14. Heroes and Villains of the Indus Valley - Ashoka the Great: Who Was the Man, Ruler, and Believer

My Childhood as Ashoka: The Making of a Mauryan Prince

I was born into the great Mauryan dynasty, the grandson of Chandragupta Maurya, the very founder of our vast empire. My father, Bindusara, ruled with strength and vision, and our capital, Pataliputra, pulsed with scholars, generals, merchants, and monks from across the known world. I do not know the exact year of my birth, but it was likely around 304 BC, when the Mauryan Empire had already stretched across much of India, from the Himalayas to the southern coasts. I was not the only child, nor the eldest, and certainly not the most favored. My mother, Subhadrangi, was not of noble birth, and thus my presence in the palace was accepted, but not celebrated by all.

Even as a young boy, I could feel the weight of legacy pressing down on my small shoulders. I was not just a child—I was a prince, expected to carry the blood of emperors and bear the weight of imperial destiny.

A Prince’s Education

From an early age, my life was strictly ordered. There were no idle days for a royal child. At sunrise, the Brahmin tutors would gather us for lessons in Sanskrit, the Vedas, law, administration, and philosophy. We learned the Arthashastra, the treatise on statecraft written by my great-grandfather’s advisor, Chanakya. We were taught that a king must be wise, cunning, and merciless when necessary. I remember sitting cross-legged on a cold stone floor, memorizing verses on diplomacy and war while the smell of oil lamps and incense drifted through the hall.

But it wasn’t only books. We learned the arts of war with as much intensity. Swordplay, archery, wrestling, elephant training, and horseback riding were daily routines. I still recall the soreness of my arms from drawing the great bows and the bruises from being thrown on the training fields. Discipline was absolute. If we failed, we were not coddled. We were reminded constantly that weakness would cost not just us—but the entire empire.

Living in the Royal Halls

The palace in Pataliputra was a place of splendor and strategy. We were surrounded by courtiers, guards, dancers, priests, spies, and foreign envoys. As a child, I watched these grown men and women carefully, learning not just from lessons, but from listening behind lattice walls and observing silent glances exchanged in the council chamber. Meals were eaten in silence or in discussion of treaties and trade, and I learned quickly that even laughter could carry political meaning.

We children rarely saw our father Bindusara except on formal occasions or festivals. When we did, he was clad in silk and gold, with the air of a deity, and his words were commands, not conversation. He was stern and watchful, and though I wished for his approval, I knew I had to earn it with deeds, not emotion.

Sibling Rivalries and Royal Tensions

Among my brothers, rivalry ran deep. Being one of many sons, I had to carve out my place with skill, courage, and occasional ferocity. My older half-brother, Susima, was the heir apparent, raised with the confidence of his status and the backing of powerful nobles. I, on the other hand, was kept on the periphery—trained harshly, sent to govern distant provinces, and constantly tested. But this treatment, whether meant to exclude or to harden me, only forged my will stronger.

The court was filled with schemes. Every tutor could be a spy. Every servant could be bribed. As a young prince, I trusted no one easily. I learned that to survive in the palace, one must be sharp-eyed and sharper-witted. I kept my emotions guarded, my words measured, and my ambitions hidden.

Preparing for Rule

Though I was not the favored son, I was not idle. I observed my father’s rule with curiosity and critique. I listened to governors, merchants, and sages. I sought audiences with generals returning from campaigns. I wanted to understand not just how to rule, but how people were ruled. I often wandered among the poorer quarters of the city, in disguise, to hear the voices of the people. It struck me even then how different their lives were from ours, how often they were ignored by those in power.

In time, I was given charge of the province of Avanti. My governance there, though far from the royal seat, became my training ground. I crushed rebellions, negotiated with local leaders, and ensured tax collection and order. In this proving ground, my reputation grew—not as a gentle prince, but as a firm and capable administrator.

The Shaping of My Heart

Even amid the steel and stone of palace life, I was still human. My mother, though she had little political standing, gave me warmth when no one else did. Her quiet strength and moral compass stayed with me. From her I learned not just to lead, but to feel. I loved her deeply. When she whispered stories of righteousness and truth into my ear at night, her voice softened the harshness of the court.

That gentleness would later be buried under years of ambition and war. But it never vanished. It waited—buried like a seed beneath the soil—until it would blossom again, after the bloodshed of Kalinga.

Looking Back

Now, as emperor, I look back on those days not with bitterness, but with understanding. My youth was forged in the fires of discipline, suspicion, and struggle. I was not born a ruler—I was shaped into one, by tradition, expectation, and my own unrelenting will.

But even then, I was aware of something deeper. That a ruler’s power is only as lasting as his people’s loyalty. And that no amount of conquest could bring peace without wisdom. I would not come to that truth until later in life, but even as a boy, I could feel its shadow following me. Perhaps that was my true destiny all along.

Ashoka the Conqueror: The Warrior King of India

Long before I ever held a sword or commanded an army, my name carried the weight of a legacy forged in fire. I was born into the Mauryan Empire, founded by my grandfather, Chandragupta Maurya, a man of remarkable strength and vision. Under his leadership, with the wise counsel of Chanakya, our empire grew from the ashes of Alexander’s departure to stretch across the northern plains of India. He had seized power from the corrupt Nanda Dynasty and established something entirely new—a centralized empire governed by discipline, espionage, and law.

