The Relic

King Gautamavarma was taking some time to relax in his private chambers, hoping to shake off the anxiety that had built up throughout the day. In the stifling heat of Kambuja’s tropical summer, his servants were fanning him to try to bring down his body temperature. Queen Indrakshi Devi, as usual, was sitting in front of the large golden statue of the Buddha.

A small golden box was placed at the foot of the statue. It housed the famed Buddha’s hair that Gautamavarma had gotten as a dowry for marrying Indrakshi Devi, the daughter of King Drushti Deva of Saketha.

Gautamavarma was now sipping hot Kashaya from a cup when a servant rushed in unannounced. “My lord, Mahamantri Shashankapala wants an immediate audience.” “I’m done for the day, Charay. Ask him to come tomorrow…” Even before the king had finished his sentence, Shashankapala stormed into the chamber and saluted the king, and with the wave of his hand, he dismissed the servant. With a huge sigh, Gautamavarma asked his childhood friend, “What is this, Shashankapala? I’m completely exhausted today. Why have you rushed in at this hour? Don’t I need to rest? Is it so important?”

Mahamantri Shashankapala and King Gautamavarma were both close friends from childhood. They both never followed protocols when they were alone. Though a Srivijayan by birth, Shashankapala was very loyal to King Gautamavarma and Kambuja. King Gautamavarma knew that whatever Shashankapala did was for the betterment of the kingdom. So he never restricted his entry to the royal chambers at any time.

But today was not like every day. It was Purnima, or a full moon night. A sacred day for a devout Buddhist So the king wanted to take some rest and get into meditation before the moon rose over the horizon.

“A king has no holidays or resting time, my friend,” said Shashankapala. “Remember when I warned you about an impending attack?”

King Gautama was confused. Yes, I do. Well, as per the teaching of Sakyamuni, I don’t want any blood spilled in…”

Shashankapala didn’t let the king finish his sentence. “Stop your nonsense. I remember your order,” he said.

“Then why are you here at this hour?” asked the king, a bit annoyed.

“One of our watchtowers on the southern coast has noticed that a giant fleet of ships is heading towards the mouth of Ma Ganga…”

“So? It may be a fleet of traders,” said Gautamavarma.

“No. No. Gautama. These ships look like they have come from Srivijaya.” Shashankapala was losing his patience.

“Then, they have definitely come here for trade. Why are you doubting them?”

“These Srivijaya ships have the Dìwèi banner. As I had expected earlier, the Yunani king Yuèwáng and the Srivijayan king Bhuvanakanta have entered an alliance. King Bhuvana was always ambitious to take over us and make Srivijaya a thalassocracy state, and Yuèwáng, on the other hand, wanted the trading to take place cheaper. So they have entered a mutual understanding that by defeating you, Srivijaya will get to be independent and reap the trade shares, and Yunan will get cheaper goods.”

Gautama was trying to absorb the information.

“And one more thing, my spies in Yunan have heard that your possession of the Buddha’s Hair has reached the ears of Yuèwáng, and he’s planning to acquire it through any means.”

‘Did he say spies? Well, this man never leaves an opportunity,’ thought Gautamavarma.

“Well, let’s wait and watch, Shashankapala. The teachings of the Śākyamuni clearly state nonviolence. Being a believer of him, even Yuèwáng won’t want unnecessary violence.”

Shashankapala, with a huge sigh, agreed to his king’s suggestion.

Kambuja’s true strength lay in its navy. And the northern mountains were an effective barrier against any invading forces.

A major part of the Kambujan Navy was acquired after defeating the Srivijayan king five decades ago. Though the people served Kambuja, they were loyal and dedicated to Srivijaya. Now, to get Srivijayan support and appease the masses. King Gautamavarma, against Shashankapala’s advice, had placed the Kambujan navy under the leadership of Bhuvanakanta, a Srivijayan royal. Kambuja had grown strong and had maintained a strong navy presence from Jambudweepa in the west to Nihon in the east.

And now, Shashankapala’s worst fear had come true. Apparently, Bhuvanakanta had switched sides. Now Kambuja’s strength had turned into its weakness. It seemed like Yuèwáng and his trusted minister, Xìngfú, were tying a noose around Kambuja’s neck.

Now Shashankapala had no other option but to wait and watch.

A month ago…

Yuèwáng was in his gymnasium, flexing his chiseled body. His mentor and trusted minister Xìngfú was with him, discussing the trade issues faced by his people. The Sherpa were charging more for the items bought from Yindu, the land that lay beyond the mighty Tibetan Plateau. Amidst this, an assistant of Xìngfú entered the chambers and handed over a bamboo slip.

Xìngfú took the slip and dismissed his assistant.

“What is it, Zhǎngwò?” Yuèwáng asked, referring to him as master.

