Nalanda, the ancient university stands amid ruins with its untold saga that is lost in antiquity. Set up by Emperor Narasimha Gupta (Baladitya) at the end of Gupta Empire (fifth century CE), ignited the lamp of education for many centuries and finally destroyed in 1200 CE, in the hand of Bakhtiyar Khilji. Systematic excavations of these largely forgotten remnants started in 1915. However, the saga of Nalanda remains largely untold and shrouded in mystery.
Twice I got the opportunity to visit the ruins, but could not understand ‘why’ the seats of learning like Nalanda and Taxila invoked invasion. This question is the biggest mystery in the history. However, unsolved mysteries always ignite wild imagination that conceives fantasies and fiction. ‘The Chronicle of Lost Empire’ is a historical fantasy set in the backdrop of Nalanda, when its glory was at the peak. Final days of Gupta Empire witnessed constant invasion of Huns. Emperor Skanda Gupta and Narasimha Gupta successfully repelled the enemies, but their successors could not. The last rulers of Gupta dynasty were short-lived and lost the imperial title. The empire shrank around Magadha and many smaller kingdoms rose as independent territories. Foreign invasions coupled with the aspiration of smaller kingdoms shook the fabric of the consolidated empire. However, History remains silent about the final fate of Huns and the dynasty. Why did the successors of Gupta Emperors fail to retain power? Was there any unknown force or a mighty warrior who stopped that invasion finally?
Where history remains silent, fantasy finds its place. The story commenced during King Kumar Gupta III’s (530 CE) reign when a fresh Hun invasion ransacked the very foundation of Magadha Empire and the kings of the smaller kingdoms were conspiring against each other to gain the title of Uttarapathapati. During the political turmoil, a prince vouchsafed to save his motherland from the alien force with the help Nalanda’s intellectual teachers. However, the protagonist discovers that ancient universities of Aryavarta held many secrets within their hearts for generation after generation that invokes the wrath of foreign invaders who were looking for the same. Unaware of the mysterious power of his enemies, the young prince trapped in palace intrigues and rivalry of smaller kingdoms found love in an unexpected way. Under the guidance of his mentor, he overcame all odds and finally faced the dilemma of choosing duty over love.
Love for fantasy and fiction encouraged me to write the ‘Chronicles of Lost Empire’ and hope that readers will enjoy the work. Historical facts may not be true in all cases; all the characters and events are purely imaginative and created only for entertainment purpose. Magical reality adds fantasy elements to this historical fiction. Any similarity of event or character, in reality, is purely coincidental and not made to insult any individual or groups.
A historical fantasy set in the backdrop of Nalanda and end of Gupta Empire depicts the horror of Hun invasion and power struggle between smaller kingdoms in an alternate universe bounded by magical reality. In popular history, we find that Hun leader Mihirkula was defeated by Emperor Narasimha Gupta Baladitya and Yasodharman of Malwa. However, here the fact has altered slightly. Hun invasion did not stop after Mihirkula’s defeat and one of his estranged son Mihikon claimed chieftainship. Mihikon became the follower of a dark cult whose sorcerer priests had the power to control Five Elements that have created the Universe. Mihikon’s men ransacked Taxila and got hold of some ancient secrets which gave them access to Elementary Weapons, long forbidden in Aryavarta. A group of scholars from Taxila fled to Pataliputra and took refuge in the Emperor’s court, who built up Nalanda to keep those ancient secrets away from foreign invaders. However, the damage was already done, successors of Narasimha Gupta could not withstand against the Elementary Weapons used by Mihikon and Magadha incurred a loss of men and wealth.
The story started during King Kumar Gupta III’s (530 CE) reign when a fresh Hun invasion ransacked the very foundation of Magadha Empire and kings of the smaller kingdoms were conspiring against each other to gain control over ‘Uttarapatha’ the longest trade route of Aryavarta. During the political turmoil, a prince vouchsafed to save his motherland from the alien force with the help of Nalanda’s intellectual teachers and the secret knowledge of Divyastra they were carrying for ages. However, palace intrigues and sibling rivalries compelled him to renounce his claim to the throne and he embraced the life of an ascetic for a greater cause. Determined to join Nalanda under eminent alchemist Budhaditya’s mentorship, the prince discovered that the university itself held mysteries within it that could change the world forever. Unaware of the baffling power of his enemies, the young prince entrapped in the political rivalry of Chandraketugarh and found love in an unexpected way. Under the guidance of his mentor, he overcame all odds and finally reached his objective, but just before the final battle, he faced the dilemma of choosing duty over love.
The sky was still dark and the hazy moon was lurking through the torn pieces of grey clouds. The soil on the earth was still damp as the last rain stopped only a few hours ago and it did not get enough time to soak the water in the soil. Prakashaditya took a deep breath and got the earthy scent of damp soil; the smell of Mother Earth; as his mother once told him. For awhile he became emotional to think about his mother, Prabha Devi; but again, he controlled himself. He had abandoned the palace life and forsaken his right to the throne to embrace a greater goal.
