ABOUT THE BOOK:

Sushruta, son of the legendary war master Vishwamitra, has little interest in swords or tactics. But when his mother suffers and dies in the epidemic that ravages the kingdom of Kosala, Sushruta finds an enemy worth fighting: he declares war on the cruel gods of death and disease.

After learning to heal the broken idols of his deities, he sets off on a quest that takes him further than he could ever have imagined.

Along the way, he earns the love of the most beautiful woman in the world. He finds the hidden temple of Lord Shiva and the power of Soma. He studies at the feet of the master healer Guru Deodas –only to be thrown out for violating dogma and taboo. He heals the wounds of immortal warriors and visits the lands of the immortals up above. He plumbs the depths of the world’s greatest university. He charts a new path in medicine, and perfects procedures in healing and conquering disease.

“A delightful and engrossing work.”

— V.K. Singh I.P.S.

Director General Police, M.P., Retd.

~*~

“Fascinating, gripping, thoroughly researched and thoughtfully presented.”

—Dr. Amitabh Goel MD, MS, FRCS,

Orthopedic Surgeon & Pain Medicine Specialist, Florida, USA

~*~

“With precision and heart, Dr. Ajaya Kashyap weaves the life story of

Sushruta, who first dared to push the avenues of midwifery, wound

care, surgical instrumentation, suturing, plastic surgery, and many

other aspects of modern medicine and surgery in use today.”

— Dr. Ravinder Dimri

Consultant Orthopedic Surgeon, United Kingdom

~*~

“The Quest of Sushruta by Dr. Ajaya Kashyap seamlessly blends myth, history,

and captures the essence of a time when the quest for knowledge was as much

about healing the body as it was about understanding the universe.”

— Dr. Ashish Sachdeva

Internist and Geriatrician, Arizona USA

~*~

“I have read Ajaya’s writings before and have loved them, but this novel is a

masterpiece and a thorough study of the subject. No words, just applause.”

— Major General (Retd.) Satish C. Gupta

~*~

CONTENTS

1. The Plague 15
2. The Birth of a Goddess 29
3. Zara Ma 39
4. The Gurukula of Vishwamitra 49
5. The Mock Battle 59
6. In the Jungle 67
7. The Secret Temple 73
8. Vasant Utsav at Sravasti 81
9. Uma 95
10. The Wedding 107
11. The Battle at Anga 119
12. Back in Sravasti 127
13. Meeting the Great Healer 135
14. Dissection 147
15. Bishnu—Making Instruments 155
16. Ganga Ma—The Midwife 163
17. Ardaas—Controlled Trials 171
18. The Last Day 179
19. Leaving Kashi 189
20. The Wandering Medic 199
21. Widows of Vrindavan—Reconstructing the Goddesses 209
22. The Son of Drona—Non-Healing Wounds 217
23. The Garden of Eternal Youth 227
24. Pythagoras of Samos—Legacy of Perfection 235
25. The Infirmary 247
26. Kumbha—Festival of Immortality 257
27. Chant of Immortality and Birth of Surgery 265
28. Agni 277
    
    

“Guru Sushruta found cures for so many diseases, gave surgery to the world and discovered the secret to immortality”, said the young Physician Jeevak, son of Prince Abhaya and grandson of King Bimbisara of the Magadha empire. “Let me go back to the very beginning of his story as he told me”, said Jeevak, who was to one day be celebrated as the physician to the great Gautama Buddha himself.

“It began when, in a small village in the kingdom of Kosala, disaster struck…”

The Plague

635 B.C.E. Kingdom of Kosala, North India

Old age, it is said, dulls all senses but I still feel the burning pyres on my skin, the deathly odour in my breath, and the wailing of mothers in my ears, from the Jwara epidemic that ravaged our kingdom of Kosala many decades ago. It was the eighth summer of my life, and until then I had felt safe, cocooned in the love of my doting mother and my father, Guru Vishwamitra, the bravest warrior and the greatest master of war the world has ever known. It was, however, my mother who took it on herself to battle the monster Jwara, and in her struggle, she became as great or even a greater warrior than my father.

She transcended her humanity, became a Goddess and gave my life its purpose.