By the time of my birth, the Mauryan Empire was already vast, wealthy, and feared. My father, Emperor Bindusara, expanded those boundaries further, maintaining order through provincial governors and a network of informants. I was raised amid the marble and stone of Pataliputra, where the halls echoed with strategy, politics, and ambition. I knew from a young age that greatness was expected of me. But I would choose a path that few anticipated, one paved first with blood and conquest.

A Prince with Fire in His Heart

As a youth, I was relentless. Where my brothers played politics and postured in court, I studied warfare, tactics, and command. I earned the nickname Chandashoka—"Ashoka the Fierce"—not because I sought cruelty, but because I believed that strength was the key to order. I was sent to govern the city of Ujjain, where rebellions and border tensions tested my leadership. I did not flinch. I led from the front, quelled unrest, and returned with my name etched in fear and admiration.

My military campaigns extended across northern and central India. I studied the weaknesses of my enemies and crushed them with precision. Elephants thundered beneath my banners, archers blackened the sky, and I learned to wield not only weapons, but fear. I believed then that the unity of the empire demanded discipline, even if that discipline required fire and steel.

The Kingdom of Kalinga

Among the few regions of the subcontinent that still held their independence was Kalinga, a coastal kingdom to the east. Kalinga was proud, wealthy, and defiant. Its people were skilled sailors, traders, and warriors. They had resisted both my grandfather and my father. To me, their refusal to submit was a blemish on the empire’s honor. I viewed their defiance not as bravery, but as rebellion. And rebellion, in my eyes then, could not be tolerated.

In the eighth year of my reign, I marched eastward with one of the largest armies ever assembled under the Mauryan banner. My generals urged caution. My advisors whispered of diplomacy. But I silenced them all. Kalinga would bow—or it would burn.

The War of Kalinga

The war that followed was nothing short of catastrophic. It was not a battle, but a slaughter. The Kalingan warriors fought fiercely, defending their homeland with a passion I had rarely seen. Women took up arms beside men. Villagers refused to flee. It took months to break their resistance, and when the walls of their capital finally fell, the land ran red.

More than 100,000 people perished in the war. Soldiers. Villagers. Innocents. Another 150,000 were displaced, torn from their homes, taken as captives or left to wander without shelter. I stood atop a hill overlooking the carnage and tasted not victory—but ash. The cries of the wounded haunted the air. The Ganges, once sacred, seemed sullied by our cruelty. For the first time in my life, I questioned the path I had taken.

The Weight of My Own Hand

It was not a foreign enemy who defeated me. It was not a blade or an arrow. It was a moment. A single breath of clarity as I watched the devastation I had wrought. Children wandered the fields looking for their parents. Women wailed in the ashes of their homes. Temples lay shattered, priests slaughtered, history scorched.

And I realized that my empire was full, but my heart was hollow. I had won Kalinga, but at what cost? What honor lies in ruling corpses? What victory is there in ashes?

I returned to Pataliputra in silence, my armor tarnished not by blood, but by grief. That war marked the end of Ashoka the Conqueror. It did not erase the past, but it cracked open my soul and forced me to see what I had become.

Looking Back

Now, as I look back upon the fires of Kalinga, I see the man I was—driven, ruthless, blind to suffering. The Mauryan Empire had given me power, and I had wielded it with unchecked fury. But in that moment of horror, I began to change. The soil of Kalinga did more than swallow bodies—it planted the seed of remorse in a warrior’s heart. And that seed, in time, would grow into something new. Not a sword, but a voice. Not an order, but a message. Not conquest—but compassion. But that is a story for another time.

The Turning Point: Ashoka’s Sorrow and Awakening

The Aftermath of Kalinga

When the last sword had fallen and the last cry of resistance had faded into silence, I stood surrounded not by celebration but by silence. The ground beneath me was not the foundation of an expanding empire—it was soaked in blood. I had achieved what no Mauryan before me could: the conquest of Kalinga. Yet I felt no triumph. My generals looked to me for words of glory. My advisors awaited a proclamation. But I could say nothing. What echoed in my mind were not songs of victory, but the screams of the dying and the wails of mothers clutching lifeless children.

That day broke me. No enemy’s blade had pierced my skin, but something deeper tore through me—a wound in the soul that no healer could mend. I had been raised to believe that strength defined a ruler. That conquest brought order. That disobedience deserved punishment. But as I looked upon the smoldering remains of Kalinga, I no longer believed these things. I no longer believed in myself.

The Crisis Within

In the months that followed, I withdrew from my court. I wandered the gardens of Pataliputra in silence, shunning the luxuries that had once brought me pride. The golden halls and jeweled crowns felt meaningless. I had everything an emperor could possess—power, wealth, dominion—yet I was empty. Each night, I dreamed of Kalinga. Of corpses in rivers. Of lost voices calling for justice. I had built an empire with my hands, but now I questioned what it was built upon.

I began to ask questions that no tutor had ever answered. What is the worth of a man who destroys what he cannot control? Is peace won through fear ever truly peace? I wandered the temples and shrines, listened to sages and priests, but nothing eased the weight in my chest. Regret followed me like a shadow—silent, persistent, inescapable.