Prakashaditya spurred his steed towards the City Gate of Pataliputra. The city-dwellers seemed in deep sleep, only the night guards were patrolling, the lamp-keepers were checking the road-lamps and pouring oil into the oil pots if required. The pillar-like lampposts, planted on both sides of the Rajpath in the regular interval was spreading light on the isolated street. Some of the guards recognised their Prince and looked at him with curiosity. They replaced their curious glance with fear and respect; they bowed down their heads and asked other colleagues to do so. The chief guard once thought that the Prince was there to supervise them; so, he came towards him.
Raising his hand he stopped them, “Gallant warriors of Magadha; I am not here to inspect your work. I know you people are more sincere and dutiful than me. I am here on my own venture. Allow me to go.” His last words were more like a request rather than an order. They moved aside and provided him space.
Prakashaditya gave a final glance to the city of Pataliputra; the jewel of Magadha; his father’s empire. Suddenly his inner sense told him that it was no more an empire but a kingdom. His heart sank; his land required a brave warrior as a saviour not a craven like him as the next king. Those words were still fresh and ringing in his ears. He could not deny the truth but accepted. So, he decided to revoke his claim and stepped down from the line of inheritance. No doubt, Chandraditya, his half-brother would be a much better choice for Magadha.
Arch-shaped City Gate of Pataliputra silhouetted in distance, it was looking grotesque in feeble streetlight diffusing from the lamp-posts. The road leading outside the City Gate was wide enough for passing three chariots side by side. During the daytime, the steady flows of business usually flow in and out of the City Gate and the road outside the gate always remained stack with chariots and bullock carts. It directly connects the city centre to Uttarapath, the longest trade route of Aryavarta and thus farmers and traders often took the route to save their time. However, now the road seemed so isolated that he felt an empty feeling in his stomach. Perhaps, it was the fate of all human beings; ‘you would stay surrounded by companions, as long as they need you. Otherwise, you would find yourself alone like the Rajpath at midnight.’
The toll plaza was looking like a deserted hut under a gigantic arch. The keeper of the gate, who usually worked as the toll-collector sat on a wooden chair and a dog squatted on the floor just under the chair. The man with huge red turban donned in a red tunic and white dhoti was counting copper and silver coins piled on a wooden table placed in front of him. He threw an astonished glance at the prince and left his chair to salute him. Prakashaditya raised his hand and smiled, “Take care of Pataliputra. My friend; serve my father and his heir sincerely.” The last words he uttered in a whispering tone.
The City Gate above his head was looking like an architectural giant with its decorated stone pillars finely curved in form of animals and figurines. The centre of the arch had a crest depicting a big lion head located inside a circle resembled the Sun with flares; the dynastic symbol of Magadha engraved on the gate and imparted its name ‘Surya Toran’. Prakashaditya closed his eyes for awhile, now Chandraditya would carry the ‘Flame’ on the battlefield instead of him. He would face those mysterious invaders from the west; who called themselves Walxon, but Magadha people called them Swet Hun or white Hun. Little he knew about his enemies, but much he knew about their massacre. The horror of the last battle was still very fresh in his mind. He still could see the scene. ‘We were about to win; we were about to capture the chief of the Hun; but suddenly, fire engulfed everything. Gatiman jumped and crossed the fire circle safely, but cousin Soumyaditya and uncle Deval could not escape their fate. Elephants and horses scared to see fire around them; they started running here and there stampeding infantries and charioteers alike. I still could hear their last cry in nightmares.’
Prakashaditya tried to forget his past, but the scene came fresh in his mind. Suddenly he felt that his horse stumbled over something; he stopped the horse, dismounted and saw a small boulder in the road. Gatiman whined in pain. Prakashaditya got down and examined the horse’s front leg. Though the wound was not very serious, he decided to apply some medicinal herb on it. He looked around and found himself on a deserted Rajpath. He had left Pataliputra Krosh behind and currently standing in the middle of the Rajpath, which was leading to Odontopura. In between the capital of Magadha and Odontopura; there were other settlements and rest-houses, but the present locality had nothing except big trees and bushes. He saw a pillar type Krosh-Minar on which something was written in Sankhya Lipi; it was stating that Odontopura was thirty Krosh away; it meant more than seven Yojan.
The sign gave him a little relief and anticipated that within the second Prahar of the morning, he would be able to reach Nalanda. Now, his main job was to look for some medicinal herbs. Though the moonlight was not strong enough to show herbs; but the road lamps were enough for that. He saw small creeper plants around a big tree and took few of its leaves. He had seen Rajvaidya Ravibhadra using it on the wound of injured soldiers. He rubbed those leaves in his hand and pressed it against the wound. The horse felt a cooling sensation and softly made a neigh in relief.
Prakashaditya patted the horse affectionately; Gatiman was not only his horse but also his companion. The dark brown stallion had saved him from many evils in the past, he was best fitted to be a King’s horse, but he had chosen the wrong person as his rider. Within few hours his owner had to sacrifice everything; all his earthly wealth and had to embrace a new life; where wisdom would be his horse and knowledge would be his weapon.