A few months earlier, my mother came back late one night from Sravasti, the magnificent capital city of our kingdom. “The devil of this disease prowls through the city, picking its prey at random, as people hide in their homes, the king in his palace, and the Gods in their temples.” I could picture the anger on my mother’s beautiful face as she spoke to my father in the next room, while I pretended to be asleep in my bed. Sravasti was a four-hour ride from our home and my father’s Gurukula, a residential school for elite warriors. I was their only child.

“The disease seems to have cast a spell on Sravasti. On my way, I saw vultures circling the sky as the sun blazed down on us. My pony stopped in his tracks when he heard the howling of a wolf as we

entered the city. I had to get off the carriage to keep the shuddering animal from collapsing. Imagine that! Wolves inside the city walls! The beautiful tree-lined streets are desolate, and the parks deserted. Trees are drying out, as is the grass. Most of the beautiful flowering plants are wilting from the heat and lack of care. The workplaces are silent, and the bazaars closed. No sound, no people, just a horrible stillness and the oppressive heat. The grand houses along Main Street, where we heard sounds of merriment all year long, are silent, and their large iron gates shut. An occasional sound of a bird, a wild animal, or the rustling of dead leaves breaks the hush.”

I knew a deadly new sickness was ravaging the city, but it had started so slowly and felt far away. Some family friends had called my mother to the city for help. I had visited the bustling city only once and remembered very little of it, but my impression of it was of a beautiful and happy place.

“The children who danced and played on the streets, now cling to their mother’s breasts in their homes. They dare not make a sound nor play lest the demon finds them. I saw people hiding in the shadows of their houses, scared of even the slightest sound, scared of letting anyone in. The old men and women who took leisurely strolls in the parks, full of hot gossip and warm advice, now hide in their homes. One whispered, ‘Gods are punishing us’; another said, ‘it is the demon’; a third said, ‘God has a plan’, and yet they all know when the innocents suffer and die; all words are a lie.”

My father murmured in his heavy voice, like the slow rumbling of thunder coming through the clouds of his curly black beard, “I cannot even send the students back to their homes. So many of their families are sick and dying, even the noble warriors. There is no glory in this kind of death.”

Ma continued, “The demon that causes this disease is Jwara, and it spreads by contagion, which is by touching or breathing the air expelled by the afflicted. The Great Healer Deodas himself has

confirmed this. Several of his students are in the city. This knowledge has unfortunately made everyone untouchable, except for the mothers, of course, who hold their little ones close, even when they are sick and burning with fever. You know, the people who called me, they did not let me in, nor did any of the others. I could hear occasional sounds from inside the homes—muffled coughs and whimpers, and even the shriek of a young mother caught in her throat. Jwara has no respect for age or gender, caste or class. At first, the patient burns with fever, and then the skin erupts into disfiguring pustules all over the body. They are in terrible pain and then it finds the lungs, the bones, or even the brain. Every breath becomes a struggle, till God Yama finally releases the soul from the suffering body. Some bleed out from every pore in their bodies. Several survive with ugly deformities and blindness. The king, the princes and the top officials, like the Gods, do not step out of their houses, shutting all the citizens out.”

The bed creaked in protest as my father, a giant of a man, sat down as my petite mother continued. “There are people dying all over, abandoned by gods and men alike. There is no one to perform the last rites or to mourn the dead. People leave the dead bodies lying in their houses till the smell becomes unbearable. The students of the Great Healer Deodas of Kashi are helping, but they too are completely overwhelmed. Not one of the residents has come out to help. People have forgotten their humanity and the Gods their divinity.”

There was a pause and my father said something in a muffled voice, which I could not make out. Then my mother said, “I did not know what to do, so I wandered the abandoned streets for hours. Finally, I went to the big Shiva temple, the one on the little hill, close to the city centre. The bells were dusty as if they had been silent for days. I am not sure why, but I grabbed the rope dangling from the big bell with my sweaty hands and twisted it around my arm and started ringing it again and again. I wanted to wake the Gods from their slumber and challenge the demon to come find me and fight me. I

wanted him to know that I am Amba, the daughter of the great Kuru warriors and the wife of the great Guru Vishwamitra, and I am not afraid of any demon. The sound of the bell shattered the deathly silence of the city and made me feel alive. I kept ringing the bell for a long time till some of the young priests came out and joined me.” She paused and said, “I have to do something. I cannot and will not remain a spectator.” It is said that the sight of my mother and the echo of the bell woke up both the town and its gods. I believe there is still a painting of my mother ringing the big bell, hanging on the main wall of the royal palace.

