Aśoka
Devānaṃpiya, Beloved of the Gods,
Had subdued Greater India, surmounting
many odds;
When the free state of Kaliga fell to
a frenetic campaign
In the third and forty of his birth,
the eighth year of his reign.
The final battle had been won; the
rival chieftain slayed;
And a hundred thousand had been felled
by fabled Mauryan blade.
His standards now on Dhauli’s Top flew
untrammelled and proud;
“Cakravartin!” hailed his
soldiers, clashing sword to shield aloud.
Out strode he from the regal tent to
breathe the morning air,
Deliberate with his generals,
subsequent plans prepare
To consolidate this victory, make
arrangements as required,
Ere marching back to Patna, for
campaign had left him tired.
He stretched his battle-weary limbs
and gazed out from the height
And Sun as though in reverent greet,
threw forth His brightest light.
And in that light what happened next,
that is now part of lore,
For the scene he saw from Dhauli’s
crest – it seared him to his core.
As far as royal eyes could see, a
deathly stillness filled the plain.
Carcasses of steeds, and giant beasts
of war that had been slain,
And a hundred thousand men or more,
lay scattered on the ground.
And Beloved of the Gods - he surveyed
this from Dhauli’s Mound.
Smoke billowed from countless heaps
where bodies they were burning,
And rose to mingle with the clouds, a
ghastly potion churning.
Then burst the skies in tears of rain
to cleanse the earth of blood,
And Dayā - Stream of Mercy –
overflowed in crimson flood.
Then came the stench of Death, from
charring flesh on wetted fires
A feast for crows and carrion fowl
that pounced upon the open pyres.
Two jackals came to claim their share
of this stupendous meal;
One made off with a severed limb, its
mate a skull did steal.
The crackle of the dying flames, a
buzzard’s plaintive call,
The mother’s cry, a widow’s wail, the
hapless orphan’s bawl,
Were the haunting sounds he heard that
rent the stilly air.
They pierced his battle-hardened soul,
and more he could not bear!
“Cakravartin I am called, Mover of the
Cosmic Helm;
My writ runs unrestricted till distant
reaches of this realm.
But can the dead I resurrect, can
shattered lives I mend?
And will the Gods who so love me, to
my commandment bend?
Nay, none of these can happen, and
naught can I restore;
A felon of the vilest kind am I and
nothing more.”
Such were the unforgiving thoughts
that bore upon his mind
And he pondered what it meant to be
the Sovereign of Mankind.
Returning to the royal tent, he paced
with anxious tread;
And drops fell from his mortal eyes,
drops of ruby red.
Thus Aśoka – The Griefless One – lay
grieving and in pain,
On a dreary hill, in Kaliga, in the
eighth year of his reign.
From that day forth he spurned his
sword, his mail and robe of state,
The habit of a monk he took till the
ending of his days.
And Aśoka Piyadasi, Gracious of
Mien,
Beloved of the Gods, became beloved of
all men.