With a soft whim, the horse declared that he was ready to carry his owner to his destination. Prakashaditya looked at the horse and patted him softly. He whispered, “Return to Pataliputra; serve a King; don’t serve a beggar, my dear.” However, the horse strongly denied his advice and whined. It seemed like that he ordered the Prince to mount on him. Prakashaditya smiled a bit; ‘Foolish imagination! A Horse is commanding its rider.’
He mounted on his horse. Gatiman seemed to sense his rider’s mind. He started running towards Odontopura. Prakashaditya tried to divert his mind from the past to the future and tried to guess what probable questions Acharya Budhaditya could ask him in the admission test. He knew little about alchemy; whatever he knew about the subject might not be enough to clear the examination. However, he required an alchemist’s guidance to save Magadha from future destruction. He hoped his mentor Acharya Padmanabha’s recommendation would help him.
Two more Krosh Miners were passed; Prakashaditya felt refreshing cold winds on his face and noticed that the eastern welkin was looking brighter. However, the sky was still full of cloud pieces and anytime rain could come again. He found himself in the centre of an empty village market. Small huts probably the shops were closed and the houses nearby were looking deserted. Its occupants might be sleeping. He smiled a bit; he had chosen this hour of the day only because of avoiding unnecessary gesture and interrogation. He wanted to keep his venture hidden from the entire world; even from his near and dear ones.
Four krosh and a half, it might be five krosh, southeast of Pataliputra, there was a plane separated from the Imperial Capital of Magadha by an intervening swell of hills and tablelands. The barren hilly land full of boulders had no sign of human habitation. The Rajpath was located in between two wall-like hills and the road had curved upwards to keep symmetry with the elevation of the land. The morning sun rays were falling softly on the crests of the hills. He had to cross these hills to enter Rajagriha, the erstwhile capital of Magadha. He had heard many stories regarding this hilly land. People of Pataliputra still believed that the place was inhabited by Nagvanshis; who could transform themselves into snakes. However, his mentor Acharya Padmanabha always discarded those myths and said that they were simple Vanavasi people trained in snake catching but poor in agriculture.
Suddenly, the sound of hoof beats and voice of men diverted his contemplation. He assumed that a convoy of a merchant or a local landlord was approaching. He had no desire of meeting anyone and discuss his future; so; he thought to hide behind a big boulder. The place had no scarcity of boulders and caves. He dismounted from his horse and asked the steed to remain behind a boulder. He found a cave opening behind it and entered.
With endurance, Prakashaditya was waiting for the group to cross the region. He appreciated his horse’s patience; Gatiman could camouflage himself nicely and applied the art many a time during emergencies. Some distance away he saw a big wheelhouse drawn by two draft-horses followed by a small group of Padatik soldiers and a dozen of horse riders clad in armours and elaborate scarlet turbans. The wheelhouse was in the middle of the procession; it was leading by six horse riders and trailing by another six. Padatik soldiers were carrying lances in their hands but the horse riders had curved swords or talwars.
Prakashaditya was familiar with the scene; he assumed that some high-born ladies were visiting somewhere; probably the Sacred Bodhi Tree for receiving Bhagawan Tathagata’s blessing. She might be a wife or a daughter to a high-ranking officer or some rich merchants, who owned Guilds in Pataliputra. Rich merchants or Vanik Sresthis often follow the princely lifestyle and maintained guards and sentries for personal safety.
The horses whinnied and suddenly halted in the midway. Prakashaditya felt irritated. He was waiting for long to avoid the crowd. The speed of the wheelhouse was very slow. He could not understand why the procession suddenly stopped.
A horse rider in bronze breastplate and scarlet turban spurred his horse to the front of the procession. Prakashaditya noticed that the man was carrying a sword in his scabbard and a flag in his hand; it had a symbol of two fishes entangled in a circle. So, he was not wrong; it was a merchant’s convoy. Probably the owner was associated with the overseas trade.
“Do you know who we are?” The man asked loudly. Prakashaditya tried to see whom he was speaking. He saw through the gap between two big boulders that the man on the horseback was speaking to a group of men. Those people were mere villagers of different age group. All of them were severely malnourished; had nothing but loincloths wrapped around their waists that covered up to the knees. Some of them were too skinny to project their bones. Amid the adults, a small skinny boy of five or four years was standing next to an old man with long grey beards and matted hairs.
“We just need some food.” The old man with grey beards pleaded. Prakashaditya’s heart sank to see the scene. He wished to share the food he was carrying with him, but now it would not be wise to come out from the cave.
“Food? We are carrying food for the monastery; not for the robbers. Do you know who we are?” The man raised his flag above and wanted to say something. Suddenly a cold manly voice stopped him, “Officer; just pushed them aside.”
Prakashaditya could not identify the owner of the voice or from where he was speaking but guessed that the man might be inside the wheelhouse.