Over the next few days, my mother organised the entire city, especially the women and the young men, to help the sick, the dying and the dead. She made sanitation, cleanliness, and care in isolation, the focus of her efforts.

People were now getting sick and dying close to our home. Panic and grief were palpable all around. “The city,” she said, “is much worse. There are funeral pyres all along the riverbank from Sravasti to our village and beyond.” Our home, being close to the river, was now constantly full of the “sacred smoke”. It was the smell of burning bodies, barely masked by the burning incense and the sandalwood. That smell of death has never completely left me.

My mother got help from the few real medics in the city, but it was she who took charge of organizing all the efforts. Ma was a kind of healer herself, having taken care of my father’s students for so many years. My Ma was “Amba Maa”, a mother to all his students and to the village folk. She had learnt the secret of the herbs from wandering medics. The students from the Gurukula next to our home, often came to her, for everything from a stomach-ache to fever. I suspect half of them just wanted a break from the rigorous curriculum of my father’s Gurukula school. She offered them some herbal relief, kind words, and warm milk. Her remedies were simple, but her motherly love and caring often did the trick, especially for the young students

separated from their families. Just seeing my mother made them feel better.

My father, Guru Vishwamitra, taught young princes and sons of prominent citizens. He also helped the king with the planning of defence and war in the event of external threats. My mother worked hard every day, taking care of our home and the daily needs of my father’s Gurukula. She did this with a smile and the grace of a goddess. She walked fast with very long strides that belied her small frame, in her ochre saree, which had a large red stripe at the bottom. It matched the big circular dot of bindi on her forehead and the red colour in the parting of her long dark hair. There was always a fragrant white lily adorning her hair, the kind you find only in the ponds of our village. My father got her one every evening. She would keep it in water overnight and place it in her hair in the morning.

It is said that my father never wanted to get married till he saw my beautiful mother, who, though young, was known for her excellent education, beauty, and virtue in her kingdom, Kuru. Every night, Ma would tell me stories about animals, giving each animal a funny voice. We would laugh together and sometimes, even my father would join in. His laughter, though rare, was so loud that it made the entire house shake. I have forgotten my mother’s stories but can still feel the warmth of her tender touch, the sound of her laughter, the sweet fragrance, and the look in her lovely dark eyes as I lay next to her. I was always uncomfortable around the village boys, as I preferred reading my father’s books and ancient texts to taking part in their silly games, and because, I hated getting dirty. “My son, you will be a great warrior someday, just as great as your father, but different. You are the brightest child I have ever seen.” She may have said it because I could beat my father’s older students at chess, or maybe it was just to make me feel better when the village bullies picked on me. Whenever I felt sad, my mother would tickle me till my stomach hurt from laughing hard. “Your long nose and long legs are like your father’s, but these,” she said

pointing to my eyes and my heart, “are all mine.”

I was having trouble falling asleep without her, as she was in the city most of the time. She took oils and herbs with her, and a lot of neem leaves and cleaning supplies. “These,” she said, “I will use in Sravasti. I believe keeping the homes clean by frequent washing and the neem leaves will help a lot,” she explained. She rode in a modest carriage with a pony, driven by a worker from the Gurukula. It was the carriage my father used to get supplies from the city.

She would come home every few days, as she felt guilty for leaving me behind. “I will take you to the city, once this is all over. You will see the beautiful buildings in Sravasti, and we will go on an elephant ride. Maybe we will go during the spring festival next year, when the entire city looks like a bride and feels like heaven. We will walk through the fragrant winds and see the bright flowers in the royal gardens, listen to music and even see a dance. You can taste the famous sweets and desserts, and even check out the wonderful toys of Sravasti. I saw a beautiful toy cart just for you last spring. It has a shiny red paint on it and the wheels move! You will love it. I have saved a silver coin just for you,” she said, putting the coin under my pillow.

I can still feel her fingers running through my long hair and her kisses all over my cheeks and forehead, as she held me tight before she left me. I held on to the ends of her hair for a long time before I let her go. “You take care of your father,” she said as she left.

Ma came back after several days, looking exhausted and sick. She had lost her energy and her appetite, but not her hope or empathy. My mother looked so fragile, but she was the strongest woman I have ever known.

“People are so afraid of contracting the disease that they leave the afflicted all alone. I sit by them and comfort them, and use herbs for relief from pain. I also clean them, as many lose control over their bladders and bowels. No one should lose their dignity or die alone,” she said to my father as she looked at me.

