Chapter 43: Battle Of Impressions part-2

Danesh pointed to the coastal region marked Kalinga on the ancient map, present-day Odisha. "This," he declared, "was where Emperor Ashoka fought his infamous war—a state pressed unjustly against an empire. Records speak of hundreds of thousands dead, entire cities reduced to corpses. Even the rivers were said to run red with blood. And yet, that very massacre is what secured his fame. His reign endured not because of dharma, but because fear of that war kept rebellions at bay."

His gaze hardened. "And that is why his empire collapsed after his death. With no terror to hold it together, it slowly crumbled and was toppled in the end. Tell me, does such a ruler deserve to be called ’the Great’? Is this how we want to remember a lost legacy?"

The room stirred. Several guests clapped in support, emboldened by his defiance. It seemed the verdict leaned in his favor—until a new voice cut in.

"Pardon my intrusion," a smooth baritone said. "But since we’re discussing such a fascinating topic, may I add a few words?"

It was none other than Jayesh. He had been circling the group, waiting for his moment. Bowing politely, he locked eyes with Masato, deliberately ignoring both Danesh and Ishita. "My name is Jayesh Mittal. My family runs a modest business, but my true passion lies in the history of South and East Asia."

Masato nodded, intrigued. "Very well. More knowledge is always welcome."

With a genial smile, Jayesh clapped Danesh lightly on the shoulder. "This young man is correct—Ashoka had many flaws. Historians did polish his image for propaganda. Let’s not forget he seized the throne by slaughtering ninety-nine of his brothers. And contrary to popular belief, he had already embraced Buddhism before the Kalinga war."

Danesh, surprised but pleased at the unexpected support, inclined his head. But Ishita fired back immediately. "You’re lying. Even Wikipedia doesn’t say that."

Jayesh smirked. "Wikipedia isn’t the final word, my dear. Check Google—sources differ sharply. Scholars still debate the timeline."

Ishita hurriedly searched her phone and faltered. She couldn’t outright refute him. The crowd murmured at her silence.

But before judgment could settle, Jayesh pivoted sharply. "Yet... this young lady is not wrong either. Ashoka does deserve the title of Great."

The hall froze. Even Danesh’s jaw dropped, uncertain what game Jayesh was playing. Rohit clenched his fists, as his instincts told him that this cunning snake bastard was scheming again.

Jayesh pressed on, his tone grand and measured. "Consider the scale of his achievement. Ruling such a vast land without modern communication, without railways or telegraphs. From north to south, east to west, his authority held. His edicts were carved on pillars across the subcontinent. His enemies still feared him. Yes, he made mistakes, as all humans do. But his reign was remembered as just, his rule marked divine. Even India’s national emblem today is drawn from his lion capital."

Everyone was stunned; even Danesh couldn’t find words to counter or refute Jayesh’s points.

Then, a girl who happened to be a friend of Goenka asked cautiously, "Mr. Jayesh, could you please elaborate on what exactly you mean?"

Jayesh smiled smugly. "It is all about perception. Some will paint a man as cruel, others as noble, depending on their interests. But history and legend remain. And speaking of legend, I believe we are overlooking the most important object here—the bowl. How many among us know its true story?"

The room exchanged blank stares. Everyone had read the display notes earlier—nothing beyond that.

Masato leaned forward. "Do you know more, young man?"

Jayesh inclined his head. "Yes. This bowl was not only used by Ashoka during his Buddhist oath—it is said to be the very bowl once used by Lord Buddha himself before he got enlightened."

Gasps echoed through the hall. Guests leaned in as he continued, his voice rich with story. "According to Buddhist scriptures, in his youth Buddha once received rice pudding from a kind boy. In return, he blessed the boy, saying he would one day be a great emperor who spread dharma. That boy, as per the texts, was none other than Ashoka—reborn centuries later. This bowl, passed through holy hands, became the vessel for his oath to serve dharma."

Masato’s wife clapped, genuinely impressed as she spoke with her sweet voice. "I have rarely seen such passion for history."

Masato joined too. "Indeed, young man, I am honored by your insight."

Applause followed. The hall swelled with admiration for Jayesh. Danesh seethed and snapped, "What is the source? This bowl is the same one."

Jayesh casually retorted, not even glancing back at him. "If you don’t know, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist." His voice was low, yet sharp enough to reach Danesh.

Rohit’s eyes narrowed, his gut churning with anger.

He quickly checked on Google, unwilling to trust that trickster. Unfortunately, the man’s words turned out to be true—though only as rumors, and with the part about the bowl missing. There was no proof, yet Danesh’s verbal rebuke was enough to deter others from crossing him.

This bastard... always scheming. And the worst part? He isn’t entirely wrong.

Amidst the applause, Rohit felt a surge of irritation, but he calmed his nerves.

Somewhere deep inside, he suspected his body was reacting from fragments of past memory and instinct. Yet, he reminded himself, it was better not to let emotions dictate him now.

History had never been his interest, and intellectual debates were never his cup of tea. Surely, this one was a lost game and he had seen enough. So, he quietly slipped away from the crowd, letting his eyes wander across the other showcases, trying to cool his restless mind.

That was when something caught his attention.

A familiar sculpture stood before him, pulling his gaze like a magnet.

It was the idol of ’Nataraja’, Lord Shiva in his cosmic dance. The figure struck him with uncanny familiarity, as its aura strangely resembled their Japanese deity—Daikokuten.

The idol seemed to capture Shiva’s mid-movement, each gesture alive with rhythm.

And yet, the face carried that same nonchalant, jovial expression he remembered from the Daikokuten statues he had been forced to bow before during his days with the Yakuza.