Now, the most unfortunate thing happened before Prakashaditya. The man on the horseback took a spear from a Padatik soldier and applied the blunt portion of it to disperse the crowd. The sudden attack scattered the group in many directions and the little child could not keep his balance. He wanted to move at the left side, where a large boulder was looming over a deep gorge. The boy tried to stand on it without noticing that one of the horses of the wheelhouse had just raised its front legs in the air. The boy tried to avoid the kick, but he lost his balance. The boy fell on the boulder first and his body slipped towards the gorge.
“BABA! MAA!” The boy shouted in fear. He was dangling on the gorge holding a sharp edged rock projecting outwards. However, that portion of rock already had cracks on it and it would not remain in its position for long to support him. The old man with grey beards tried to run towards him; but the soldiers blocked his way with spears; “No one will move; let the wheelhouse pass.” The chief said.
“But my grandson will die.” The man pleaded in a feeble voice.
“Let him die. When you cannot feed him; then let him die.” The chief smirked.
“Enough is enough;” Prakashaditya shouted and came out from the hiding place. “I’ll save the child now.”
The man on the horseback, probably the chief guard raised his spear and others followed him. They surprised to see a well-fed young man among those half-starved people. Though he was no longer looking like a prince, still his well-built physique and ivory white complexion was enough to claim his elite status. However, he was a total mismatch among the villagers. His long-sleeved tunic pastel yellow in colour was of the softest cotton fabric available in Magadha, below the waist an heavily embroidered fabric belt clasped around his slender waist with elegance, the white silk dhoti drops to the lower legs in many folds heavy with jari border and his soft white feet partially covered with polished wooden slippers, his elegance personality had made him distinct from the villagers. Though his curly hairs were no longer covered with a princely turban or his belt had no scabbard attached for carrying a sword, but the man on horseback flinched to see him among the beggars.
“Who are you?” The man asked.
“It is not important; I want to save the boy.” He replied.
The boy was still crying and trying to move upwards but whenever he was trying to move; the cracks on the rock was growing larger.
“Don’t move, my boy.” He said. “The rock cannot bear you for long.” He tried to walk towards the boy surpassing the wheelhouse, but the chief guard blocked his way too.
“A villager with no weapon! It is better not to make a quarrel with us.” The man threatened him, waved the banner in one hand swung the spear in another hand.
“A true warrior does not need a weapon.” He avoided the spear, caught the spear’s neck; and twisted it in opposite direction. The chief guard on the horseback lost his balance and fell on to the ground. Padatik soldiers surrounded him quickly. They raised their spears towards him and attacked jointly. Horse riders too bared their swords. Prakashaditya blocked the joint attack with the broken spear and started using it as an iron rod without a sharp edge.
He felt immense pressure on his hand and suddenly jerked and applied slightly more pressure. The sudden application of pressure created a backward force; which pushed those soldiers away from him. Some of them fell on to the ground too. Some of them came back quickly and attacked again. He was prepared for the assault. He blocked their attack again and noticed that the grey-haired man had managed to reach to his grandson.
‘I have to keep them busy’, he thought. He had no intention to kill anyone before embracing the life of wisdom.
Prakashaditya’s martial training had taught him well to avoid joint attacks of differently shaped weapons. He could fight against multiple opponents; but today he felt like that he was fighting against some numb soldiers; who had neither feeling nor know tiredness. They were, again and again, coming back.
‘Now I have to do something unexpected’ he thought. He also noticed that the old man was too aged to climb up on the boulder.
Prakashaditya dispersed his attackers and jumped in the air leaving the broken spear, which touched the ground with a thudding noise. He twisted his body forwards and landed on the top of the boulder. Now he could save the child. He took one hand of the boy and pulled him upwards. Finally, he took the boy in his arms and landed him on the levelled side of the boulder.
As the boy got land under his feet; he shouted, “Bhadra; look behind.”
Prakashaditya knew what the boy meant. He did not waste his time and turned back to face his attacker.
“WOO.” The same cold voice shrieked in agony.
Prakashaditya gasped in horror, a man of mid-forties donned in expensive princely attires of brocade coat and elaborate turban was standing before him, partially drenched in blood and sweat, as the sharp edge of a broken spear had pierced his neck from the left, scattering white opaque pearls of his neckpiece all over the ground. He dropped the sword he was carrying; broad eyes were full of fear as well as fury and finally, he fell from the boulder on to the ground without making any more noise. His deep blue silk turban and silk uttariya were already on the soil, tainted with dirt, his blue brocade coat and yellow silk dhoti fully drenched in blood were giving a darker hue. He gasped for air, tried to breathe and lost his sense, probably died.
The shriek of a woman broke the deathly silence of the hill. Her high speech voice echoed across the mountains. Prakashaditya saw, a young adolescent girl draped in an expensive blue silk sari and heavy gold attires got down from the wheelhouse and cried in fear to see the man on the ground. “Father” She yelled and looked at her guards helplessly.
