Why then I am called False Ashok
Part II
My only known de-merit is that I was not born in India. Unlike my namesake whose many claims to fame include its Indian origin celebrated and eulogized in various literary works, I don’t boast of a regal parentage. Should it make me worry?
Certainly not! Because I represent, emphasise, and reinforce the ancient Indian tradition of assimilating and absorbing foreign entities, traditions, and peculiarities. And over a period, I have become as Indian as every other thing that builds on a privilege of being born here.
But may I ask why Ashok is called Saraca indica? There is no connection of Saraca, its first name with India. I offer a challenge to those who place a great premium on origins. Why don’t Ashok’s admirers immediately begin a campaign to call it Ashoka indica, and not Saraca indica, a proposition eminently in order and appropriate.
If Ashok stands for originality, I stand for adaptation; if Ashok stands for pristine purity, I stand for magnificent synthesis; if Ashok stands for tradition and culture, I stand for modernity and progress; if Ashok stands for a celebrated but dated grandeur, I stand for an evolving eloquence, if Ashok stands for a glorious past, I stand for a bright future.
And we both stand for co-existence and comradery, of shared pride and prestige, of common prospect and providence.
A Shared Tradition?
I agree that Ashok’s legend is unquestioned. Buddha was born at the foot of one. Māhavīra renounced the world under one. Aśoka the Great planted them along arterial roads of his empire to provide welcome shade for weary travellers.
Ashok, the fifth arrow in Madana’s quiver is the most powerful of the five flower arrows, the other four being Swetapadma (white lotus), Neelpadma (blue lotus), Amramanjari (mango blossoms), and Juhi or Juthika (jasmine).
Kalidasa, the noted Sanskrit poet and dramatist, mentions and describes the resplendence and magic of Ashok in many of his acclaimed works. In the third act of the play Malavikagnimitram, the king Agnimitra admires the beauty of Vanalakshmi, the goddess of the forests, thus —
Raktashokaruchavisheshitaguno
Bimbadharaalaktakah
(The brilliance of the scarlet Ashoka’s blooms
Surpasses the rich red of the lower lips
Of young women, tinted by laksa juice)
And, the true Ashok may have been made a lasting lore by the Yakṣī holding an Ashok branch but I am not very sure that while holding them they would have found much difference between the true Ashok and me.
The Ashok tree that sheltered the distressed Sītā, a captive in Laṅkā is said to destroy grief (‘śoka-nāśana’) in the Rāmāyaṇa, but they are also seen – in the Haṃsasandeśa – as appropriate co-mourners for Sītā in her consuming cruel grief. And Ashok was once upon a time giver of sorrows, Sashok, before converting to Ashok, the destroyer of grief.
For the girl whose lover is away from home, Ashok serves only as a tormenter and deepens the yearnings and pain of her lovesick heart.
And Me
It is true that I don’t blossom like my namesake, in resplendent orange and red but in every spring, I am covered with delicate star-like pale green flowers. And while it may last for a short period of only two to three weeks, the amorous aroma that it disseminates; and the subtle appearance of my flower laden redolent frame defies description.
My significance emanates from the core of my being entwined with the beliefs and customs of the communities I co-exist with. Deeply rooted in cultural heritage, I hold a sacred status, often regarded as a symbol of strength, longevity, and spiritual connection to the natural world. I stand for a unique pulchritude and an uncommon grace; my lissom limbs offering remarkable purpose and my appearance symbolic of wisdom and sagacity in pursuit of wellness.
Do I then, still grudge my status in the annals of arboreal tradition and lore and legend?
Decisively not!
My dignity is as pristine as is the hoariness of my soulmate, my beauty as bewitching as the legend immortalising it, and my future as shared, as sure and as bright as of the one who possesses the same name.
If I may be allowed to sum up my case lyrically, may I say thus,
Kamadeva, the God of Desire,
May have bestowed his favour upon you,
As his favourite arrow in his quiver,
ready to ignite passion’s flame.
And you, my dear, may have chosen
The beauty of a delicate feet,
Causing you to burst forth
In a resplendent bloom of allure.
You may have been the cherished
Muse of poets and wordsmiths,
The object of Kalidas’s passionate adoration,
The favoured choice of benevolent emperors.
I, too, possess a grace and grandeur
That matches yours in every way,
With a shady frame and supple limbs
That sway in a languid fray.
My arboreal majesty
reaches an uncommon scale,
A visual feast for all
who behold me, without fail.
Perhaps poets, scribes, literary enthusiasts
may not celebrate me,
In the same fervent manner
they do for you, my friend,
But know that I am
An extension of your beauty and essence,
For our souls are intertwined,
And forever joined.
In this vast tapestry of existence,
We are connected,
Two souls constantly mingle,
Complementing each other’s perfection.
While your radiance may be sung
In verses and many a sonnet,
I stand as a testament
To our shared beauty, my lovely mate!
(Concluded)
scribo ad LX 