Meeting the Middle Path

It was during this search that I encountered the teachings of the Buddha. I had heard of him before, of course—Siddhartha Gautama, the Shakyamuni, the Enlightened One. But I had never listened. Now, in my sorrow, I was ready to hear. A wandering monk spoke to me not of gods or punishment, but of suffering—its cause, its nature, and its end. He spoke of the Four Noble Truths:

That life is suffering. That suffering is caused by craving and ignorance. That suffering can end. And that there is a path to that end—the Noble Eightfold Path.

Right understanding. Right intention. Right speech. Right action. Right livelihood. Right effort. Right mindfulness. Right concentration.

These words were not commands. They were invitations. They did not promise me thrones or temples. They promised something greater—inner peace.

Empathy and Awakening

I began to understand that the pain I carried was not a curse—it was a doorway. Regret, when deeply felt, can transform a man. The same hands that once crushed rebellion could now lift the fallen. The same voice that once called for war could now call for compassion. What I saw in Buddhism was not weakness. It was strength—strength through understanding, through restraint, through love.

I began to visit monasteries. I welcomed monks into the palace. I studied the Dhamma—the teachings of the Buddha—and applied them not just to my life, but to my rule. No longer would I expand my empire through conquest. Now, I would expand it through care. Through hospitals, roads, clean wells, and peace. Through messages carved in stone that urged people not to harm living beings, not to oppress one another, not to live blindly. I had once ruled with fear. Now I would govern with wisdom.

One Moment, A Lifetime Changed

Sometimes, a single moment divides a life in two. For me, that moment came not with the clash of swords, but in the quiet stillness after the war. Kalinga showed me what I was capable of—and what I must never be again. From that pain emerged something new: a ruler who had seen the worst of himself and decided to become better.

To those who hear my story, I ask: have you ever regretted something so deeply it changed your heart? Have you ever paused in your anger, in your pride, and asked yourself, “Is there another way?” That is the beginning of awakening.

You do not need to be an emperor to change the world. You only need to open your heart to the suffering of others—and let that sorrow guide you to compassion. In that, you will find a peace no battlefield can ever bring.

Ashoka the Believer: Embracing Buddhism

After the horrors of Kalinga left their scar upon my soul, I could no longer live as I had before. I had conquered lands, but lost myself. In the silence of my palace and the solitude of my thoughts, I searched for meaning. It was then that the teachings of the Buddha, once distant and abstract to me, took on the form of truth. I did not become a monk. I did not renounce my throne. But I became something just as committed—a lay follower of the Dhamma.

I remember the first time I sat before a humble monk and listened, not as a king, but as a student. The Buddha’s teachings did not speak to conquest, riches, or divine right. They spoke to suffering—how to understand it, how to end it, and how to live a life rooted in peace. I felt as though a fog had lifted from my eyes. I was not meant to rule by fear. I was meant to lead by example.

The Principles That Changed Me

Three principles of the Buddha struck deepest into my heart: ahimsa, dharma, and karuna. These became my pillars.

Ahimsa—nonviolence—was more than the absence of war. It was a rejection of cruelty in all forms. I saw clearly now that every life, even the smallest, mattered. From the elephant to the sparrow, all beings shared this world with us. I had once raised the sword without thought. Now, I sought to protect those who had no voice.

Dharma—not merely religious duty, but moral righteousness. To rule with dharma meant to seek justice, truth, and equity. No longer would my edicts be written in blood. They would be carved into stone and scattered across the empire, not to threaten, but to teach. I no longer feared rebellion—I feared injustice in my name.

Karuna—compassion. A king’s strength is not measured by the number of provinces he controls, but by the number of lives he uplifts. This was a truth I had never been taught as a child, but it became the foundation of my adult life.

My Personal Commitments

Embracing the Dhamma was not just a political shift—it was a personal transformation. I began with myself. I gave up hunting, once my passion. I stopped the ritual slaughter of animals in the royal kitchens. I adopted a vegetarian diet, not for ritual purity, but for the simple belief that no creature should suffer for my pleasure.

I ended state-sponsored animal sacrifices. Temples that once rang with the cries of slain beasts were transformed into centers of learning and care. I ordered the building of rest houses, wells, and hospitals for both people and animals. Even trees were to be protected. I wanted to make clear: the Mauryan Empire would no longer expand through violence, but through welfare, tolerance, and love.

Living as a Different Kind of King

Being emperor no longer meant standing above others—it meant being responsible for their well-being. I trained my officials not just in governance, but in dhamma. I sent missionaries to distant lands, not with swords, but with scrolls. To Sri Lanka, to Central Asia, even as far as the Greek kingdoms, I sent the message of peace. My children, Mahinda and Sanghamitta, themselves carried the flame of the Buddha’s wisdom to new lands, where it lit countless hearts.

I did not claim to be perfect. I made mistakes, as all humans do. But I took responsibility for them. I acknowledged them publicly, carved my regrets into stone so that future rulers would learn from my flaws. To lead, I had learned, was not to demand obedience—it was to inspire conscience.

A New Kind of Power

My court changed, my kingdom changed, and I changed. No longer did I desire monuments to my victories—I desired a legacy of peace. I wanted to be remembered not as the man who conquered Kalinga, but as the one who conquered himself.

