Three or four krōśas upstream from Vēdādri, the Kṛṣṇā river flows toward the north before turning once again toward the east, continuing its eastward course until it reaches the sea. At the point where the river bends northward, the Āndhra kings constructed a magnificent fort. At that location, the river is exceptionally deep, and crossing it is by no means an easy task. To the east of this fort lies the entirety of Dhānyakaṭakam; indeed, the fort itself is considered a part of Dhānyakaṭakam. The only direction requiring defense from enemies was the south, yet even on that side, their sovereign territory extended for a great distance.
In the early days, this fort held immense strategic importance. As long as the rulers of the Vidarbha nation remained powerful, and as long as friendship endured between the Vidarbhas and the Āndhras, there was no cause for fear regarding that fort. The land between the Kṛṣṇā and the Gōdāvarī was occupied by the Vidarbha-Āndhras. Above the Tapati river lay the nations of Niṣadha and Cēdi.
For a long time, the region between these two rivers had served as a habitation for the Mleccha- Yavana, Śaka, Barbara, and Hūṇa tribes. They possessed no established kingdoms; the entire area was a vast, primordial forest. It was common for exiled members of royal families to seek refuge there, acting as leaders for those Mleccha tribes and frequently launching incursions upon neighboring kingdoms. If the king of a targeted land was capable, he would punish them, ensuring they did not rise again for some time—this cycle had persisted since time immemorial.
Because they were averse to Indian civilization, they abandoned orderly governance and social decorum, living according to their whims. Becoming idle, they subsisted on whatever they could find, merely passing the time and existing as Mlecchas, forest-dwellers, and uncivilized people. Occasionally, the fear of their invasions weighed heavily upon the inhabitants of both riverbanks.
By the time of this story, the fear of such invasions had long vanished from the kingdoms of Vidarbha and Āndhra. Consequently, the fort situated in that corner where the Kṛṣṇā turns north and then bends east had lost its strategic significance. For several centuries, this fortress had remained under the authority of Niraṅkuśa's ancestors. As long as Niraṅkuśa's father was alive, the fort remained under his direct command and was strictly maintained.
Gradually, however, the attention paid to the fort began to wane. Because there had been no tribal raids from that direction for hundreds of years, and because the Kṛṣṇā flowed there as a constant, bottomless abyss acting as a natural barrier, the vigilance over the fort slackened. After the death of Niraṅkuśa's father, there was no one left to look after it. Niraṅkuśa had no elder or younger brothers; he had only one sister named Jāmbavati. Jāmbavati was younger than Nāgārjuna and significantly younger than Vijaya Simha.
Niraṅkuśa's mother and Jāmbavati continued to reside within that fort, while Niraṅkuśa and his wife lived in the royal palace at Toṟṟupaṭṭu. No matter how many times Niraṅkuśa asked them to come and live with him, his mother refused to listen. She would say: "I came to this fort after marrying your father. From the day I arrived, I have not stepped a single foot outside. I am the Queen. This fort is mine. My life must end right here. Your father passed away here; where they cremated him, they must cremate me as well." For the sake of his mother, Niraṅkuśa was forced to keep his sister there as well.
What did it mean to be alone? There were maidservants. There were menservants. Moreover, it was a riverbank! It was a highly complex setting. On both sides, the houses of the fisherfolk were built leaning right against the fort walls. Furthermore, the smaller forts of other members of the royal clan were situated close by, within the vicinity. From this fort, extending eastward, there was a wide royal highway that reached as far as the seacoast, passing south of the many fortresses collectively known as Dhānyakaṭakam.
If Niraṅkuśa mounted his horse and set out at dawn, he would reach his fort before the sun turned past its peak. Spending that evening and night there, he would return to his place of duty the next day before two jāmus of the day had passed. Niraṅkuśa might not have even accepted the authority over Toṟṟupaṭṭu. Because his father was a master of swordsmanship (khaḍga-vidyā-guru), he had not paid proper attention to their lands during his lifetime. The farmers cultivating those lands would pay only half or a quarter of the required sixth-share. For some years, they claimed the crops failed and fell into debt; they would come to him and plead, and he, in his kindness, would let it go. Thus, in various ways, their income dwindled.
