"The man who rules the world must first learn to rule himself."
---
The monsoon had come late that year.
For days, Pataliputra had waited beneath a sky of unbroken gray, the air so thick with heat that even the river seemed to sweat. When the first drops finally fell, the entire city exhaled — merchants dragged their wares beneath awnings, children shrieked in the streets, and the palace bells rang not for ceremony but for relief.
From his high terrace, Chandragupta Maurya watched the rain soak the roofs below, tracing silver lines through the mist. The sprawl of his empire stretched beyond sight — miles of stone, farmland, and faiths that now bowed to one name: his.
Yet the king felt hollow.
Peace, Vishnugupta had promised, would be harder than war. He hadn't lied.
The city obeyed, yes — but it obeyed too easily. Markets ran on time, tax ledgers balanced, roads gleamed. No one spoke against the crown. Yet Chandragupta could feel the weight of silence pressing against the walls of his court like invisible stone.
"Fear," he thought, "has become my loudest minister."
He turned to the scribe beside him. "Bring no guards tonight," he said quietly. "I will walk the streets."
The scribe hesitated. "Samrat—"
"Do as I say."
And so, when night fell, the emperor left the palace dressed in a plain cotton robe, his hair unbound, a shawl drawn across his face.
---
Pataliputra by night was not the city his courtiers described.
Lanterns hung like tired moons above narrow alleys. Rain pooled between cobblestones. The smell of roasted grain, incense, and damp cloth mingled with the river's breath.
Chandragupta walked unnoticed, his sandals splashing softly. He passed a group of workers drinking under a broken awning. Their voices were low.
"…they say he sees through walls now," one murmured.
Another laughed nervously. "No man can see everything."
"Then why did the tax collector vanish last week?"
Chandragupta paused in the shadows. The men's laughter faltered when thunder rolled.
"Better to pay what's asked," one said finally. "The king's shadow is long."
They lifted their cups in uneasy salute to the unseen ruler and fell silent.
The emperor turned away. Each step he took felt heavier than the last.
---
He found shelter beneath a banyan tree at the edge of the old temple quarter. There, in the dim light of a shrine's dying flame, sat a solitary monk.
He was thin, his skin the color of dust, his robe patched a dozen times. His head was shaved, his eyes half-closed, face serene. In his hand he held nothing but a staff and a small wooden bowl.
He did not move as Chandragupta approached.
"Are you waiting for alms?" the emperor asked softly.
The monk opened his eyes — calm, dark, piercing. "No," he said. "For silence."
Chandragupta frowned. "Silence?"
"Men offer words when they cannot offer peace," the monk said. "I take neither."
Something in that voice — gentle yet absolute — held the emperor still. He lowered his hood. "Do you know who I am?"
"I know what you are," the monk replied. "A man who carries too much noise in his heart."
The rain hissed softly around them.
"I am Chandragupta Maurya," the king said after a moment. "Ruler of this land."
The monk smiled faintly. "Then you are also its servant."
Chandragupta blinked. "Servant?"
"Yes," the monk said. "The ruler serves his throne as the ox serves the plow. The greater the field, the deeper the burden."
The emperor studied him. "You speak as though power is a curse."
"It is," the monk said simply. "Every crown is a circle of fire. It burns whoever wears it — slowly, invisibly."
Chandragupta sat beside him, the rain cooling his skin. "And what do you serve, holy one?"
The monk looked toward the darkened river. "Emptiness. Freedom from self."
"Freedom?"
"To need nothing," the monk said. "To own nothing. To walk unguarded and die unremembered."
Chandragupta's lips tightened. "That is not life. That is surrender."
The monk's gaze drifted to him. "And what is your life, Samrat? Commanding men to kill? Measuring worth in obedience? You have conquered the world — tell me, has it made you free?"
The words struck harder than arrows.
Chandragupta said nothing.
The monk leaned forward slightly. "You live surrounded by gold, guarded by blades, worshipped by those who fear you. Tell me — when you close your eyes, what do you see?"
The emperor looked down at his hands. The rain traced silver across his palms.
"Nothing," he admitted.
The monk nodded. "Then you are close."
"Close to what?"
"Understanding."
---
When dawn crept pale over the city, Chandragupta found the monk gone — no footprints, no trace but the wet imprint of his staff upon the stone.
He returned to the palace in silence, his robe soaked, his mind burning.
That day, court proceedings blurred before him. Ministers spoke of taxes, fortifications, alliances, but the emperor's thoughts wandered. He saw not maps or coins, but the monk's empty bowl.
When the court was dismissed, Vishnugupta entered quietly.
"You walked among the people last night," the Acharya said without preamble.
Chandragupta looked up sharply. "You know of it?"
Vishnugupta's lips curved faintly. "There is little I do not know."
The emperor hesitated. "I met a monk — Bhadrabahu, he called himself."
At that name, Vishnugupta's expression changed. "Ah. The ascetic from the south. I have heard his sermons — dangerous idealism."
"Dangerous?" Chandragupta repeated.
"Men who renounce the world," Vishnugupta said, "often forget how much the world feeds them. They preach peace to those who cannot afford it. A ruler cannot live by silence, Samrat. Silence does not build roads, nor feed soldiers."
Chandragupta rose, restless. "He said the crown is a circle of fire."
Vishnugupta regarded him carefully. "It is. But you are the flame's master, not its victim."
"Am I?"
The Acharya stepped closer. "You built this empire on discipline, not desire. Do not let guilt make you weak."
Chandragupta turned toward the terrace, where sunlight pierced through the clouds. "And if strength itself becomes a chain?"
Vishnugupta's tone cooled. "Then break the chain — but not your purpose. Remember, the world does not reward saints. It survives them."
---
That night, Chandragupta stood once more beneath the rain. The palace shimmered with torchlight, the river beyond whispering its endless hymn.
He thought of the monk's calm eyes, of the way he'd spoken without need of command or title. A man who ruled nothing, yet seemed freer than any emperor.
The king's fingers tightened on the parapet.
Below, the streets glowed dimly. Somewhere out there, the monk walked barefoot through the mud, untouched by gold or fear.
Chandragupta whispered into the dark:
"What is an empire worth, if I cannot rule myself?"
The words vanished into the rain.
High above, thunder murmured in answer — a low, distant echo, like the first voice of doubt.
---