“...You must not, best of men, abdicate the kingship of your fathers and embark upon this unwise course, painful, rocky and full of thorns. Consecrate yourself in prosperous Ayodhyā; the city is waiting for you, wearing her single braid of hair. Indulge in priceless royal pleasures and enjoy yourself in Ayodhyā, prince, like Śakra in his heaven....the men I grieve for, and I grieve for no one else, are all who place ‘righteousness’ above what brings them profit. They find only sorrow in this world, and at death their lot is annihilation just the same...Understand, wise prince, that there exists no world to come. Address yourself to what can be perceived and turn your back on what cannot."
--Jābāli to Rāma,
Rāmāyaṇa
"There is neither cause nor basis for the sins of living beings and they become sinful without cause or basis.
There is neither cause nor basis for the purity of living beings and they become pure without cause or basis.
All beings, all that have breath, all that are born, all that have life, are without power, or strength, or virtue, but are the result of destiny, chance and nature, and they experience joy and sorrow in six classes."
--Buddhaghosa on Ājīvika philosophy
, Visuddhimagga
The view from one of the falls at Kuttralam
It is an odd thing for a Westerner, upon taking it upon himself to travel to the Kingdom of Ae(1), to find on the journey that Ae does not in fact have a king. Indeed, as the old Aean told me as we sat smoking on the deck of the
Wolfhound, there has not been a king in the ancient capital at Vizhinjam for nearly half a millenium, and there is likely never to be one again. I pressed him further and, while he would not go into detail, briefly told me of the great town assemblies that each sent representatives to Vizhinjam to debate their causes. The similarities to our own Estates-General are astounding, although their form of it is of course rather primitive, lacking our more enlightened parliamentary procedure(2). When I had annoyed the old man with my questions he, in a great irritation over the pestering Westerner, told me to seek out the Sage of Tēnvilukiratu(3) if I wanted to know more, in the east of Ae, near the Chola border.
We landed in Vizhinjam on the 8th of November, 1884(4). The monsoon season was in full effect, and so I struggled through the crowded city streets to my hotel on Maruppinmaiyai(5) Street. In that time, the truly misnamed
Hotel de l'Opera was new-built, and open to the hordes of European traders and diplomats--most of them French--that could be found in the streets of Vizhinjam at any given time. Already, however, the paint was beginning to flake from the constant rain, and there was a persistent smell of mildew throughout all the rooms. After months at sea, though, I was happy simply to have this little spot of Europe in a strange land.
As I came to the door, soaking wet and bone-tired, I saw a small man, Aryavartan(6) in origin, sitting in the rain with only a robe on from the waist down. I tried to give him a franc, believing he was begging--but the old man refused, politely, and in broken French told me he was merely experiencing the rain. I recoiled from the smell of alcohol on his breath. The creature smelled like a distillery, but seemed happy enough. When I came up to the desk, I asked the well-trained and well-dressed Tamil porter if he knew this man. With a dismissive scoff, the porter said, "He is an
Ājīvika. An Aryavartan word. To my people, he is
uyirarra oru; a lifeless one, who believes he is not alive, but merely a stone moved about by the universe. It is a strange way." The porter suddenly smiled, the sort of grin that one finds often if one is a traveler from Europe; the grin of one who has realized a foolish Westerner is before them. "If you come to him when the skies are clear, he will find your destiny in the stars. He is never wrong, though you would not think it to look at him. Even we
charvaka seek his council."
Unsure as to whether or not he was mocking me or simply giving a tourist a suggestion, I thanked him and went to my room. I always travel light, with only a few changes of clothes and my essential papers, along with a journal and a decent amount of ink. Such habits, while good for the mild climate of Europe, are, I soon found, deeply foolish in the tropical climate of Tamilakam(7). By my third day in Vizhinjam, after I had seen the beautiful Palace of the Kings, and traipsed through the streets to the Assembly-Halls and marveled at the gaslights and railways of the city, most of my clothes were ruined, and I was forced to purchase a host of local clothes. "Lungee"(8), as they are called by the Aeans, are ankle-length robes worn from the waist down, usually accompanied by a plain-colored shirt and an "engavastra"(8), a large scarf to help in protecting one from the rain. Seeing myself in the already-stained mirror of my hotel room, I found myself laughing at the ridiculous image of an educated European in such odd clothing. Nevertheless, as the rains began to die down in late November, I traveled, adorned in the lungee and engavastra, to the east of Ae on the rail line connecting Vizhinjam with Madurai.
