Day 13, Month of Phalguna, 327 BCE,
University of Takshasila (in Rawalpindi District, present-day Pakistan)
“I – hate – exams!”
Acharya Vishnugupta stopped in the middle of the corridor, a bundle of palm-leaves clutched in his hand, wondering at the young voice — and the unexpected venom in it. There was no one within his line of sight … unless someone was sitting in a secluded alcove, trying to cram various lessons in a desperate attempt at last minute revision.
“Well, here you are.”
A 14-year-old boy looked up from his seat behind a roughly hewn pillar. His lanky limbs were folded in the lotus position, knobbly hands holding a few palm-leaves; his usually curly hair was sticking out in all directions — but it was his eyes that caught the Acharya’s attention: they looked bloodshot in a face pale with exhaustion. For all that, he rose swiftly at the sight of the venerable teacher, and fell at his feet.
“Live long,” blessed the Acharya. “Rise, Mayur.” Then, surprisingly, sat down in the alcove himself. Mayur was about to squat, but Vishnugupta stopped him, and made him a place beside himself. “Now, what was all that about hating exams?”
Mayur went pink with embarrassment. “It’s just — I beg your pardon. I was revising all last night and didn’t get any sleep.”
“And there’s your mistake,” the Acharya interrupted. “There’s no point in sacrificing your health to score well, and then finding yourself in a raging fever during the exam.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t look well if I fell asleep while answering a question on — on falling meteors,” Mayur grinned.
“I’ve no intention of seeing you fail for doing something as silly as that. And for that very reason,” the Acharya produced a small mud-cup. “Drink this.”
“Sugarcane juice!” Mayur grinned, and suddenly the fatigue lining his face vanished; he seemed a different boy. “Thank you. I didn’t have breakfast.”
“I guessed. And really, how many times do I have to tell you that starving yourself is no good either?”
“I’m sorry.” Mayur gulped down the sweet juice, garnished with a squeeze of fresh lemon, and a spot of ginger. “But I was studying about the best way to use a kopis — that’s a Greek weapon and it’s a single-edged blade with a sharp curve — and lost track of time. Now, if only all my subjects were that interesting.” He peeped under his eyelashes at his teacher and the mischief in that look wiped away the sternness in the Acharya’s face.
“If you had your way, you’d learn nothing but the Divine Art of Mud-Wrestling, or Fifty Ways to Climb a Horse Without Falling Off, or How to Spy On Your Enemies Without Alerting The Guards,” he chuckled.
“I don’t need lessons on climbing horses. I’ve known how to do that since I was four,” Mayur grinned, cheeks dimpling. “And at least I’m not Odana-Paniniyah — pretending to study grammar just so I can get a free lunch of boiled rice. Or even a Thirthakaka — a crow that doesn’t stop long anywhere. And also…”
Privileged student
“You little brat,” Vishnugupta tousled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Showing off, are you? You ought to be thankful you’re getting an education, and here, in Takshasila of all places. Students from all over the world come here to learn, Mayur. Earning a place here is no mean feat.”
“I know. This wouldn’t have happened, if it hadn’t been for your kindness,” the boy sobered. “But what I don’t understand is why I have to learn things like how to spot the difference between Persian currency and Magadha coins, or… or Economics and Allied Subjects and Dandaneedhi…I mean, why would I need to know anything about politics? I’m just a boy from an ordinary kshatriya clan from Pippalivan.”
“You’re a lot more than that, Mayur. I’ve hinted it to you, over the last few months.”
“And that’s another thing. Why am I being called Mayur, please? I thought it was just temporary, and because my people raised peacocks.”
“That was one reason, certainly. But you, being almost a grown-up, ought to have known that I had my reasons.” Vishnugupta looked grave. “It was for your own safety. I’d much rather not have you ripped to ribbons by assassins, if I can help it.”
“I’m not afraid.” Mayur’s face hardened; suddenly, he looked old beyond his years.
“I know.” Vishnugupta rose. “But it is my duty to keep you safe and anonymity is one of the best ruses. As you will know, if you read these.” He dropped the palm-leaves he’d brought, into the boy’s lap. “My latest work.”
“The Duties of Government Superintendent,” Mayur read out, from the palm-leaf. “The Conduct of Courtiers. The Source of Sovereign States.” He groaned theatrically, and flipped back to the title. “Arthasasthra,” he read out, in Sanskrit. “The science of statecraft, military strategy and economic policies … wait, I’m supposed to learn all this? Why?”
“To help you and hopefully, everyone who follows in your footsteps. For, you will be examined again and again, all your life and you should not be found wanting.”
“Is that why I must pass all these exams?” Mayur asked, doubtfully.
“To prove your knowledge, yes. Both to yourself, and to the world. ” Vishnugupta smiled. “After all, if all goes as I have planned, then you, prince of the Moriya Clan, will someday rule this vast land. And then, you won’t be Mayur, any longer. You will be an Emperor. The first to unify most of this country. Emperor Chandragupta the First, of the Maurya dynasty.”
Historical note: Emperor Chandragupta Maurya (324 – 300 BCE) evidently passed all his exams — both practical and theoretical — with distinction. His guru and guide Chanakya’s prophecies came true. No one who wishes to learn Indian History today can ignore them, or their incredible contributions.
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