Historical fiction: King Mahameghavahana Kharavela fights to restore Kalinga to its former glory

“Halt! Who goes there?” shouted the prahari (watchman). The alarm rang clear and far in the night air. Archers immediately nocked their arrows and rushed to take positions atop the gates and turrets. Large torches burnt with a hissing sound and shadows danced like possessed spirits in the strong wind.

The traveller had arrived quite late at the gates of Tosali, the capital of Kalinga Nagari. Was it a deliberate miscalculation? The traveller halted; he was searched for weapons and produced before the commander. He did not even resist and remained still.

He was not very tall, but his lean and lithe, yet muscular structure indicated that he could be a trained soldier. He looked sharp and walked with pride in his step, and the guards who had captured him guessed that he was no ordinary person.

It was unusual for people to travel at night-time, that too alone. Beyond the fortified cities and distant janapadas (countryside) were large tracts of forests, infested with wild animals and plagued with savage tribes, who not only looted the possessions of travellers, but also killed with impunity. It was virtually impossible for a person to cross these lawless tracts unescorted.

Inside the cities, there was always a curfew imposed at night; only a few were exempted. Any person reporting late at the main city gates was a definite suspect. Within the city, the king’s administration kept a tab on every movement of strangers. Failure to report night movement was punishable for the watchmen too. The Arthashastra-based administration, existing from Mauryan times, had established a tightly knit system, and nothing escaped the attention of the authorities. Any transgression was severely punished.

The commander was a seasoned man, his ragged face betrayed no mercy. He observed the visitor closely with stern eyes for some time, then spoke in a firm voice. “Arya, or what do I address you as? Looking at your broad forehead and muscular arms, you appear to be from a high-born family. Or, are you an impostor pretending to be a Kshatriya? Tell the truth or your body will become a feast for the crocodiles of the river Daya.”

The visitor was wearing commoner’s clothes that were in tatters, his white antariya, the lower body garment, was soiled with dirt and the crumpled uttariya, which clothed his upper body, smelled of dried sweat. His hair was matted and his skin looked rough. He had travelled a long distance and looked exhausted, but stood there unshaken and firm, his tired eyes sparkling earnestly.

“My lord, I am Rudravarman. I am no stranger to this country, I have come to my motherland,” he said respectfully.

The commander did not blink, his eyes slowly scanning the man.

“Was anything objectionable found in his possession?” he asked.

The guards said no. He then called one of them over and whispered something to him. Rudra didn’t hear anything except for a reference to a “dark prince” and his associates.

The commander continued, “Your dress and appearance seem to be from the southwest, but your tongue seems to be native. We will deal with you tomorrow morning; till then you can rest at the guard quarters. And I wish you luck if you turn out to be from Magadha.”

“I too have not forgotten the massacre of our forefathers by Ashoka and the loot of the Kalinga Jina idol by the Nandas of Magadha a century before him. My blood boils at the very mention of that wretched land. I still see the blood of my ancestors flowing through the holy Daya,” said Rudra, pain and resolve apparent in his voice. He continued, “Peace and prosperity have never returned to Kalinga after our protector, the Jina, was taken to Magadha. The idol used to appear in my grandfather’s dreams; it always guided and blessed him in times of trouble. We should have foreseen our destruction at the hands of Ashoka.”

One of the guards spoke up, “They destroyed us, but never could they conquer our spirit, even Ashoka called us avijita (unconquered).”

The commander stopped the guard from saying any more with stern a look. Then, he turned to the stranger and said after a pause, “Guard, produce him before the chief tomorrow morning.”

The Kalinga capital, Tosali, was a large city with tall, fortified walls all around its square layout. It was surrounded by a moat filled with perennial waters from the holy Daya River. Beautiful lotuses bloomed on its surface and hungry crocodiles lurked below in the deep green waters. It was said that the bottom of the moat had as many skeletons as the lotuses blooming in it.

Four large corner towers rose atop the city’s walls, where keen-eyed archers kept vigil day and night. They could shoot at long distances with the dreaded Indian bow, of which even Alexander’s army was afraid.

There were eight major gates, two on each wall, that led into the city, and eight smaller openings were distributed around the perimeter of the fort. Tosali was carefully designed according to the shastras and the tenets of the Arthashastra—streets with elaborate pavements were arranged in a grid pattern; every part of the city was connected by roads with widths depending on usage; commercial, residential and administrative areas could be clearly distinguished by their architecture.

As Rudra was led away, he reflected that Kalinga was indeed coming of age as a resurgent nation. It was carving a space for itself in the history of Bharatavarsha.

Rudra had faint memories of royal processions playing music as they passed through the main streets. They consisted of decorated elephants, followed by a train of elegant riders dressed in the Kalinga army colours. He would watch from the first floor of their house with his mother and sister as the spectacle passed . . . His memories had grown hazy with time, except for a few.

Excerpted with permission from The Cloud Chariot, Brijesh Singh, Penguin Books.