Skip to main content

Narendra meets Ashoka

Satire

“Why did you write this?” Narendra questioned Ashoka.

They had just walked by one of the many rock edicts erected by Ashoka.  It said:

But the Beloved of the Gods does not consider gifts of honour to be as important as the essential advancement of all sects. Its basis is the control of one’s speech, so as not to extol one’s own sect or disparage that of another on unsuitable occasions... On each occasion one should honour the sect of another, for by doing so one increases the influence of one’s own sect and benefits that of the other, while, by doing otherwise, one diminishes the influence of one’s own sect and harms the other... therefore concord is to be commended so that men may hear one another’s principles.*

“Conquest is imposing one’s ideas on others.  One gets sick of that eventually,” said Ashoka with a weary smile.

“You used religion to make your mark in history.  I’m doing the same.  How can you blame me?”  Narendra asked.

“History is a series of blames and claims.  When you put forward claims, you’re sure to face blames.”

“But I’m doing it all for the development of Hindustan.  See what the Muslims are doing.  They are using religious terrorism.  See what the Christians are doing.  They are using economic terrorism....”

“And you’re combining both.”  Ashoka laughed.  It was a faint, ghostly laugh.

“It’s very easy for you to admonish me.  You’ve already made your mark in history.  And you changed Hindustan into Buddhastan.  Then came the Iblis and made it Muslimstan.  And then came the British and made it Isaistan....”

“Did you ever take a look at the Census of your country, Narendra?  Do you know how many Muslims are there in your kingdom?  How many Isais?”

“I can’t read all that stuff.  I am a chaiwallah, don’t you know that, and a proud one at that?”

“No problem in being a chaiwallah, my dear.  Only chaiwallahs possessing ambition can be a conqueror.  Intellectuals like my Vikramaditya or your Manmohan can only depend on Vetalas or Sonias and send the money of the country to Swiss Banks.”

The mention of Swiss Banks made Narendra’s beard bristle.

“I’m trying to get all that money back.”

“The day you get that back you will cease to be a king, Narendra.  Black money is a Trojan horse.  Don’t ever deal with it.”

Narendra looked at another Rock Edict which said, “Don’t give or receive bribes.”

“Black money, bribes, corruption, sin... Can you get rid of them?  What are you?  An incarnation of God or a Conqueror?”

“I’m a simple chaiwallah.”

“Stop thinking that you’re a chaiwallah.  Understand that you are the Emperor, the Rajadhiraja of Hindustan.  Shed your complex.  Then you will understand life from  a different perspective.  Perspectives make all the difference, you know.  Now come and have lunch with me.  The best chicken and mutton are waiting for us.  Even beef from the sacrificial offering in the temple is likely to be there.”  They were approaching Ashoka’s palace.

Narendra’s stubbly beard stood as fully erect as it possibly could. 

“I am a vegetarian.”

“Don’t make a religion of even your food, my dear man.  Stop carrying your cooks around wherever you go.  Learn to appreciate the diversity in the world.”

“No, no, I can’t do that.  I have some principles.”

“You should let go some of them.  Principles are meant for intellectuals and saints.  You are a conqueror.  You can kill people and yet be a vegetarian.  You can eat chicken and still be a vegetarian.”

Narendra didn’t know what to say in spite of his eloquence of which he was very proud.

“You know what your problem is, Narendra?”  Ashoka looked into his eyes with a naughty grin.  “You never knew love.  You could not even hug a woman close to your bosom.  You knew only conquests.  Every conqueror worth his salt is also a lover.  You never learnt that.”

“My predecessor, Atal, was a bachelor too,” protested Narendra.

“Oh, Atal,” Ashoka sneered.  “He was an intellectual.  Worse still, a poet.  Poets and intellectuals don’t leave footprints in history.  They leave words.  We leave footprints.  Made in blood.  Human blood.”

The smell of chicken tikka and mutton korma wafted in the air.

Narendra’s nose turned upward. 

“Swachch Bharat,  I have to do much more for Swachch Bharat,” he muttered to himself.  Then he shook hands with Ashoka.  “Good bye,” he said.  

As he walked toward the flock of Black Commandos waiting for him with a fleet of bulletproof vehicles he took out his mobile phone and clicked a selfie.  Having posted the selfie on Facebook, he called his confidante, “Amit, go ahead and offer the lakhs to all infidels for converting to our side.  I don’t want another Kalinga in history.  Let money do the business.”

He felt elated.  He felt converted.


* Ashoka’s Major Rock Edict XII, Translated by Romila Thapar in Ashoka and the Decline of the Maurya

Comments

  1. Dear Sir,

    Please see this link for “Meat consumption in Veda” :
    http://truthabouthinduism.wordpress.com/2014/01/01/beef-eating-in-vedas-and-other-hindu-texts/

    Thanks,
    DMR Sekhar

    ReplyDelete
  2. good one! pun intended.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Thanks for both the appreciation and the pun. Pun is an integral part of satire.