“Ma,” I asked, “will we all get sick and die?” Ma put her hand on my head and sighed. “We are all supposed to have long healthy lives and then become immortal, like the Gods. Perhaps you will discover the secret someday.” I kept hearing of the Jwara, the demon of disease, and Yama, the God of death. It was difficult for me to understand how the God of Death was still a God while a demon caused the disease. “I will fight them both,” I decided, “just like my father has fought so many demons.”

Soon after that, she stopped going to the city and kept to her room. My father stayed at home as well, but he kept me away from her. He even yelled at me when I tried to go to my mother! He would keep the door closed and would let no one in. I felt that he had become mean because my mother could no longer take care of him, and for once, he had to take care of her.

Then came the day when people just started pouring into our quiet little home. The rain was drizzling outside, and a sizable crowd had gathered in the yard. I could sense the impending doom. Everyone looked at my father to see how he was holding up. If he was feeling weak, he gave no sign of it. He kept going in and out of my mother’s room, with no change in his expression.

I was angry with everyone as they expressed pity for me. I am sure they were hoping I would cry, but I did not. “My poor child,” I heard a stranger, “to be motherless at such a young age.”

Everyone seemed to know that death was near. They placed my mother close to the entrance of our home, on her bed, with her head facing the rising moon. There was a slow chanting of mantras going on. My mother was reciting along feebly, till she no longer could. She had her face covered with the end of her ochre saree with the bright red border, the end of the cloth between her teeth. My father lit a lamp and placed it near her head.

There were hushed whispers all around the house. “Yama will take her soul soon. I feel bad for the boy. He does not even understand

what is going on.” Some had taken it upon themselves to make me understand the permanent nature of my mother’s fate, while others were convincing my father of the opposite. “She may die, but there is a better and more beautiful life waiting for her.” My father just looked at them. One aunt came up to me, gently touched my cheek, and tidied my hair. “She loves you more than anything, even at this moment of her impending death.” I did not cry then either.

Others were just talking to each other, not caring who was listening. “She was perfect in every way, like a goddess, and so kind. She was so beautiful, and Guruji is so handsome. To have such a sickly child. He hardly ever talks to anyone, just sits in his room, reads and dreams. God knows what great mystery of the universe he is trying to solve,” said a female voice.

“I hope Guru Vishwamitra continues to teach the kids. I have seen no one love his wife like Vishwamitra loves Amba. What will happen to the boy if Guruji renounces the world and retreats deep into the forests?” said another.

I looked at my father. He had a strange, empty look in his eyes as he heard the others trying to console him.

“Amba Ma was so full of compassion. She tried to help all the sick ones in the city,” said a heavy male voice. “I think she should have been more careful. She should have thought of her husband and her little child. If she had not left home, Jwara would not have attacked her,” said a woman. Another male voice was kind. “She is so brave and caring. She has worked for several weeks with some of the sickest.”

Then an older woman spoke, “She has never lost her dignity or her poise. Guruji has been taking care of her so well. May the holy Mother make her journey easy.”

“It is best if we keep a safe distance from the body,” said another voice, pointing to my mother’s bed.

She looked lifeless and helpless on the bed, and I thought, “This is not real. My mother would never just lie there. She would play and laugh with me. We would sit on the swing on the banyan tree and my father would push the swing. Then we would all laugh. She would run after me, hug me, and rub my head when she caught me. My father would look at us and laugh and not look so mad. There would be so much happiness. My actual mother is probably hiding somewhere.”

A lady looked at me and then at my father, “Once she passes on, Guruji should get remarried. He is still young, and the new wife can give him many healthy and happy children. All Amba gave him was this one boy.”

“Shush. This is not the time,” said an older woman.

“Vishwamitra,” said one priest to my father, “you know death comes to all. Such is the law of existence. The soul, however, never dies. It is only the body…”

My father looked at the old priest, his eyes bulging, eyebrows raised, a pulse at his temple throbbing. “Your words of wisdom offer me little solace. I have seen war, and defeated demons and enemies that others dare not fight. I just do not know how to fight this invisible enemy...” The priest was silent after that, and no one else dared to comfort my father.