In Buddhism, I found not escape, but engagement. Not weakness, but resolve. I found that true strength lies in restraint, and true greatness in humility. The transformation of a kingdom begins with the transformation of its king. And that, above all, is the lesson I hope to leave behind.

Ashoka the Messenger: Spreading Buddhism Across Asia

From Emperor to Servant of the Dhamma

After embracing the teachings of the Buddha, I no longer saw my role as that of a conqueror, but as a messenger. My sword had once brought silence to my enemies. Now I wished for my words to bring peace to the world. I saw the Dhamma not as a doctrine of power, but as a path of harmony, and I knew it must not remain within the walls of my palace or the borders of my empire. It had to travel as freely as the wind and water, to places where hearts were open and minds were seeking truth.

To begin this sacred mission, I turned my attention inward, strengthening the foundation of the Buddhist community within the empire. I called for the support and restoration of the Sangha, the order of monks and nuns, and ensured they had the means to teach, meditate, and guide. I funded monasteries, had stupas built to house relics of the Buddha, and ordered the planting of trees and construction of shelters for travelers and monks alike. But more than building temples, I sought to build a community of kindness and wisdom, one stone and one soul at a time.

The Great Councils of the Faith

To preserve the true teachings of the Enlightened One, I supported the organization of a great Buddhist council—the Third Council—at Pataliputra. It was a gathering of monks, scholars, and teachers from across the land. Their task was to recite, purify, and preserve the Dhamma, to separate genuine teachings from false ones, and to unify the voice of Buddhism before it was carried to foreign lands.

From this council, missionaries were chosen not to impose religion, but to offer wisdom. Each one carried with them not only the knowledge of the Buddha, but a heart filled with compassion. I made sure they were welcomed and honored wherever they went. Their journeys would echo across continents.

Mahinda and Sanghamitta: The Seeds of Faith Abroad

My own son, Mahinda, had become a monk of great discipline and learning. When the time came to send emissaries to far lands, he was ready. I sent him to the island of Lanka, known today as Sri Lanka, a land rich with beauty and tradition. There he met King Devanampiya Tissa, who was noble and wise. Mahinda did not demand conversion—he simply shared the truth. The king, touched by his words and spirit, embraced the Dhamma and helped root it in the soil of his kingdom.

To support this new spiritual path, I sent my daughter, Sanghamitta, herself a nun of deep conviction. She brought with her a branch of the sacred Bodhi tree under which the Buddha had attained enlightenment. That tree still stands today in Anuradhapura—a living symbol of peace and purpose.

Their work laid the foundation for Sri Lanka to become one of the greatest centers of Buddhist thought, culture, and learning for centuries to come.

Beyond India: The Path of Peace Reaches the World

But our mission did not stop at the shores of Lanka. My envoys traveled west to the Greek-speaking kingdoms of Asia Minor, Egypt, and Macedonia. I sent them northward into Central Asia, to the lands of the Yonas and the Kambojas, where diverse cultures met on the high plateaus. They journeyed east into the regions that would one day become parts of Burma, Thailand, and Cambodia, sowing the seeds of the Middle Way along the fertile banks of rivers and trade routes.

As trade caravans passed through the great arteries of the Silk Road, they carried more than spices and jewels—they carried stories, prayers, and teachings. The message of compassion moved faster than armies ever had, reaching cities where elephants had never marched and swords had never clashed.

A New Empire of Ideas

What had once been a realm held together by conquest was now becoming an empire of ideas. No one was forced to believe. No village was seized. Instead, bonds were built through shared hope and understanding. Language and faith crossed borders with respect, not fire.

This was the peace I had longed for, though I had not known it in my youth. I could not erase the suffering I had once caused, but I could offer the world something better in its place. A world where rulers governed with mercy, where monks taught in mountain valleys, where pilgrims walked not in fear, but in search of wisdom.

Legacy of the Messenger

Some will remember me as Ashoka the Conqueror. But I ask you to remember me instead as Ashoka the Messenger. A man who turned from war to wisdom. A ruler who discovered that the greatest journey is the one inward, and the greatest gift is the one shared without force.

If the Dhamma lives on beyond my time, if its teachings cross mountains and seas, not by the sword but by the soul, then my life has been worth the suffering it took to find its true purpose. Let there be no more blood for borders. Let there be kindness, compassion, and the understanding that all beings desire peace, just as I did in the end.

Ashoka’s Edicts: Moral Ruler and Builder of Peace

When I chose to walk the path of the Dhamma, I knew that my transformation must not remain hidden within palace walls. If I had once ruled through conquest and command, now I must guide through compassion and example. But how could I reach the millions across my vast empire—from the Himalayan passes to the southern coasts, from the Indus Valley to the Bay of Bengal? I turned to stone. Not as a symbol of coldness, but of permanence.

I ordered that my thoughts, my regrets, and my new values be carved into rocks and pillars and placed across the realm. These edicts were written in the language of the people—not just Sanskrit, but Prakrit and local dialects—so that even a herdsman or a village elder could read or hear them spoken aloud. They were not meant to glorify my reign, but to serve as reminders of how we must all live together, in peace and understanding.

Messages of Justice, Kindness, and Respect

The words etched into those stones were not threats. They were invitations. I called upon my people to practice tolerance—not just among neighbors, but among religions and cultures. I reminded them that all faiths must be respected, for each seeks the truth in its own way. Religious conflict brings no enlightenment. True honor lies in understanding and harmony.