Niraṅkuśa, too, conducted himself like his father until he gained more wisdom. Even then, if they had carefully collected even that sixth-share from their lands, they could have regained their footing. However, Rōmapāda, seeing their condition, granted Niraṅkuśa the authority over Toṟṟupaṭṭu. In those times, the authority over Toṟṟupaṭṭu was a prestigious position with a high income. He was equal in rank to the Sēnānāyakas[1]. While there might be ten Sēnānāyakas and hundreds of Camūpatis[2]and Daḷādhipatis[3], the officials of the Toṟṟupaṭṭus were on par with the Sēnānāyakas.
In the secret political council of the great empire, the ministers, Sēnāpatis[4], officials of the Toṟṟupaṭṭus, and Durgādhipatis[5]were all members. Their total number did not exceed one hundred. That was the Mahāsabhā, and it was this Mahāsabhā [6]that governed the realm. This assembly might meet once in forty years, or perhaps not at all. Only when news arrived that a foreign king was invading would this assembly convene. At other times, it was an assembly in name only, with no tradition of regular meetings. Aside from the Sēnānāyakas and ministers, the remaining Durgādhipatis and Toṟṟupaṭṭu officials were more or less independent. They were the supreme authorities over the villages under their administration. Nevertheless, they remained officials under Rōmapāda.
Niraṅkuśa already held the position of an official because he was the lord of his own fort. By becoming the official of Toṟṟupaṭṭu, he held two such administrative ranks simultaneously. Under a Toṟṟupaṭṭu official, there are no ordinary villages; instead, there are ten or twelve villages specifically dedicated to cattle wealth. In those villages, people of other varnas do not reside; only the cattle-herders live there.
The several thousand cows within these twelve villages belong to the King—that is, they belong to the State. However, the cattle wealth of one entire village belongs to the presiding official. This means that a person who is an official of a Toṟṟupaṭṭu owns one-twelfth of that total wealth. A vast income is derived from this. It signifies that he possesses a thousand cows; it is said of him that he possesses the Sahasra-gō-dhanam (Wealth of a Thousand Cows).
This cattle wealth is a form of capital that grows constantly. If one owns a thousand cows, every year, two to three hundred young bulls suitable for the yoke (plowing) easily come into one's possession. That is as good as gold and silver! These bulls are purchased by the farmers and also by the Mlecchas—the forest-dwellers. They take the cattle into the forests to graze and then bring them back to sell in the agricultural villages.
Gold and silver are used in trade, melted into lumps of specific weights such as tulamu[7] and cinnamu. Beyond simple bartering, all buying and selling are conducted using this gold and silver.
Consequently, Niraṅkuśa left his mother and sister at their fort while he, his wife, and their two children resided in the area of his administrative authority. Alongside his mother lived her maternal aunt as well. This aunt had been part of the family since time immemorial; she had no one else and relied entirely on his family for support. She was very old, yet her eyesight had not failed, and her teeth remained strong. She worked harder than any of the maidservants, and all the servants stood in awe and fear of her. She was far more shrewd than his father had been in collecting the revenue from their lands. Because of this, Niraṅkuśa felt secure leaving his mother and sister under her supervision, visiting them only once every month or two—though occasionally he might go every ten days.
The walls of that fort were sturdy, but the residential building inside was small, consisting of four or five rooms. They cooked in one room. One room had belonged to his father, and there were two others—one for Niraṅkuśa and one for Jāmbavati. There was a passage from the kitchen into Jāmbavati's room. From his father's room, there was a path to the kitchen, and from his own room, there were paths leading to both his father's room and the kitchen. His own room was spacious.