“My suspicions were true, Yuèwáng. King Gautamavarma is in possession of the Buddha’s Hair. King Drushti Deva of Saketha has given it to him as dowry.”

“Zhǎngwò, you are the wisest one in the land. Can you please help in getting the lord’s relics?”

With a smile, Xìngfú nodded. Earlier that month, he had received a message from Bhuvanakanta asking for their support for a military coup against Kambuja. The terms were simple. Srivijaya would gain independence, and Yunan would get a safe passage to trade with Jambudweepa, what they called Yindu, the golden land sought after by most.

Xìngfú would have agreed to this lucrative offer, but attacking straight away would be a violation of the Buddhist code of nonviolence. So he was waiting for a legitimate reason for the attack, and today he had one.

Gautamavarma was the follower of the Hinayana sect of Buddhism, whereas Yuèwáng was a follower of Mahayana Buddhism.

While the Hinayana sect considered Buddha a normal human being who achieved Nirvana, Mahayana Buddhism considered Buddha a heavenly person who would assist his disciples in achieving Nirvana. So Xìngfú had theorized that Buddha’s hair truly belonged to those who believed him to be a heavenly figure. This gave a legitimate reason to attack Kambuja. But a straightforward attack was not in Xìngfú’s mind.

*****

Present day

It was early in the morning. Shashankapala and King Gautamavarma were on the royal boat. A vessel that was a bit bigger than a boat and much smaller than a ship. It was mainly used to travel inland during the summer seasons when Ma Ganga was almost dry, rendering it impossible for huge ships to sail through. “Shashankapala, they won’t attack us. How can they attack us? Lord Buddha has advised his followers to abstain from violence?”

King Gautamavarma noticed that the flow of Ma Ganga was reducing drastically. Thanks to the ingenious floodgates designed by his trusted minister friend Shashankapala. This was to prevent and divert floodwaters from the populated areas. But he didn’t connect the dots of why it was being activated now, in summer, when water levels were already low.

“Wait and watch. Maharaj!” replied Shashankapala, with a tone of sarcasm in his voice.

As they reached the mouth of Ma Ganga, they could see the huge ships that lined the shores of Kambuja.

King Gautamavarma was stunned. Shashankapala was right. The Srivijayans and the Yunani had aligned together.

As soon as a soldier from the ship’s watchtower spotted King Gautamavarma’s vessel entering the sea, he signaled his commander. A brief commotion ensued in the fleet.

Shashankapala and Gautama could see a small boat getting lowered into the sea with some people in it.

Shashankapala couldn’t identify who they were, but he surely knew they were very important people.

As the boat neared the shore, Garuda, the bodyguard squad of King Gautamavarma, formed a defensive shield around the king. The Garuda were an elite bodyguard troop who protected the king with their lives. And if the king died, even of natural causes, they’d sacrifice themselves.

Then there was confusion. The people in the boat started waving a green flag. Green, revered as a symbol of peace by most followers of the Buddha.

This confused Gautamavarma. “The enemy has come with a huge army, but he wants to sue for peace with us. What does this mean, Shashankapala?” he asked, leaning towards Shashankapala. “When a friend shows off his might in front of another friend, that means he is expecting something,” replied Shashankapala, with his eyes fixed on the waving green flag.

To everyone’s surprise, Srivijayan soldiers rowed the boat, and Srivijayan chief Bhuvanakanta and Xìngfú himself were present on the boat. After reaching the shore, Xìngfú offered his respects to the king.

Shashankapala felt the heat of the Kambujan sun, but his blood was cold. He watched Xìngfú step off the boat. The Yunani minister didn’t walk; he glided, his silk robes rustling with the sound of hidden daggers.

The king, honoring the code of conduct, remained silent as Xìngfú stepped onto the muddy bank.

Though Xìngfú was Yunani, he was well versed in Pali and Khmer. “I am here to offer the warmest greetings from Lord Yuèwáng. Lord Yuèwáng wishes to extend his hand of friendship to the king of Funan.”

Shashankapala was furious at the mention of Kambuja as Funan, a derogatory term used by the people of Yunan to refer to the Kambujans as subordinates of Yunan. A leech that sucked out the wealth of Yunan. But the code of conduct asked for him to remain quiet. Only the king had the authority to talk.

The Yunani minister’s smile was sharp and cold. “However, friendship requires shared resources. We have the power to dam the Mekong upstream. If you deny us the relic, your ‘Ma Ganga’ will wither and dry out. We have the man, time, and money to redirect the flow.”

Shashankapala’s jaw tightened. Calling the sacred Ma Ganga by the foreign name “Mekong” was a calculated insult, a claim of ownership over the very lifeblood of Kambuja.

Shashankapala leaned toward the King. “He isn’t here for the hair, Gautama,” he whispered. “He’s here for this,” while he pointed towards the Sengol held by the king. But Gautamavarma waved his hand, indicating Shashankapala should stay silent.