I spoke of justice—not just in courts, but in daily life. I instructed my officers to treat prisoners fairly, to show mercy when possible, and to serve with humility. I created positions for Dhamma Mahamatras—officers of morality—who would oversee welfare and compassion, not merely laws. Even animals, once slaughtered for sport and ritual, were now protected. I limited hunting, banned certain animal sacrifices, and encouraged the care of all living creatures.

Environmental stewardship, though we did not call it that by name, was sacred to me. I ordered wells dug along roads, trees planted for shade, and rest houses built for travelers. A kingdom thrives not only when its people are protected, but when its land is nourished.

The Dhamma: Law of the Heart

These edicts reflected what I came to call the Dhamma—not just the teachings of the Buddha, but a broader moral law to guide society. The Dhamma is not a scripture or a code of punishment. It is a way of living: to be kind to all beings, to fulfill one’s duties with sincerity, to act with self-control, honesty, and gratitude. It encourages patience, generosity, family harmony, and respect for elders and teachers.

The Dhamma is not limited to monks or scholars. It belongs to farmers, soldiers, mothers, merchants, and children. It does not require temples. It requires mindfulness. I wanted a government not only of armies and treasuries, but of values. I ruled not just by decree, but by example. I publicly confessed my own shortcomings, my past violence, and my desire to live more righteously. In doing so, I hoped others would feel encouraged to do the same.

A Government of the Spirit

A ruler must serve not only the body of the people, but their soul. I funded hospitals, supported teachers, encouraged fair taxation, and insisted that my officers travel regularly to learn the needs of the provinces. I did not seek loyalty through fear. I wanted loyalty through trust. When I sent letters to foreign kings—Greek, Egyptian, and Central Asian—I did not ask for allegiance. I offered friendship, exchange of ideas, and mutual respect.

The edicts stood in crossroads, hillsides, and village centers. They stood not as monuments to my power, but as guides for anyone who passed by. Even now, centuries later, many still remain—silent witnesses to a time when an emperor chose to speak not of war, but of peace.

Let the Stones Speak Forever

If history remembers me only for conquest, then it forgets the best of my reign. Let them remember instead that a king once bent his head in sorrow, stood again in compassion, and carved his truth into the very bones of the earth. Let the stones speak where my voice fades.

Let them say: here was a ruler who sought to heal more than he harmed, who used his power not to demand worship, but to protect life and uplift the spirit. That, I believe, is the truest legacy a king can leave behind.

Ashoka’s Family Life: The Man Behind the Emperor

Though I am remembered in edicts, pillars, and history scrolls, I was more than a king. I was a father, a husband, a man with hopes and faults, just like any other. Life inside the palace of Pataliputra was not merely a grand procession of duties and debates—it was also filled with laughter, tears, and quiet moments between the responsibilities of ruling. As a Mauryan emperor, I had multiple wives, as was the custom of royal households in my time. Marriages in the royal court were often arranged for alliance, influence, or honor, and my early marriages followed these traditions.

Among all, one wife stood close to my heart—Asandhimitra, my chief queen. She was wise, composed, and deeply respected in court. Her presence grounded me, especially in my earlier years before the Kalinga War when ambition often clouded my judgment. After her passing, I married Tishyarakshita, who came later in my life, though her influence was more felt in court affairs than in my personal heart.

My Children: The Blood of My Lineage

My children were many, as was typical for royalty. But two are remembered most in the light of my spiritual transformation—Mahinda and Sanghamitta, born of a lesser queen named Devi, a woman from the city of Vidisha. She was never made chief queen, but she held my deepest admiration. Devi was simple in her ways, compassionate, and drawn to the teachings of the Buddha even before I embraced them. Our children, raised in her presence, absorbed that spirit early on.

Mahinda and Sanghamitta were not only my children—they became messengers of peace. When I adopted the Dhamma and sought to spread its light across the lands, it was they whom I sent to Sri Lanka. Mahinda became a monk of deep insight. Sanghamitta became a revered nun, and with her hands, she carried a branch of the Bodhi tree itself to be planted in Anuradhapura. I sent them not just as missionaries, but as proof that this new way of life was worth living, and worth sharing.

A Day in the Life of Ashoka

My days began early, often before the first rays of sun slipped over the city walls. I would rise and pray in quiet solitude—not with elaborate rituals, but with mindful reflection on the Dhamma. In the earlier years of my reign, mornings had been spent in military briefings and administrative review. But after Kalinga, my mornings turned toward matters of welfare—overseeing hospital construction, road repairs, water systems, and justice petitions.

Midday brought formal audiences. I listened to governors, villagers, monks, and foreigners. I did not isolate myself with only nobles. I insisted on hearing the voices of all. Meals were simple, vegetarian by personal conviction, though the royal kitchens still prepared dishes for guests of various customs. In the afternoons, I would often visit monasteries, meet with Dhamma Mahamatras, or walk quietly in palace gardens with my family.

Evenings were spent in study or in private chambers with my wives and children. I often discussed the Dhamma with my family, encouraging them not to follow out of duty, but understanding. I enjoyed watching my younger sons practice archery in the courtyards or my daughters tend to the temple grounds. In those small hours of domestic peace, I felt most human.