His mother now remained in his father's room at all times. Her aunt would enter the other three rooms whenever there was work to be done, but she mostly stayed in the kitchen. That "kitchen" was not merely a room but a large hall (cāvaḍi). Cooking was done on one side of this hall, and meals were eaten in the middle section. On the other side, the aunt stayed. Every night, she would set up her cot and sleep in the same area where they ate. She loved Jāmbavati even more than she loved Niraṅkuśa's mother, who was her own sister's daughter.
When Śrīmukha and Vijaya Simha were learning swordsmanship at that fort, Jāmbavati was a mere child of four or five years. Words cannot describe her beauty as an infant. She was like a doll made of gold—a tender bud descended from a celestial island. Until she reached seven or eight years of age, the martial training of Śrīmukha, Vijaya Simha, and Niraṅkuśa continued. Afterward, Śrīmukha and Vijaya Simha returned home. Twelve or thirteen years had passed since then, and they had never once visited that house.
However, the memory of Jāmbavati remained etched in Vijaya Simha's heart. He had last seen her when she was eight or nine years old, and even then, the child appeared as a world-enchantress (Jaganmōhini). Even in childhood, a soul possesses a dormant gender-consciousness; it remains unmanifest. For some, this feeling surges even before they come of age. The concepts of male and female in humanity vary according to different innate tendencies (saṃskāras).
For one soul, this feeling never oversteps the bounds of righteousness (dharma). For another, no matter how many whims the mind entertains, the body never violates the codes of society. In another, the feeling may not even stir in the mind, yet they commit unrighteous acts in the moment. In yet another, both the mind and body are corrupt. Then there is the soul who is corrupt in thought and deed but whose subsequent repentance knows no bounds.
In human nature, there are countless such variations in how the concept of the relationship between man and woman manifests—where, when, and in what manner remains impossible to define. Even as a youth, Vijaya Simha harbored a love for Jāmbavati. At that time, she was a very small child, and Vijaya Simha had not yet reached a marriageable age. In his heart, he had decided back then that he must marry Jāmbavati.
But who could know what was in his mind? Furthermore, there had been no history of intermarriage between their families for generations. While they shared other distant ties of kinship, there was no precedent for giving and taking in marriage. It was not even clear if they were of the appropriate relation (varusa) for such a union; that investigation had never even taken place.
When the topic of Vijaya Simha's marriage first arose, he thought he should tell his parents, "I will marry her." However, he did not share such intimacy with either of them. The protocols within royal families were of a different sort. Once boys reached a certain age, they lived in separate mansions; their servants were different, their administration was different, and their tutors were different. Perhaps once in a hundred or a thousand instances would they go to see their father, and likewise, they would visit their mother only occasionally. In such a situation, to whom could he speak?
Moreover, his life was spent entirely in the rigorous practice of swordsmanship. Between Niraṅkuśa and himself, a certain hidden jealousy (antar-mātsaryamu) had taken root. This rivalry existed only within their minds; no one else knew of it. Had his teacher been alive, Vijaya Simha might have gone and asked, "Give your daughter Jāmbavati to me." He thought of asking many times, but he lacked the courage of heart. In the matter of his own marriage, who was he to decide? His father would arrange some alliance, and he would be bound to marry. If he were to defy his father and marry a maiden of his own choosing, his father would tell him to find his own way; he would have to leave the country. After his teacher passed away, Niraṅkuśa became the authority. Between the two of them, there was a deep, underlying coldness. If he were to ask, Niraṅkuśa would undoubtedly refuse him.
During this time, Niraṅkuśa had assumed his authority over Toṟṟupaṭṭu. After some time passed, an idea occurred to Vijaya Simha. He thought: "Niraṅkuśa's mother and her maternal aunt are there. Only the two of them reside there. I am a Prince, and I share a great intimacy with that household. The old woman has immense affection for me. If I go and broach this subject with my teacher's wife—if she favors it—she herself will speak to her son. Then, I can discuss it with Niraṅkuśa."