As her breathing became more laboured, my father went to my mother, bent, and whispered something into her right ear. One of our family members applied sandalwood paste on her forehead as he trickled the holy Ganga water into her barely responsive mouth. Mixed with the smell of burning incense was the smell of decay. A sudden gust of wind blew away the cloth that covered her face. I saw her as she lay helpless, her face exposed. Her face was covered with blisters and eruptions all over. It looked ugly and scary. My mother looked at me with longing in her dying eyes. She probably wanted me to come close to her and perhaps touch me one last time. She extended

her hand, reaching towards me as her mouth whispered my name. All I could think of was the strange, unpleasant smell emanating from her body, and the ghastly sight of her face. I saw life slowly seeping out of her body, through her eyes. My beautiful mother was dying, and I had recoiled in disgust!

They lay the body on a bed of soft straws, burned more incense, and a lamp was lit. Most of the mourners stopped touching the body as it had become “impure”. I was looking at her from a distance. They tied a cloth under her chin to the top of the head. The priest tied both her hands in a position of salutation. Women relatives bathed the body in milk, honey, and sandalwood paste. There was water from nine holy pots that were used to cleanse the body. My aunts wrapped her in a bright red saree, her favourite colour. There were sixteen different adornments that were put on her body, “like the day she married”. My father removed the jewel from her necklace and put it around his own neck with a string.

I was at the head of the mourners, and being the only son, they shaved my head. It made me sad to see my long, beautiful hair on the floor. Father had hidden all reflecting surfaces since my mother’s illness, and I could not see myself. I felt something rising to my throat, but I stopped it right there.

The priest sprinkled water on her body as they carried it onto the porch. A lot of women seemed to have emerged from nowhere during her last moments. They walked around her, throwing rice and vermillion on her body. After this, they receded into the depths of our house. They wept silently, so as not to make her passage more painful. I had to apply sesame oil and sandalwood to her head and feet as the priest instructed. The mourners carried her body on the bed, with me at the head. They gave me a clay pot that had holy water. There was another pot carried by my father, which had embers.

We reached the funeral grounds by the river, with a little shelter around them. There were multiple open fires already burning. Ash and

soot fell from the skies as the thick smoke made the entire area hazy. I looked through the haze as the scenery seemed to sway. It felt unreal. Once again, I closed my eyes. “All this is in my head. When I go back home, my mother would run out and hug me.” One of the kinder relatives had given me a lock of my mother’s hair, and I clutched it tightly in my palm. The thick smoke came from burning of the moist wood of the funeral pyres of the less fortunate. The sky was overcast, and it was raining on and off. By the orders of the king, they had prepared a special pyre for my mother using sandalwood for the top layer, followed by seven layers of different kinds of wood. As they laid the body on the pyre, the mourners surrounded it and threw rice on it. I hoisted the pot on my left shoulder, in which they made a hole. Water leaked out of the pot, much like life had leaked out of my mother’s eyes. I dropped the pot after I had circled the funeral pyre thrice. Then I lit the pyre, as the priest instructed. As a part of the last ceremony, I had to use a stick to pierce the top of her skull to release the soul. All of us took a purifying bath after that. I neither made a sound nor shed a single tear during the ceremonies.

The next morning when we went to pick up the remains, the priest showed me what he called the “soul bone”, which looked like a human figure in prayer. It felt strangely comforting. Years later, I realised it was the bone from her chest. We immersed her ashes in the Ganga, with balls of rice as an offering for her soul. I squeezed the lock of hair in my hand in silence.

There were twelve days of mourning after that, when no one cooked any food at our home and there were constant prayers. A feeling of loss now replaced my feeling of disbelief at my mother’s passing. “Who will play with me, cook for me, and feed me? Who will tell me stories, make me laugh and tell me what a great kid I am?”

I was so angry with her for having gone, with my father for not being able to prevent it, and with myself for not running up to her and letting my mother touch me and hold me one last time. I was only eight, and I realised the finality of death. I was quiet for twelve days and spoke to no one. On the twelfth night, I had this uncontrollable urge, coming from deep inside, and I suddenly started screaming. Once I started, I could not stop. I screamed throughout the night. It was the end of mourning, and she was not coming back. My father could not take it and went out, probably to the river.

Father came back in the morning, and I was still shrieking. People heard me screaming all the way across the village. I finally stopped when I lost my voice. This was the last time anyone heard me cry. From that day on I spoke little, but everyone started calling me “Sushruta”, meaning “the one who is well heard”. I forgot what my mother used to call me before that