Gautamavarma, however, did not rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped forward, his face radiating with calmness. A calmness that was serene, almost frustratingly so.

“Master Xìngfú,” he said softly, “you speak of dams and rivers, but have you forgotten the Vajra Sutra? If the Buddha is merely a physical form or a scrap of hair to be traded for water, then you are not looking for the Buddha at all.”

A long, tense debate ensued. Gautamavarma dissected the Mahayana scriptures with such precision that Xìngfú, for the first time in his life, found himself stuttering in a debate. While the king distracted the Yunani minister with philosophy, Shashankapala was at work in the shadows.

Through his network of spies and Vishakanyas (poison damsels), Shashankapala had already begun rotting the enemy alliance from within. He knew the Srivijayan Admiral Bhuvanakanta was a man of lust and ego, not commitment. In the dim light of the tents, whispers were planted. “The Yunani will discard you once the hair is theirs. You are but a pawn to Yuèwáng.” To deepen the suspicion, Shashankapala intercepted and forged a letter from Xìngfú to the Yunani Emperor, detailing a plan to let the Srivijayans and Kambujans slaughter each other so Cina could simply walk over the corpses to the trade routes of Yindu.

Back at the capital, as the Bhikshus chanted for peace in the Royal Vihara, Shashankapala entered the inner sanctum. He took the golden box from the feet of the statue. Returning to the shore, he marched straight to Xìngfú’s camp and held the box aloft.

“You want the relic?” Shashankapala’s voice boomed. “Here. Take the physical tether that binds your greed.”

As Xìngfú bowed with a triumphant grin and grasped the box, Shashankapala leaned in, whispering, “If your faith requires a physical object to be valid, you have already lost the Buddha.”

Xìngfú’s grin turned into a snarl. He grabbed a nearby Greenpeace flag and thrust it into the burning embers of the lamp in the tent. The silk was scorched and blackened, a color of hatred in Buddhism. “This,” Xìngfú hissed, “is the only dharma you have left.”

The war began at dawn. Xìngfú ordered the combined fleet to sail upstream. He believed the rising tide would help them carry the heavy warships to Yasodharapura, the heart of Kambuja.

But as they reached the narrowest point of the river, the water began to behave unnaturally. Shashankapala had ordered the floodgates opened wide, then suddenly slammed shut. The massive surge of freshwater, less buoyant than the sea, caused the Yunani ships to sit dangerously deep. Then, the level plummeted.

“Retreat!” Xìngfú screamed as he felt the hull shudder.

But Bhuvanakanta’s Srivijayan ships stayed put, blocking the exit. The forged letter had done its work. The admiral believed the Yunani were about to fire upon him. In the chaos, the river vanished from beneath them. Xìngfú’s flagship hit the jagged rocks of the riverbed and groaned, toppling onto its side like a dying whale.

From the thick jungle canopy, Kambujan guerrilla archers let fly a rain of fire. A stray lamp shattered on Xìngfú’s deck, and soon, the ship became a pyre. Xìngfú scrambled through the smoke, reaching for the golden box, but a stray arrow pierced his chest. He died watching the ‘holy relic’ vanish into the inferno.

Across the water, Bhuvanakanta watched the carnage, believing himself the victor. He never saw the flash of the bowstring. Shashankapala, perched high in a banyan tree, released a single, calculated shot. The traitorous admiral fell before he could even draw his sword.

Months later, on the eve of Buddha Purnima, the kingdom was at peace. The Yunani King, Yuèwáng, lacked the intellect of his late minister and had retreated to his gymnasiums, defeated by his own vanity. In Srivijaya, the stable and loyal Padmaksha had been installed as the new ruler.

Gautamavarma sat in his chambers, sipping kashaya with Shashankapala. “You were reckless, my friend,” the king sighed. “We could have fought. Why give him the relic? Why let the hair of the Enlightened One burn in a river fire?”

Shashankapala simply smiled. “I told you, Gautama. He had already lost the Buddha.”

Queen Indrakshi Devi entered the room, carrying a small, silk-wrapped bundle. She opened it to reveal the original golden box, untouched and gleaming.

“I replaced the relic with a lock of my own hair before I handed the box to Xìngfú,” Shashankapala admitted. “The fire took nothing but a dead man’s greed and a soldier’s vanity.”

Gautamavarma looked at the relic, then at the moon rising over the horizon. He realized that the hair was just a symbol, but the peace they had won was the true teaching. “Take it to the Stupa,” the king commanded softly. “And let us pray. I have no more desire for worldly assets—not even this.”

As the monks’ chanting rose into the night air, the Hair of the Buddha returned to the shadows of the temple, guarded not by walls but by the wisdom of a king and the cunning of a ghost.