Reasoning thus, and learning that Niraṅkuśa would not be leaving Toṟṟupaṭṭu to go to his fort at that time, Vijaya Simha went to their fort in secret. Niraṅkuśa's mother and her aunt welcomed Vijaya Simha warmly. "After how many days do we finally see you, son!" they exclaimed, and prepared some refreshments for him.
By then, Jāmbavati had blossomed into a young woman. Because there was no grand palace (antaḥpuramu) at that location, the strict seclusion usually practiced by royalty was absent. Consequently, Jāmbavati also came to see Vijaya Simha. She behaved with him exactly as she had when she was an eight-year-old child. With some laughter, some playful teasing, and some shared courtesies, the time passed with supreme enthusiasm and beauty until sunset.
Vijaya Simha returned home, but he had never even raised the topic of marriage. He did not know what to do.
After a few months had passed, he went again. There was no lack in the warmth of the hospitality shown to him, yet Jāmbavati did not approach him with the same intimacy as before. She did not speak as she had. She remained at a distance, though whenever he looked toward her, she would smile gracefully. A tender bashfulness, one that could not be precisely defined, was visible in her. After staying for a while, he returned home once more.
By then, he realized he could not muster the courage to ask her mother. He assumed the mother disapproved; he felt that was why Jāmbavati was unable to maintain the closeness of their earlier days during this second visit. After some more days, gathering great courage, he went again. On that day too, Jāmbavati did not come to where he was. She appeared only once, and in that moment, she seemed like a vessel overflowing with shyness from head to toe. While he, the mother, and the great-aunt sat talking, the great-aunt said: "Son! Our son-in-law taught Jāmbavati swordsmanship. Did you know? They say you are a master of the sword. Why don't you test her skill?" Niraṅkuśa's mother remained silent. The conversation ended there. He never went back after that.
Vijaya Simha perceived in Niraṅkuśa's gaze that news of these two or three visits had reached him. Then, the Coronation of the Crown Prince took place. During the swordsmanship demonstration that day, observing Niraṅkuśa's conduct, it seemed as though he intended to wound him.
While things stood thus, Vijaya Simha realized that alongside the sweet stream of honey that was his marital life with Bhāma, his longing for beauty flowed like a slender rivulet of water as clear as coconut milk. Even though he was married, and even though he had experienced fifteen days of beautiful, profound emotion with his sisters-in-law, and even though he was reaping the very essence of romantic rasa from Bhāma—at all times, in a corner of his mind, Jāmbavati continued to peer through. His affection for her remained unchanged.
Now, there was no possibility of a formal relationship between him and Jāmbavati. He could simply go and see her. Her mother need not be suspicious as before. He would just go to look! But what was the use of just looking? Yet, what is this "thirst" (tṛṣṇā) in the heart? Thirst is a strange thing. Its outer color is one thing, its inner color another. Inside, there may be ten or twelve different shades. The mind is a great expert at deceiving itself. While deceiving itself, it believes it is not doing so at all.
Regardless, he went one more time. This time, Jāmbavati came and spoke with him freely. Her mother did not object. Her great-aunt again raised the subject of swordsmanship. The mother asked him to find a good marriage alliance for Jāmbavati. After staying for a while, Vijaya Simha returned.
But as he returned home, Vijaya Simha found the shyness Jāmbavati had displayed—the way she offered him a sweet drink while letting the edge of her hand brush against his, and those one or two glances she cast—utterly striking.
Why striking? Because those were the very same nuances from the "Chapter of First Union" that he had learned, seen, and become familiar with through Bhāma! From that moment on, Vijaya Simha's mind became tainted with the desire for a secret meeting with Jāmbavati. What use was it to visit their home so many times during the day? The mother and the great-aunt were always there. Since he was already married, there was no possibility of a second marriage proposal. He had to meet her in secret. If she truly loved him, only then would this pursuit of beauty find its ultimate purpose.
But how could he go there at night? If he went, how would he enter? How would he wake her? To master these maneuvers, he needed to know every custom of that fort, every habit of that household, and exactly where each person slept. For this reason, he had to visit once more. And no matter how many times he went, he had to ensure Niraṅkuśa did not arrive while he was there.