Preparing for the Future

Succession was always a concern in dynasties. Though Mahinda had become a monk and thus renounced political rule, I had other sons. Yet I must confess, I did not prepare one with the same clarity and devotion that my grandfather had shown in mentoring my father, Bindusara. My focus in later years turned more toward spiritual matters and the care of my subjects than grooming a single heir.

Eventually, one of my sons—Kunala—was considered for succession. He was intelligent and kind, but court politics, jealousy, and intrigue ran deep. There were conflicts with my younger wife Tishyarakshita, and as stories go, Kunala was blinded, perhaps due to a plot. In the end, it was Dasharatha, my grandson, who took the throne after me. But I often wondered if I had failed to prepare him for the burdens he would carry.

The Emperor, the Father, the Man

If history remembers me only as Ashoka the Great, it forgets the warmth I felt holding my daughter’s hand as she left for a foreign land. It forgets the ache in my heart when I watched my beloved Devi choose a quiet life away from court. It forgets the gentle joy I took in walking among trees, listening to birds, and watching villagers smile as fresh water flowed from new wells. It forgets the fear I sometimes felt at night—fear not of rebellion, but of not doing enough to earn the peace I so desperately sought.

I was an emperor. But I was also a man learning how to be good, learning how to lead with a heart instead of just a crown. If I succeeded, it was because I dared to change. And if my legacy lives on, I hope it does so not in monuments, but in the gentle actions of those who live with compassion. That is the kind of kingdom I always hoped to build.

Ashoka the Great Reflects: A Comparison of Rulers Across Time

Though I lived long before some of the rulers history now praises or questions, I find it fascinating how power and belief have shaped the hands of kings throughout the ages. Like me, others were faced with the same question: how do you wield authority not just to control, but to uplift? When I look across time, I see rulers who attempted to bring structure to chaos, or meaning to empires that had once known only conquest. In some of them, I see reflections of my own path—and in others, I see contrasts that challenge and enrich the memory of my reign.

Hammurabi and the Rule of Law

Let us begin with Hammurabi of Babylon, who lived over a thousand years before I did. His name echoes through history for his famous code—a set of laws carved into stone, just as my edicts were. Hammurabi ruled by establishing justice through retribution, famously prescribing “an eye for an eye.” His laws were detailed, exacting, and covered daily life—trade, marriage, theft, and punishment. He sought to bring order to a society built on multiple cultures and city-states, much like I ruled over a diverse empire of regions and beliefs.

But our approach differed. Hammurabi’s code focused on strict justice, sometimes harsh and rigid. My Dhamma edicts were not laws of punishment, but of compassion. I did not seek to terrify my people into obedience—I asked them to consider mercy, restraint, and duty. Hammurabi believed law came from the gods and descended through his rule. I believed that morality could rise from within each heart, guided by the truths of the Dhamma.

Constantine and the Light of Faith

Then there is Constantine the Great, emperor of Rome, who lived centuries after my bones returned to the earth. He, too, underwent a transformation that changed the direction of an empire. He converted to Christianity after a vision before battle, and though his reasons may have been part faith, part political foresight, the result was the legitimization of a new path. He called the Council of Nicaea, just as I called a Buddhist council, seeking unity in belief and the strengthening of spiritual foundations.

Yet I see a key difference. Constantine embraced one religion and aligned the state with it, empowering the Christian Church above others. My approach was different. I embraced Buddhism, yes, but I never made it the law of the land. I protected all paths—Brahmanical, Jain, Ajivika, and others. My Dhamma encouraged mutual respect, not supremacy. I did not seek to unite through doctrine, but through understanding. Constantine’s Rome changed faith through imperial decree. I hoped faith would change hearts freely, not by command.

The Pharaohs of Egypt and the Divine Throne

If we journey to Egypt, the Pharaohs ruled as living gods. Their divinity was unquestioned, and their authority unchallenged. They built monuments for eternity and carried symbols of heaven on earth. Yet in this divine aura, I see distance. The Pharaohs ruled from above. I sought to walk among my people. Where they built tombs to secure their immortality, I built rest houses, wells, and edicts to care for the living. Their legacy was carved into pyramids. Mine, I hoped, would live in the gentle acts of my subjects.

Qin Shi Huang and the Power of Fear

From China came Qin Shi Huang, the First Emperor, who united warring states through force and created order through centralization and fear. He built walls and roads, and standardized systems, but ruled with an iron hand. His legalist approach brought peace through submission. But he silenced voices that disagreed and burned books that challenged his rule.

I too unified a land. I too built roads, pillars, and spread my words. But my words called for patience, kindness, and tolerance—not silence. Qin wanted obedience. I wanted understanding. His empire feared him. I wanted mine to trust me.

A Ruler Among Rulers

Each of these men shaped their world. Each faced the burdens of leadership, the loneliness of power, and the temptation of pride. We each left something behind—laws, beliefs, empires, monuments. But I believe the strength of a ruler is not in how long his name lasts, but in whether the world he touched grew more compassionate, more just, more at peace.

I do not claim to have been perfect. I began as a conqueror, not a sage. But I learned. I changed. And in that change, I found something greater than thrones or borders. I found meaning. And in that, I believe I stood apart—not above, but humbly, beside the greatest rulers the world has ever known.

