the terror of our hosts. “Naturally, we take no chances with our king’s destiny. The horse is always followed by three hundred of our best and noblest warriors. Each is mounted—though not on a mare! The stallion is denied sexual intercourse for a year, and so is the king. At night, he must sleep, chastely, between the legs of his most attractive wife. Meanwhile, here we are. Should the stallion enter Varanasi, then these good people”—Varshakara made an airy gesture that included the viceroy and his suite—“will become subjects of King Bimbisara, which I am sure they would not mind. After all, our king is married to the sister of their present ruler, the king of Koshala.”

“We are creatures—all of us—of fate,” sighed the viceroy.

“That is why I am here to persuade our friends, neighbors, cousins—you see, we think of the people of Varanasi as being already a part of the Magadhan family—to persuade them not to resist if the stallion should decide to enter the city, and drink deep from the Ganges.”

All in all, an inauspicious start to an embassy, I thought, as we were shown our quarters in the vice-regal palace. A war between Magadha and Koshala would certainly disrupt the iron trade; on the other hand, a war between two powerful states can sometimes be resolved by the intervention of a third power. Years before, an Indian king had offered to mediate between Cyrus and the king of the Medes. Naturally, he was turned down by both sides. Although westerners may travel east, easterners must never be encouraged to go west!

For the sake of the iron trade, I hoped that the horse would stay in the deer park. For the future glory of the Persian empire, I hoped that it would get thirsty and drink from the Ganges.