He needed to understand what the mother and the great-aunt thought of his frequent visits. He had already deciphered the great-aunt's nature; it seemed that from the beginning, she desired for him and Jāmbavati to be together. All the objection came from the mother. He suspected that even her objection was perhaps directed by Niraṅkuśa. Furthermore, was he the only one who had learned swordsmanship there? The Crown Prince had learned there, as had Nāgārjuna. Why did they never go there? Why should he? Why did he go there at all? Many people saw him. What would they think?
Vijaya Simha made a firm resolve. No matter what happened, he must go this time and learn everything! He set out.
Jāmbavati once again behaved with intimacy. Her mother appeared to disapprove, yet she said nothing. The great-aunt, however, teased them repeatedly, making witty remarks that subtly hinted at how wonderful it would be if they were husband and wife.
"Jāmbavati! Fight a duel with Vijaya Simha. Let us see your skill," the great-aunt urged three times. On the third occasion, Jāmbavati tightened her saree behind her, tucked the loose end (paita-koṅgu) firmly into her waist, and returned wielding a sword and a shield. Vijaya Simha had neither a shield nor a sword; he carried only the dagger (bāku) at his waist, typical of a prince's attire. He laughed, gesturing that he was unarmed. In that house, however, there was no shortage of weapons. She fetched a sword and shield and gave them to him.
To the north of the house, bordering the Kṛṣṇā river, lay the training ground for swordsmanship (khaḍga-vidyā-raṅgabhūmi). No one looked after that arena now, but Jāmbavati had cleared about five or six yards of it to practice her exercises. There, the two of them engaged in a sword fight.
Niraṅkuśa's father had taught Jāmbavati the theoretical principles of the art just as extensively as he had taught Nāgārjuna. However, there was a difference between Nāgārjuna and Jāmbavati. Nāgārjuna never put the art into practice; he taught others exactly as his teacher taught him, but he never trained his own body nor applied the moves against an opponent. If someone attacked him, he could identify the move and evade it—that was all. Jāmbavati, though alone, had practiced repeatedly. By imagining an opponent before her, she had brought all her father's verbal instructions into her physical practice.
Vijaya Simha was a man of great stature (ājānubāhu), his body hardened by daily exercise. He was of a slightly dusky complexion, with a body that possessed supreme agility—he was like a lion. When Jāmbavati stood beside him, she reached only to his shoulder. She had a slender frame, but through exercise, her body had become as flexible as a willow branch. Unfamiliar with the touch of a man, her form seemed to float in the air.
The shield and sword she carried were not heavy; they were light weapons designed to strike an opponent swiftly and unexpectedly. Her sword, which was not very long but extremely thin and flexible, could bend easily. One could never predict where it would land. The middle of her blade might strike the edge of the opponent's shield, and if there wasn't enough distance between the shield and the body, the tip of her sword could whip around the edge and hit the target.
Despite Vijaya Simha's immense agility, it became difficult for him to withstand her light leaps and flanking strikes. A battle should take place between equals. He was a lion; he could fight another lion. But before him was a doe—one who knew no fear and for whom he felt love. Imagine if that doe also possessed fangs and claws! How much would that doe outmaneuver the lion? That is exactly how much Jāmbavati outmaneuvered Vijaya Simha.
By the time this friendly duel concluded, Jāmbavati's face was flushed, her veins were slightly prominent from the exertion, and her countenance blossomed with such enthusiasm that she appeared like the Goddess of Victory (Vijayalakṣmī). Vijaya Simha, on the other hand, had sustained four or five small cuts on his body that were bleeding. Only two people witnessed this battle: the mother and the great-aunt! Maidservants had been strictly forbidden from coming there.
The mother was immensely pleased by the skill Jāmbavati displayed. In that moment of joy, she forgot that Vijaya Simha was a married man and Jāmbavati was an unwed woman. Jāmbavati wiped the small wounds on his body with a wet cloth and brought the remnants of her father's old medicinal ointments (lēpanamu) to apply to them. Throughout this, she talked incessantly, laughing and making him laugh.