Ashoka the Great Reflects: Can a Ruler Be Both Strong and Compassionate?

There is a question I once dismissed in my youth, and later, it became the most important one I ever faced: can a ruler be both strong and compassionate? In the early years of my reign, I would have laughed at such an idea. I believed strength meant conquest, control, and fear. I thought compassion belonged to monks, mothers, or poets—not to emperors. But life has a way of softening even the hardest stone, and over time, I learned that true strength may indeed lie not in cruelty, but in care.

The Sword and the Open Hand

When I was younger, I led campaigns with an iron heart. I crushed rebellions, seized fortresses, and demanded obedience. My name struck fear into the provinces. In battle, I was relentless, and I saw the empire expand under my feet. But victory tasted bitter after Kalinga. There, among the ashes and corpses, I saw the limits of the sword. Yes, the people bowed—but they wept. Yes, the land was mine—but it was scorched. That was strength without compassion, and I saw clearly then—it could never last.

After that, I chose to rule differently. I kept the strength of governance—maintaining order, defending borders, collecting taxes to serve the people—but I opened my hand instead of clenching my fist. Compassion did not weaken my rule; it deepened it. When I showed kindness, people gave loyalty not from fear, but from respect. My strength no longer depended on the size of my army, but on the contentment of my people.

The Misunderstood Balance

There were critics, of course. Some believed I had grown weak. They whispered that the great Ashoka had become soft, that my policies of tolerance and peace would erode the empire. But I ask this—what is weakness? Is it the refusal to kill? Or the failure to change? Is a man weak because he listens to the cries of the poor? Or is he strong because he answers them?

Strength and compassion are not enemies. They are brothers. Strength defends. Compassion nurtures. Together, they create balance. Alone, they breed either tyranny or disorder. A ruler who is only strong may win battles but lose the hearts of his people. A ruler who is only compassionate may inspire love but fail to maintain stability. The wise ruler must hold both—like a sword in one hand, and a lotus in the other.

Leading by Example, Not Fear

I did not abandon the machinery of governance. I still issued edicts. I trained officers. I sent envoys. But I instructed them to serve with justice, to treat all with fairness, to protect all living beings. I called for the building of hospitals, the planting of trees, the support of all faiths. That was strength—strength used to heal rather than to harm.

I did not sit in temples and wish for peace. I acted. Compassion is not weakness when it takes the form of effort, of service, of steady leadership. When my people saw that I changed, many changed with me. That is the quiet power of moral example.

What I Tell Future Kings

To any ruler who stands at the edge of war or peace, I say this: you need not choose between being feared or being loved. Choose instead to be wise. Be strong enough to protect your people, and compassionate enough to care for them. Hold your sword only when necessary. But hold your conscience always.

I learned this truth not in victory, but in regret. Let others learn it sooner. Yes, a ruler can be both strong and compassionate—but only if he has the courage to see that true strength lies not in how many kneel before him, but in how many rise because of him.

My Name is Mahinda: Son of Ashoka, Servant of the Dhamma

I was born in the city of Ujjain, the son of Ashoka, before he was called “the Great.” My mother, Devi, was not a queen of high courtly status, but a woman of deep compassion and wisdom. My sister Sanghamitta and I grew up in a world of learning, gardens, and quiet reflection. We lived far from the grandeur of Pataliputra, in a quieter corner of the empire, and though we were born of royal blood, our early lives were not shaped by power or pride. Instead, they were shaped by Dharma.

At first, my father was a warrior, fierce and ambitious. He ruled with force, and we saw little of him. But then came Kalinga. After that war, something changed within him. He was no longer a man of conquest. He returned to us with silence in his eyes and sorrow in his heart. It was then that his path crossed with the teachings of the Buddha—and so did ours.

The Turning Point in My Life

When I was still a boy, I saw the transformation in my father. He began speaking of kindness, of peace, of responsibility to all beings. He surrounded himself with monks, listened to sermons, and spent more time walking barefoot in quiet courtyards than seated on his jeweled throne. Sanghamitta and I watched closely. We were not forced to follow the Dhamma. But we were drawn to it as if by a river's current.

In my youth, I chose the robes of a monk over the robes of a prince. I renounced the life of courtly luxury and joined the Sangha. It was not a decision made lightly. I left behind inheritance, ceremony, and the expectations of rule. I did so because I believed the path of the Buddha—the Middle Way—was the most powerful gift I could offer to the world. And I was not alone. My sister, Sanghamitta, also chose to become a nun. She was calm in thought, sharp in intellect, and strong in spirit. Together, we stepped away from power and into purpose.

The Mission to Lanka

Years passed, and the Sangha grew. The Dhamma spread across the empire through edicts and teachings. But the world beyond still waited. One day, my father called me. His eyes, once shadowed by sorrow, now burned with clarity.

“You must go,” he said, “to spread the Dhamma not by sword, but by word. Not by force, but by faith. Go to Lanka.”

And so I did. With a group of monks, I crossed the sea to the island now called Sri Lanka. We arrived during the reign of King Devanampiya Tissa, a good and just man who had heard of my father’s transformation and was curious about the Dhamma. I did not demand anything of him. I simply spoke. I told him the story of the Buddha. I explained the Four Noble Truths. I walked the Eightfold Path in my actions. And the king, moved not by pressure but by peace, embraced the teachings. The land opened its heart to the Dhamma.