“Veer, how did it happen?” She asked the chief guard, but the man remained silent. She walked towards the man named Veer and brought out a sword from his scabbard, the guard was not ready for such action.
“If you cannot fight, I’ll fight.” She declared.
She walked towards him and tried to climb up the boulder. However, her feet slipped in her silk cloth. ‘Ahh’ she got minor bruises; but again, she rose from the ground.
Prakashaditya jumped onto the ground with the boy; the boy ran towards his grandfather and hugged him tightly.
“Devi; I want to beg apology; but…” He stopped to see the fury in her slanting eyes bordered with thick lines of kajal. She raised a sword in her right hand like a skilled warrior and put its pointy end at his neck.
“You have killed my father, but I’ll not kill you. Surrender and face the trial in the royal court; Vanavasi.” She told icily.
“I did not kill your father, Devi.”
“Whatever it is…” She was continuing but suddenly Prakashaditya noticed at her feet, a scorpion was approaching towards her. She had probably stepped into its hole.
“Be careful, Devi.” Prakashaditya tried to warn her; but she smiled sarcastically and declared, “I am not going to listen to you, stranger…...AHHHHH” the last few words were the words of pain. The young girl realised what happened but it was too late. She fell on the soil unconscious leaving her sword in the dust.
The scroll was made up of expensive papyrus, imported from Egypt and was tied with a thick red satin ribbon. The red ribbon was fixed with a wax seal resembling a small lion-head within sun flares. It meant the letter was directly from Pataliputra and its sender was no lesser than an Amatya or King’s adviser.
Acharya Budhaditya collected the scroll from the messenger boy and broke the seal. As expected, it was from his friend Acharya Padmanabha. No, he had made a slight mistake; Padmanabha was not an Acharya like him; but a Raj-Acharya and Mahamatya; he was the mentor of princes, the future kings.
The letter was written in China Lipi; not in Sankhya Lipi commonly used in the court. Every time, Padmanabha changed the Lipi and the writing style. Last time, he used the mirror version of Sankhya Lipi. Budhaditya appreciated his friend’s wisdom. It was the advantage of knowing many languages and alphabets.
As usual, Padmanabha addressed him like a bosomed friend and said, “My Dear Friend; our motherland, the Land of Sapta-Sindhu Bharatvarsha as well as the Empire of Magadha was again in great danger. Centuries ago, when Alexander the Great invaded Kashmir; the very foundation of Magadha Empire shook. At that time; Mahatma Kautilya placed the right man on the throne to save the land from the foreign invaders. Again, we are in the same situation. Continuous attacks of the Sweta Huns will not let us survive for long. We must choose the right King; the right leader for the right time; but again, palace intrigues and womanly rivalry are debarring us to get the right king. No one is ready to hear the truth; no one is ready to accept the man as their leader and no one is ready to see the fact. Now we, the Acharyas are the only hope. Please do not refuse our future King but lead him in the right direction.”
Budhaditya again read the letter carefully; the content was metaphoric and vague but enough for alleging a man as a traitor. As usual, Padmanabha never wrote anything in straightforward way; but used words with dual meaning.
However, Budhaditya was intelligent enough to guess the meaning; but the identity of future King was still not clear to him. It meant, Padmanabha was backing a prince for the throne; but the man’s claim was not accepted by the others. Who he might be? He tried to recall the number and names of the present King’s offspring. King Kumar Gupta, the Third of his Name; had two wives; Prabha Devi and Sobha Devi. Though, Prabha Devi was the first wife; but she was not a princess but a commoner. Sobha Devi, the second queen and the Princess of Thaneswar claimed the title of Mahadevi or chief queen. However, both women enjoy same status and privileges in the King’s court, both had sons, but Sobha Devi always remained ambitious about her son and left no effort to spread her influence in the royal court.
Suddenly, Budhaditya recalled Sunayana; she was no queen but a princess; the King’s only sister. He tried not to think of her anymore.
Closing his eyes, Budhaditya tried to divert his contemplation; but it was not at all an easy task. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly; repeated the process for several times and finally opened his eyes. He always found it an effective way to keep his mind away from meaningless thoughts and bitter memory.
Again, he looked at the letter and read it. He tried to think about the two princes. Prakashaditya was the eldest one; probably a man of early twenties and Chandraditya; hardly one year younger than him. Though he had never seen any of them; but had heard much about Chandraditya’s valour and Prakashaditya’s failure. The older one had lost the last battle miserably and almost drained half of his father’s wealth. There was a strong demand from the Rajas of the Vassal States for his removal from the line of succession. Some big merchant houses also faced huge loss after the battle. They too blamed the prince for losing half of Ujjain and Avanti provinces to the Huns and it almost blocked their access from all the ports on the west coast.
With a deep sigh, Budhaditya tried to analyse the situation. If Padmanabha really wanted to support the eldest prince for the throne; he could do it; but why did he write to him? As an Acharya of Nalanda; he was not expected to take part in politics; especially when it was against the King.