"You looked at me like a little child! You did not truly fight me!" she teased. "My sword moves like a waistband (oḍḍāṇamu), turning this way and that—that is why you received these tiny scratches! Your sword is a stiff paṭṭā-katti; it does not bend!" She praised him, apologized, coaxed him, and while rubbing the medicine, she stood so close that her body nearly pressed against his. During this nursing, her upper cloth (payyeḍa) would slip and fall upon his shoulder or face; as she adjusted it, she made sure her touch was deliberate, displaying a unique and indescribable love. Every gesture seemed to Vijaya Simha to culminate in Śṛṅgāra (romantic rasa).
During this time, it so happened that the mother and great-aunt were away for a few moments. In that interval, as if by chance, he touched her thigh, her shoulder, her arms, and her waist. She not only permitted these touches but appeared to smile in response.
Through the course of their conversation in that room where she tended to him, he gathered vital intelligence:
Sleeping Arrangements: Jāmbavati slept alone in that very room.
Visibility: Directly opposite her door, in the western room, the great-aunt slept. That door was always kept open, and a lamp was kept burning.
Layout: Her room was on the southern side of the house.
Entry Point: Because she loved the southern breeze, the window (gavākṣamu) of her room was always kept open.
The Mother's Location: The mother slept in a room some distance away to the northwest.
When she tolerated his touches, he once entwined his fingers with hers. She laughed and gently released them. Finally, as he was leaving, Jāmbavati walked past the fort into the fields to see him off for a short distance.
Vijaya Simha took a bold risk and said, "Suppose I come at midnight and stand at the southern window of your room! Would you recognize me? Or would you take me for a thief?" She laughed and replied, "You are a thief, aren't you? I shall think of you as a thief!" After that, there was no opportunity for further talk. She turned back.
One day, that thief arrived. Jāmbavati was not afraid; she opened the door. He forcibly took her some distance away from the house. After a long while, she returned and lay down in her room. For the remainder of that night, she experienced a fear she had never known, yet felt a pleasure she had never imagined. It felt as though she were walking along a narrow path between Heaven and Hell. The path was too narrow to walk upon; for a time, she would drift into Heaven, and for another, into Hell.
She did not truly know what she had done or why. She only knew that until she opened the door for Vijaya Simha, she was aware of herself. A sweet desire had danced upon her heart. But once the door opened, she lost all authority over herself. In place of that desire, a singular fear gripped her heart. While she was with him, fear remained the dominant feeling. Yet, that inner sweetness acted like "moonlight hidden behind a dark cloud, yet fringing it with light." The cloud was real, but the influence of the moonlight was greater; the cloud lacked the strength to reject the light. She did not sleep at all that night. Neither the great-aunt nor the mother discovered this secret.
In a year, at least twenty-five to thirty such nights passed. How did such a secret become known to the world? It became known before the year was out. People began to whisper. Jāmbavati's mother learned of it, as did the great-aunt and Niraṅkuśa. It was known throughout the fort, yet no one spoke of it openly. Jāmbavati stopped sleeping in her usual room and began sleeping in Niraṅkuśa's room.
Niraṅkuśa constantly tried to track Vijaya Simha's movements. Simultaneously, Vijaya Simha kept track of the days when Niraṅkuśa was tied down at Toṟṟupaṭṭu and could not return. Vijaya Simha had secret spies in Toṟṟupaṭṭu. Some servants in Niraṅkuśa's house favored Vijaya Simha—partly out of respect for him as a Prince, and partly out of greed for the money he gave. Furthermore, they felt a sense of pride that Jāmbavati would have a Prince as a husband rather than some commoner. They assumed this would continue for a while and eventually Vijaya Simha would marry her, as many princes had two or three wives.
