“Just six months,” said Sarva|varma.
“It will take just six months to teach Sanskrit.”
“Impossible,” Gunadhya replied. “No one
can learn Sanskrit in just six months. It will be a futile effort!”
King Shata|vahana of Pratishthana|pura
looked at the two gems of his court. The great grammarians and greater poets –
Gunadhya and Sarvavarma. Who was right? It didn’t matter. He had to learn
Sanskrit anyhow. The faster, the better.
Before Shatavahana could say anything
to bring the dispute to an end, Gunadhya addressed to the court, “Sarvavarma! I
challenge you. If you can teach Sanskrit to the king in six months, I will stop
composing poetry in Sanskrit.” A pin drop silence prevailed in the court.
Then a grave voice broke the silence.
“I accept the challenge, Gunadhya,” Sarvavarma said.
Thus Shatavahana began the tedious
process of learning the language of the gods. With every passing day, he learnt
the beauty and intricacies of the polished language of the elite and the
learned. He worked hard, day and night, to gain mastery over the language.
Meanwhile, Gunadhya waited. Each day brought him near his inevitable defeat. Sanskrit
could be learnt in as little as six months.
Gunadhya lost the bet.
Thus disgraced, Gunadhya could no
longer stay in Pratishthanapura. He will leave the kingdom. He will go far
away. He will not return back until he has achieved something that’ll wipe out
his dishonor. He took an oath.
Gunadhya became a wanderer. With only a
bag containing a pair of clothes, some palm leaves and a stylus, he travelled
over the whole Isle of Jambu. He drifted like a leaf in the air never staying still
at one place. From the rocky beaches of Kanyakumari to the snowy peaks in the
vale of Kashmira, from the mighty Sindhu to the surging Brahmaputra, the
disgraced brahman covered the whole country on foot.
But what sustained him? Stories, they
say. Wherever he went, he listened to stories - old and new, tragedy and
comedy, myth and history, legends and tales. What literate, what folk – there
was no distinction. Stories of lands far away, stories told by the fireside,
stories recited during sacrifices – he drank the water of the stream of
stories. And while his ears and his eyes paid rapt attention to the
storyteller, his hands scribbled on with the stylus on the palm leaves.
‘Brhat|KathA’ he called it. The
Great Story. And thus the massive tale started taking shape. Gunadhya
wished to ensure that once started no should be able to put it down until
finished. He devised an ingenious method – he wrapped one story around another,
then wrapped the second one inside a third one and so on until it was a not tale
but a labyrinth ready to lead you astray. And to defy the arrogance of that
mistress of languages, this tale was written in Paisachi, the language of the
ghouls.
Gunadhya was confident that he has
achieved his objective. At last, here was something that’ll wipe out his disgrace.
The story that will heal a hurt pride.
But his hopes were shattered.
Shatavahana was not interested in listening to a story written in the obscure
language of the ghouls. Not even a single person in the court appraised his
creation.
Gunadhya was hurt. He went to a hillock
on the outskirts of the city. There he made a large bonfire. He pulled out the
palm leaves from his bag. He recited the first page of his tale. Then he threw
it into the fire. Thus Gunadhya recited his tale, a leaf at a time and then
bequeathed them to the fire.
The animals and birds of the hillock
surrounded Gunadhya. They listened to his stories. And they shed tears. They
lamented at the loss of such a great creation. The trees bowed in grief. The
whole nature wept over the destruction of Gunadhya’s creation.
But Gunadhya didn’t stop.
A courtier who passed that way beheld
the strange occurrence. He rushed to the king and narrated him the incident.
The king was filled with regret, “How wonderful must be the tome for which the
whole nature is grieving!” Shatavahana rushed on his horse to the place where
Gunadhya stood burning his composition in fire.
Shatavahana fell at his feet. “You are
a great man. Greater still is your creation. The fool that I was, forgive me!
Save your priceless creation from destruction. Save it from fire!” Tears
swelled up in Gunadhya’s eyes. He looked at the palm leaves that were left.
Only about a fifth of them were left. Gunadhya handed them over to the king.
“Here is a gift from me to you. I shall leave now.”
Gunadhya left the place. He was never
seen again. With him, the greater part of his composition was lost. With the
passage of time, the Paisachi language too was lost. But Gunadhya lived on in
the translations of his creation. He lived on in his stories. He lived on in
the ‘Great Story’.