Budhaditya folded the scroll and kept it inside a secret drawer under his reading table. The square-shaped trestle table had drawers at the bottom; within those drawers, there were secret vaults; in which he usually kept important documents. There were many myths regarding his power; some believe that he had solved the mystery of immortality; a few of his students also think that he had deciphered many secret documents regarding long lost treasures. So, his living quarter; especially his reading room was an easy target for the burglars and treasure hunters. After one such incident; the then Viharapal Acharya Manibhadra had suggested him to create secret vaults or chests within his chamber. These secret drawers were the brainchild of Sunanda; the carpenter of Nalanda.
Sudden knocking on the door distracted Budhaditya. He cleared his throat and gave permission to come in. His attendant Purav entered the room. He folded his hands and slightly bent down to say, “Pranam Acharya;” in a choked voice, “The Viharapal wants to meet you.”
“Well, I’ll go; but tell me why do you have a bad throat and choked voice?” He softly asked.
The crooked old man smiled slightly, “Getting old Acharya; and you are not giving me the nectar of eternal youth.”
“No such thing ever exists, Purav; I can only give you a medicine to cure your throat and congestion.” He felt irritated as well as ridiculous. Purav was a man from the nearby village, who strongly believed that Budhaditya had superpower. He had once cured the man from a grave injury and since that time he remained with him as a personal assistant. Purav requested him to keep him in his service as an attendant; it would give him an opportunity to repay Budhaditya’s treatment. Initially, he did not agree; but later he realised that the Vanavasi had a strange custom. If any stranger did something good for them; they like to pay it back.
“The winter is going and the summer is arriving; this time is called Vasant; good for the young couples but bad for the olds. Vasant is not for old men.” He said.
“You make good satire, Purav;” Budhaditya appreciated the phase, ‘Spring is not for all’. Purav opened his toothless mouth to smile. His wrinkled face looked more crooked; his blunt nose moved slightly upward and his thin grey eyebrows curved like a bowstring. Only his grey eyes glittered to reflect his mind’s tenderness.
“Use umbrella and hats in the sunlight and don’t discard light woollens at the night.” He again advised.
“I don’t discard anything but others discard me, Acharya.” He replied and rubbed his hand on his partially bald head with grey hairs. Budhaditya smiled back and asked him to inform the Viharapal’s messenger that he was coming to meet him.
Today was the fifth day of the week known as the Guru Vasar or the day of Brihaspati. On the fifth and sixth day of every week; the Mahavihara remained closed. Scholars and trainees were expected to read and practise on their own; Pandits, Maha-Pandits, Acharyas and Upadhyay remained busy in their own revision as well as personal activities. No outsiders were allowed here on those days. However, Nalanda’s administrative works and basic services continued as usual.
On the last month, Budhaditya was elected as the Maha Acharya of Cryptology department; it was an honorary position with an additional duty, but former Viharapal Manibhadra nominated him. He assumed that something related to his new post would be the reason behind this sudden meeting. He prepared himself mentally.
Purav had already kept freshly laundered clothes on his bed; Budhaditya hurriedly changed his apparels and took the fresh ones. As an Acharya, he was always seemed to wear a long purple robe over his dhoti and tunic. The long sleeved purple coloured robe covered all other apparels up to his knees. Nalanda had a strict dress-code; its residents used seven coloured clothing according to their ranks. The white ones were for the beginners and the trainees; red for the scholars; orange for the senior scholars; green for the freshly recruited Pandits; sky blue for the senior Pandits, yellow for the Maha Pandits; deep blue for the Upadhyay’s and purple for the Acharyas or senior professors.
Before living the room, Budhaditya checked his papers and books properly; he also examined the letter of Padmanabha and finally satisfied. Budhaditya asked Purav to remain in the room only. He stepped on to the common balcony and tried to see the lawn outside. The gardeners were working in the garden; some trainees and scholars were helping them; he found some of his colleagues were also working in the flower garden. He started walking towards the wooden staircase leading to the ground floor’s great hall.
The great hall was looking deserted; only a few workers were busy in cleaning. They bowed to him; some uttered, “Pranam, Acharya.” He nodded and replied, “Pranam.”. The great hall was ended to a multi-pillared platform connecting to the outside lawn with brick stairs. He put his foot on to the first step and felt that the outside was already very hot. The brick-buildings of Nalanda were designed in such a way that outside temperature could not bother its residents, but the weather outside was severe. Who would say that it was just the beginning of spring or the first half of Chaitra only? He regretted for not carrying his umbrella.
Gardeners and trainees working in the garden bowed to him, said, “Pranam”; his colleagues also smiled and nodded in recognition. Budhaditya started walking towards the Viharapal’s office. He crossed the Chatra Niwas or residential hostels of the students.