Jāmbavati moving from the southern room to her brother's room did not hinder the affair. Niraṅkuśa knew this could not happen without the consent and help of his domestic servants. But how could he identify the traitors? He punished some and threatened others, but they claimed ignorance and endured the punishment. He dismissed one or two. Eventually, Niraṅkuśa realized that pursuing this further would only bring more scandal upon himself. He stopped speaking to his sister altogether. When he was home, she remained withdrawn and out of sight.
Niraṅkuśa struck upon a new plan. Because Vijaya Simha was a Prince, the common people held him in higher regard than they did Niraṅkuśa, making it impossible for Niraṅkuśa to catch him in his secret acts. Śrīmukha, being the Crown Prince, could not be used to track Vijaya Simha's movements either. That left Nāgārjuna.
Niraṅkuśa decided to cultivate a close friendship with Nāgārjuna, hiding his true intent. He knew his father had taught Nāgārjuna and Jāmbavati certain secrets of swordsmanship that even he had not been told. While he felt it was beneath his dignity as an elder brother to ask Jāmbavati, he felt no shame in learning from Nāgārjuna, even if he was younger. To defeat Vijaya Simha, Niraṅkuśa didn't strictly need those sword secrets—he already possessed two "Maya" (mystical) arts learned from Gaṅgu that would allow him to kill Vijaya Simha at any time. However, friendship with Nāgārjuna was the perfect pretext to uncover Vijaya Simha's secrets.
This friendship continued for five or six months. During this time, Niraṅkuśa observed strange traits in Nāgārjuna that he couldn't explain. Sometimes Nāgārjuna would be incredibly enthusiastic; at other times, he would be deeply despondent.
It was the year of Parābhava. The rainy season had passed. During that season, Niraṅkuśa learned that Vijaya Simha had visited his home four or five times. Vijaya Simha's skill at timing was perfect; he would only visit when Niraṅkuśa had intentionally made it appear as though he were trapped by duties at Toṟṟupaṭṭu.
On one such day, Nāgārjuna was in a state of great sorrow. After much questioning by Niraṅkuśa, Nāgārjuna finally spoke:
"O friend! A genius, a supreme master of swordsmanship, a man with the brilliance to turn entire kingdoms upside down, came to seek employment in our King's court. He and I were close friends. Not only was he denied a position, but rumors were spread that he is a secret spy for a foreign king and a wicked man. Had he been appointed as a General or a Minister, he could have made our King the Emperor of all Bhārata! This is truly a case of 'pushing away fortune when it knocks at the door.'
An order has been issued for his arrest. But can these people truly bind him? He can dive into water and swim like a fish for a yōjana (about 8-9 miles). He can walk through fire. Suddenly, he can appear like a bear. He can make the very gods do his bidding! He has eluded them. I am grieving because it will be difficult to meet him again. I am angry. I will do your work for you."
[1] Sēnānāyaka High-ranking Generals. There were usually only ten of these, and Niraṅkuśa’s rank was equal to theirs.
[2] Camūpati A commander of a Camū (a specific military unit size). There were hundreds of these.
[3] Daḷādhipati A leader of a Daḷa (a squad or detachment). These were the frontline officers.
[4] Sēnāpati The Supreme Commander of the entire army.
[5] Durgādhipati The Lord or Governor of a Fort (Durga). They acted as independent rulers within their forts.
[6] According to the chapter, the Mahāsabhā is the ultimate governing body of the empire, but it functions with a very specific "dormant" nature:Composition: It is a selective group consisting of the Ministers, Sēnāpatis, Toṟṟupaṭṭu officials, and Durgādhipatis.Size: It is a small, elite circle; the total membership never exceeds one hundred people.Authority: Although the King (Rōmapāda) is the sovereign, this assembly is the entity that truly "governs" the realm during times of crisis.Frequency: It does not meet regularly. It might not convene for forty years. It is only summoned during extreme emergencies, such as when a Pararāju (foreign king) declares war or invades.Autonomy: Because the assembly rarely meets, the officials (like Niraṅkuśa) are "more or less independent" (svatantrulu) in their daily rule over their respective villages and districts.
[7] 10gram (in present times)