Although my next stop was scheduled to be the aforementioned Madurai, I impulsively left the train at Kuttralam. Here, or so the porter at the
Hotel de l'Opera had told me, were the waterfalls of Tēnvilukiratu, where Hindoo(8) masters, Buddhist ascetics, and Charvaka philosophers alike took refuge to debate and recuperate. The rail station was a fair distance from the town of Kuttralam itself, and so I found myself walking along a well-shaded dirt road, surrounded by an oddly pleasant forest. When the trees at last parted and I beheld Kuttralam, it was like coming out of a dream. From the hill where I stood, I could see the three rivers that made up the falls gathering together like fingers into a fist, then falling, falling down into the deep pools and natural baths that dotted the town. It was a pleasant village, from the look of it; humble shacks of white stone gathered around a great Assembly-Hall flanked by a small Buddhist stupa and a small Hindoo temple on opposite ends of the village. There was another structure I could not place. A high tower, standing just outside the village and again of white stone, from the top of which I could see a glint of light. As I came closer, I realized that it was an observatory, and that the glint I saw was from a large telescope, visible even from a distance.
I traveled down into the small basin in which Kuttralam lay and was overwhelmed with the scents and sights of the town. Exotic spices, the smell of unwashed ascetics, and the laughter of the people assaulted my senses, and I was overwhelmed. Finding my way to the nearest natural bath, I paid the attending boy a franc and was allowed an hour to rest and recuperate in the warm waters of the pool. I will say with little shame, for it is the custom of the Tamils, that I disrobed entirely before stepping into the pool. Three young and beautiful girls sat in the pool across from me, and I must honestly say that I was very flustered as a result. I left long before my hour was up--though my bones and muscles felt worlds better already--to escape their giggles and curious eyes, and made my way further east, beyond the main falls, Peraruvi as they are called, to Chitraruvi, the smaller waterfall, where the attendant had informed the Sage held court.
Arriving at the small bathing-area at the base of Chitraruvi, I saw in the pool an obese and clearly drunk Tamil man of advanced age, with a white beard so long its end hung into the pool. He was surrounded by a small group of younger men, drinking from bottles and cups containing a pungent wine, and listening to him speak. As I came forth, he noticed me and laughed, speaking in a French so pure one would think we were on the
Boulevard Montmartre(9)
. "A supplicant comes from the distant west to the pool of the Sage--is that it? Or are you only a traveler, come to seek the comfort of the waters?" I replied that I had indeed come to seek him, in order to understand the odd ways of his countrymen. He scoffed and took a drink, banishing his acolytes with a wave of his hand. The horde of young men, grumbling in Tamil, walked off, no doubt to further lose themselves in degeneracy. The sage beckoned me into the pool and I obliged in the Tamil way, as before. He meditated a moment, quietly, before speaking.
"It is said that the ways of the men of Bharata(10) are strange to all who come from distant lands, no matter what part of Bharata you speak of. This I cannot know, for I have not perceived myself from the eyes of a foreigner, and indeed cannot. You know, perhaps of the nāstika? Ah, well, it is difficult to explain to you what being nāstika means if you are not one of us. This is true in all things; understanding cannot be reached without personal experience. But, here, I will tell you a story that may illuminate some of our strange ways, and begin the process of understanding.
(11)In ancient days, it is probable that there was a king of the Ae. Karunandadakkan he was called, or at least that is how the tale is told. The Ae had most likely suffered greatly in the era before, when the Pandyas had perhaps invaded and defeated our people several times. But Karunandadakkan chose, or did not choose the opposite, anyway, of our thought, of charvaka. He came to understand, I think, that only what he saw was true; that only what could aid him was good in any sense; that the gods, that karma and the great cycle--that these were naught but fantasies of the mind. Empowered by these revelations, he perhaps invited many scholars of our school to this land, and they taught and spread truth to those who were in darkness. The Ājīvika perhaps followed, though I cannot confirm this, and spread their tiresome thought throughout our land as well. Karunandadakkan saved our people, according to certain narratives, and was in a sense the founder of our modern nation."
The Sage smiled.
"But of course, this is only what I have heard. The truth of it is left to those who were there..."
--Jean-Noël Michaux,
Mes voyages en l'Orient
Notes
(1) Technically "Ay", but Europeans spell it differently.
(2) Yeah, racism/cultural superiority complexes still exist.
(3) "Honey Falls" in Tamil.
(4) Just to place this book in time.
(5) "Renunciation" in Tamil.
(6) The word for central and some of northern India ITTL, generally accepted to be north of the Kaveri River.
(7) India south of the Kaveri River ITTL.
(8) Misspelled intentionally. He's an ignorant Westerner.
(9) A bit convergent to even have the
grands boulevards ITTL, but I can't even imagine Paris without them.
(10) The word for India overall ITTL.
(11) Charvaka does not condone the use of absolute statements (i.e. "This happened") unless one actually perceived it themselves, which is why the Sage talks this way.
* * *
So...this is my new TL. Like my
Heirs of Kharavela TL, which sadly petered out due to my own laziness, this is set in a Tamil society in southern India and explores the spread of heterodox sects throughout said society. Unlike HoK, this is much better-researched and deals with two philosophical schools that have -never- or at least only very briefly been in the mainstream of Indian philosophical thought: the Charvaka and the Ājīvika. I'll explain more of their tenets over time, especially since they've both changed significantly ITTL from their original forms, but feel free to look them up or ask questions if you're interested.
Please do comment, criticize, whatever!