During the off days, residents of the Chatra-Niwas observed different sets of routine. Today they have no hurry of attending lectures; so, some were still chewing the Neem sticks to take care of teeth. Those who stuck to their routine; they were either reading books or chanting something in a group under the canopied trees. If Budhaditya was not in a hurry, he would prefer to take the red-tiled pathway covered by large canopied trees to avoid direct sunrays; but he had to reach to the Viharapal’s office as soon as possible. So, he had taken the raised pavement amid the flower gardens and the Meditation Park. At the edge of the Mediation Park; there were two big ponds full of lotuses. He found some workers and cleaners were working hard to keep the ponds free from insects and mosquitoes. Most of them were the local villagers and knew him well. Those men in drenched grey and white loincloths bowed to him and said, “Pranam”; he also bowed back. It was the custom of Nalanda to salute those who are sweating to keep it clean. Those villagers hardly received such recognition from the outside world; so, the new ones surprised a bit, but others took it normally.
Budhaditya crossed those ponds and took a left turn. While passing a three-storied dome-shaped building known as the Prayer Hall; he heard the noise of chorus chanting in female voices. The women students and teachers of Nalanda were reciting phrases from the old scriptures. He guessed that they were reciting hymns from the Vedas; probably the Sama Veda.
The massive profiles of the three nine-story brick buildings silhouetted against the bright blue sky in distance. Ratnasagar, Ratnadadhi and Ratnanidhi; the names of the libraries; Budhaditya uttered in his mind. Those libraries known as Granthagar not only contained books; but also contained sweet memories of his student life. However, he did not take the red-tiled path leading to the library gate; but turned right to take a wider path leading towards the Viharapal’s office. This section was known as the Maha-Karyalaya Vibhag; here offices of various departments and schools were located. All the office buildings were two-story rectangular buildings, but the Viharapal’s office was a bit different. The Viharapal’s office was a three-story building made up of red sandstone, instead of red and black bricks; it had hundred sandstone flights outside the building leading to its interior. Its roof was not flat but dome shaped and the outside hall had massive pillars with decorated capitals and pedestals. Its architectural style followed Greek and Roman style, not the Magadan style.
After crossing those gigantic steps, Budhaditya entered the outer hall of the Viharapal’s office. He asked the messenger boy to inform the Viharapal about his presence; but the boy replied, “He is waiting eagerly, Acharya.”
Budhaditya noticed that the interior of the Viharapal’s office became changed. The freshly retired Viharapal Maha-Acharya Manibhadra had a different taste. During his days, he decorated the office with simple things and bright lights; but the newly appointed one had a completely different taste. He had already crowded the place with expensive wooden furniture and shaded lamps like a merchant’s palace. Budhaditya always detested luxury in a sacred place like a university. ‘Knowledge loves simplicity and ignorance loves extravagance’ Acharya Manibhadra used to say.
‘Time is changing; we have elected the new one only a month ago. It means we want the change.’ He thought and tried to ignore the change in the interior. If Acharya Manibhadra did not wish to retire; another election for Viharapal would never happen. However, the old Acharya wished to spend the rest of his life in Bodh-Gaya instead of Nalanda.
The Messenger boy led him to the Viharapal’s office and opened the wooden door for him. He noticed two massive stone statues of white elephants at both sides of the door and also noticed two guards in white dhoti, red jackets and red turbans were guarding the doors with bamboo-sticks in their hands. Budhaditya wanted to laugh; a professor also required armed guards like a prince!
However, suppressing his satirical attitude, Budhaditya entered the Viharapal’s office and found that both the old and new Viharapals were present. He bowed and looked at Acharya Manibhadra curiously.
“Pranam and Suprabhat Acharyas.” Budhaditya showed courtesy. Acharya Manibhadra raised his hand and blessed his former student. He fixed his soft fatherly glance on Budhaditya.
Viharapal Subhankar corrected him, “None of us are Acharyas; Budhaditya, except you, we both are Maha-Acharya”
“Ranks and titles cannot change us, my son.” Manibhadra interjected, “I still assume both of you as young as you came here for the first time. Budh; take your seat.” He showed him an empty wooden chair covered by a soft velvet cushion.
Budhaditya noticed that the office room was crowded with expensive chairs; sofas and tables; all of them were covered with silk and velvet cushions as well as decorative covers. The stone floor was also covered by imported decorative carpets and the large windows were covered with new velvet curtains. The ceiling had new fabric fans, which was hanging in the middle of the ceiling and two fan-men were pulling the ropes from both the ends. The fan-fabric had elaborate decoration with gold and silver threads. The room temperature was much lower than the outside temperature.
During Manibhadra’s time, there was no artificial arrangement for cooling and heating; he always preferred to face the weather like an ordinary man and said, “We need summer and winter both; just like day and night; just like the good and bad times. The severity of the weather tests our might.” Budhaditya felt deeply that the time had changed.