Sanghamitta’s Sacred Journey

My sister Sanghamitta came soon after, bringing with her a branch of the Bodhi tree—the very tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment. That branch was planted in Anuradhapura, and it grew strong, just as the Dhamma did. Sanghamitta did more than carry a tree. She established the order of nuns in Lanka. She gave women the opportunity to learn, teach, and live the path as equals in spirit and purpose. Her presence laid the foundation for generations of spiritual seekers.

She was not just my sister. She was a beacon. And though our paths sometimes took different directions, our hearts remained rooted in the same soil—the soil of the Buddha’s truth.

My Years in Lanka

I stayed in Lanka for the rest of my life. I taught, I meditated, I guided. I saw the Dhamma take root not just in palaces, but in villages and forests. I saw kings listen with humility and children chant with joy. I saw peace flourish in a land that had once known conflict. I did not build monuments. I built minds. I did not carve my name in stone. I carved it in silence, in stillness, in the breath between words of wisdom.

I never returned to India. I never saw my father again. But I felt him in every act of compassion I witnessed, in every monk who walked barefoot through the villages, in every lotus that bloomed beside a stupa.

What I Leave Behind

I was born a prince but chose to become a servant of the Dhamma. My father gave me life, but the Buddha gave me truth. Sanghamitta gave the world her strength, her wisdom, and a tree whose shade still falls on pilgrims today. Together, we were not builders of kingdoms—but of hearts, of peace, of a path that transcends borders and thrones.

To those who read these words, I ask you to consider not what title you carry, but what path you walk. Strength lies not in rule, but in restraint. Greatness lies not in command, but in compassion. That is what I learned from my father. That is what I lived. That is what I pass on to you.

Mahinda Speaks: Why I Became a Monk and My Mission in Life

I was born into a world of contradictions. My father was a prince when I first came into this life, governing the city of Ujjain with firmness and discipline. My mother, Devi, was gentle in her manner but deep in wisdom. While others whispered of royal ambitions, my earliest memories are not of gold or titles, but of calm gardens, quiet reflection, and the sound of monks reciting the teachings of the Buddha under trees in the early morning.

My father would one day become Emperor Ashoka the Great, ruler of a vast and powerful empire. But in my childhood, I saw a different Ashoka—one in transformation. After the war of Kalinga, when blood had cooled and grief took hold of him, he returned not as a conqueror, but as a seeker. That shift changed everything. It changed him. And it changed me.

The Call of the Robe

As I grew older, I watched my father turn away from war and toward the Dhamma. He filled the palace not with generals, but with monks and scholars. He listened more than he spoke. And I began to listen too. I remember one particular moment—a monk was teaching the Four Noble Truths in a quiet corner of the palace garden. I sat beneath the branches of a tree and listened. Life is suffering. Suffering is caused by craving. There is a way to end suffering. And that way is the Noble Eightfold Path.

Those truths did not strike me like thunder. They settled in me like water sinking into the earth. Slowly, steadily, they took root. I looked around me—at wealth, power, court politics—and I saw how little joy they truly brought. I saw how men feared loss more than they loved peace. I saw how desire turned even good hearts bitter. And I knew I wanted something different. I wanted freedom—not from the world, but from the chains within.

So I chose the robe. I left behind titles, inheritance, the path to rule. I chose the quiet life of a monk. Not to escape responsibility, but to embrace a deeper one.

A Mission Beyond Borders

My mission became clear as I deepened my practice. The Dhamma was too precious to remain hidden in monasteries or royal courts. It was a lamp that needed to be carried into the darkness. When the Third Buddhist Council was held in Pataliputra, my father supported the idea that monks should travel to distant lands, not to convert by force, but to share by example. He looked to me and said, “Mahinda, you are not just my son. You are a vessel of this truth. Will you go?”

I bowed and said yes.

I led a group of monks across the sea to the island of Lanka, today called Sri Lanka. The journey was long, and the future uncertain. But I believed the Dhamma would find a home wherever suffering existed—and suffering, I knew, existed everywhere. In Lanka, I met King Devanampiya Tissa. I did not speak of politics or conquest. I simply shared the Dhamma, and the king, wise and sincere, embraced it. Not because I demanded it, but because his heart was ready.

The Legacy of Peace

My sister Sanghamitta soon followed, bringing with her a branch of the Bodhi tree, a symbol of enlightenment. She established the order of nuns, giving women the same chance to walk the path. Together, we nurtured the roots of Buddhism in a foreign land, not through law or sword, but through compassion, discipline, and truth.

I spent the rest of my life there, teaching, meditating, and walking among the people. I did not seek fame. I sought clarity. I did not build temples of stone. I helped build temples of understanding, one heart at a time.

What I Learned

Why did I become a monk? Because I saw the fire of craving burn too many lives. Because I saw that the peace my father longed for could not be commanded—it had to be cultivated. My mission in life was not to rule a kingdom, but to help others rule themselves. To free them from the suffering that hides behind wealth, anger, and ignorance.

The path I walked was quiet, but firm. And if you ask what I leave behind, it is not gold or territory. It is the echo of footsteps along the Eightfold Path. It is the whisper of truth passed from one heart to another.

That was my mission. And I walked it with joy.