      Delete
  3. Every century and millenium is a repeat of its past with full measure of its intensity outdoing past just as we have aped the west in its worst characteristics in direct proportional to the level of globalization that is taking place..It is a cycle of accelerated follies and we call it history.....

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Mankind doesn't seem to learn anything much from history. We claim to be becoming more civilized whereas in fact wre are as savage as, if not more so than, our predecessors.

      Delete
  4. Sir, it is true that Ashoka's history can never be rewritten by any of the leaders (rulers) today.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. The world has become far more complex, to be fair to the present day leaders. Mr Modi would have been an Ashoka had he lived in those days, perhaps.

      Delete
  5. Yes. Even in Kalinga war, there would have been a sense of righteousness, sacrifice and bravery; but not in Godra riots. So the Chanda Ashoka can become Dhamma Ashoka; not a heartless CM, a custodian of the rights of ordinary people to lead a safe life. It was a coward's political drama.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It's only when he is out of power, his real personality will be subjected to honest scrutiny. Even then how many people would like to accept the truth is a question worth raising. People love heroes. If there are no heroes, they will create them.

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Adventures of Toto as a comic strip

  'The Adventures of Toto' is an amusing story by Ruskin Bond. It is prescribed as a lesson in CBSE's English course for class 9. Maggie asked her students to do a project on some of the lessons and Femi George's work is what I would like to present here. Femi converted the story into a beautiful comic strip. Her work will speak for itself and let me present it below.  Femi George Student of Carmel Public School, Vazhakulam, Kerala Similar post: The Little Girl

The Little Girl

The Little Girl is a short story by Katherine Mansfield given in the class 9 English course of NCERT. Maggie gave an assignment to her students based on the story and one of her students, Athena Baby Sabu, presented a brilliant job. She converted the story into a delightful comic strip. Mansfield tells the story of Kezia who is the eponymous little girl. Kezia is scared of her father who wields a lot of control on the entire family. She is punished severely for an unwitting mistake which makes her even more scared of her father. Her grandmother is fond of her and is her emotional succour. The grandmother is away from home one day with Kezia's mother who is hospitalised. Kezia gets her usual nightmare and is terrified. There is no one at home to console her except her father from whom she does not expect any consolation. But the father rises to the occasion and lets the little girl sleep beside him that night. She rests her head on her father's chest and can feel his heart...

The Ghost of a Banyan Tree

  Image from here Fiction Jaichander Varma could not sleep. It was past midnight and the world outside Jaichander Varma’s room was fairly quiet because he lived sufficiently far away from the city. Though that entailed a tedious journey to his work and back, Mr Varma was happy with his residence because it afforded him the luxury of peaceful and pure air. The city is good, no doubt. Especially after Mr Modi became the Prime Minister, the city was the best place with so much vikas. ‘Where’s vikas?’ Someone asked Mr Varma once. Mr Varma was offended. ‘You’re a bloody antinational mussalman who should be living in Pakistan ya kabristan,’ Mr Varma told him bluntly. Mr Varma was a proud Indian which means he was a Hindu Brahmin. He believed that all others – that is, non-Brahmins – should go to their respective countries of belonging. All Muslims should go to Pakistan and Christians to Rome (or is it Italy? Whatever. Get out of Bharat Mata, that’s all.) The lower caste Hindus co...

Goodbye, Little Ones

They were born under my care, tiny throbs of life, eyes still shut to the world. They grew up under my constant care. I changed their bed and the sheets regularly making sure they were always warm and comfortable. When one of them didn’t open her eyes after a fortnight of her birth, I rang up my cousin who is a vet and got the appropriate prescription that gave her the light of day in just two days. I watched each one of them stumble through their first steps. Today they were adopted. I personally took them to their new home, a tiny house of a family that belongs to the class that India calls BPL [Below Poverty Line]. I didn’t know them at all until I stopped my car a little away from their small house, at the nearest spot my car could possibly reach. They lived in another village altogether, some 15 km from mine. Sometimes 15 km can make a world of difference. A man who looked as old as me had come to my house in the late afternoon. “I’d like to adopt your kittens,” he said. He...

Unromantic Men

Romance is a tenderness of the heart. That is disappearing even from the movies. Tenderness of heart is not a virtue anymore; it is a weakness. Who is an ideal man in today’s world? Shakespeare’s Romeo and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Devdas would be considered as fools in today’s world in which the wealthiest individuals appear on elite lists, ‘strong’ leaders are hailed as nationalist heroes, and success is equated with anything other than traditional virtues. The protagonist of Colleen McCullough’s 1977 novel, The Thorn Birds [which sold more than 33 million copies], is torn between his idealism and his natural weaknesses as a human being. Ralph de Bricassart is a young Catholic priest who is sent on a kind of punishment-appointment to a remote rural area of Australia where the Cleary family arrives from New Zealand in 1921 to take care of the enormous estate of Mary Carson who is Paddy Cleary’s own sister. Meggy Cleary is the only daughter of Paddy and Fiona who have eight so...