Viharapal Subhankar was sitting on a wooden chair, probably made up of teak wood and its back had fine geometric carvings. Just like his office room, his clothing and attires were also strikingly different than his predecessors. His long curly hairs were tied in the middle of his head in a dome-shaped bun surrounded by a circlet band, probably made up of a golden metal. His long purple robe was not made up of simple cotton, but of soft imported Egyptian cotton. The man had a well-maintained lean body with a good height due to the regular practice of yoga. Only his face had some fine wrinkles as the signs of age. Though Subhankar was not academically senior to Budhaditya, in the age, he was a few years older, he might be in his mid-fifties. His broad forehead, aquiline nose and stern countenance with a pointed chin and sharp jaws added an extra coldness to his personality. There was no sign of smile on his thin lips and his broad black eyes were directly set upon him.
As Budhaditya took the seat, Subhankar cleared his throat and looked at Acharya Manibhadra. Budhaditya noticed that his mentor was looking a bit sad but trying to show indifference. He rubbed his long grey beard in tension.
“Anything to worried about, Gurudev?” Budhaditya asked.
Manibhadra nodded his head to both sides, his long untied grey hairs fall on his forehead, but they could not hide tension expressed on his wrinkled countenance.
“No, my son; every era good or bad has to end one day. It is the end of my days in Nalanda. I have decided to leave the place on the day after tomorrow.”
“And I have decided to give him an elegant farewell, Acharya.” Subhankar said, “As you are the senior most teacher next to me; so, I want you to organise the event. Moreover, you are Gurudev’s favourite pupil.”
The last words sounded like a satire; Budhaditya realised that it had other meanings too. Guru Manibhadra wanted Budhaditya to succeed him as the next Viharapal and nominated him. However, Subhankar got the nomination from the King. Though the earlier Kings did not try to nominate Viharapal and left the matter in the hands of students and teachers, but the present king was quite different than his predecessors. Though Nalanda always followed the tradition of election for choosing its head; but still nomination mattered a lot. Subhankar received huge support from some schools as well as from some teachers to win the election. Budhaditya hoped that after his winning, Subhankar might abandon the competitive attitude; but he did not.
“All pupils are equal to my Gurudev; he knows no partiality.” He paused and added, “However, I am delighted to get this opportunity.”
“Good; but I did not call here to discuss this matter only. I have to inform you about some other things.” Subhankar paused and took a deep breath, “As a veteran professor of Nalanda, you must know the King and his predecessors had always patronised us. The King’s grandfather had founded the university and donated hundred villages’ revenue to us; but unfortunately, our land is in grave danger today.”
Budhaditya was not unaware of the fact; continuous Hun invasion had shaken the very foundation of Magadha Empire. The King’s grandfather Emperor Baladitya was the last ruler who successfully chased away the Huns from Aryavarta and thought that they would not come back again. However, he was totally wrong, after three decades they came back again with an unknown might. Two decades ago the present King Kumar Gupta, III had somehow managed to drive them away from Avanti; but they had returned recently with new force. Now they were using some mysterious fire weapons unknown to Magadha. Budhaditya assumed that Subhankar did not call him to discuss the political issue, something else might happen recently.
“As an Acharya, it is my duty to know about the recent political issues; but I hope that nothing serious has happened yet.” He hoped that the King did not withdraw his patronage from Nalanda.
“Yes, something heinous has happened yesterday only. Vanik Sresthi Sripati, the richest merchant of Odontopura has been killed yesterday and his daughter is kidnapped.”
“What?” Budhaditya was not ready for such news.
“Yes, Acharya; Merchant Sripati was one of our patronisers; he had initiated several scholarships for the students and teachers who wished to visit abroad for academic purpose,” Subhankar said.
Budhaditya was also aware of the fact; some of his colleagues had already taken that grant and went to Tibbat and Sinhala. If the grant discontinued suddenly; they would face a severe financial crisis.
“How did it happen?” He asked in a dry voice. The only bad news was coming since the morning. Firstly, his childhood friend wanted him to mentor an exiled prince and secondly, his mentor cum guide Acharya Manibhadra was planning to leave Nalanda and lastly, one of the good scholarship programmes was about to stop.
“Sresthi Sripati and his daughter Oorza were travelling to Bodhgaya. Oorza’s marriage has been fixed with Odontopura’s Nagarpal’s son Bhadrasen. So, the girl wanted to seek blessings from the almighty. They were robbed in the way; Sripati was killed and the girl is missing.”
“Who did it?”
Subhankar remained silent for some time. “Sripati’s personal guards saw that incident. A man not looking like a mountain-people led the army of rebels. He notoriously killed his guards and soldiers. While Sripati wanted to protect his daughter, the man had killed him too.”
“What about the guards? They were all killed or escaped?”
“Some escaped.” Subhankar sounded irritated, “Listen, I am telling you whatever I heard from the Nagarpal’s office. Nagarpal Jayasen has asked for my assistance and I suggested your name; because you are more familiar with the region.”
The last word was somewhat true; Budhaditya had done extensive research on that area and once spent days in those villages. Villagers were poor and face severe water scarcity.
“What I have to do?” Budhaditya asked calmly.
“You have to visit Odontopura, to the residence of the Nagarpal. He wants to rescue his would-be daughter-in-law from the rebels. You can guide them.”