Gunacaṃdregāthā — a Tocharian tale

[A Yorks]

AUTHOR'S NOTE​

Greetings, friends. I recently hadn't been feeling myself so I let my previous AAR endeavour slip through without much development. With this AAR, I'm hoping to turn over a new leaf in the way of creativity. In my enduring fascination for all things Tocharian, I'm starting another Tocharian AAR in the same vein as The Hidden Flower of Loulan, using that as a springboard for this narrative.

This AAR is a derivative of the previous, but it begins a full century after the beginning of Gunacaṃdre's story — a continuing story of the kingdom Gunacaṃdre forged under the Tibetan Dharma-King Purgyal Trisong Detsen. This new AAR takes place in the same timeline, but the circumstances of this start are quite different than those of the Hidden Flower of Loulan.

Without further ado, I present to you: the Gunacaṃdregāthā — the Saga of Gunacaṃdre.

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

"[A] country rugged and hilly, with a thin and barren soil. The clothes of the common people are coarse, and like those worn in our land of Han, some wearing felt and others coarse serge or cloth of hair; — this was the only difference seen among them. The king professed (our) Law, and there might be in the country more than four thousand monks who were all students of the hînayâna. The common people of this and other kingdoms (in that region), as well as the śramans, all practise the rules of India, only that the latter do so more exactly, and the former more loosely."

— Faxian, A Record of the Buddhist Countries

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

"They have a walled city and suburbs. The walls are threefold. Within are Buddhist temples and stupas numbering a thousand. The people are engaged in agriculture and husbandry. The men and women cut their hair and wear it at the neck. The prince's palace is grand and imposing, glittering like an abode of the gods."

— Book of Jin, Chapter 97

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

The Loulan Kingdom's territorial extent in 867 CE, under Walo Siddharthe II Gunacaṃdre

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

TABLE of CONTENTS
​

PROLOGUE

1. Siddharthe's Lesson
2. The Alliance with Qocho
3. The Two Weddings

 

[Nikolai]

Good luck!

 

[A Yorks]

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

※ — Prologue — ※
※ — Siddharthe's Lesson — ※

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※
​

"Follow the order of my strokes," said the old man, gently dipping the tip of his brush into the inkwell. A boy of perhaps twelve years at his side did the same with his own brush, and crouched over the paper before him. The old man cleared his throat. "Do not crouch, boy. Sit straight and lift your elbows to allow deft motion of your writing hand."

"Yes, lǎoshī," replied the boy, straightening his back. He shifted his hips, rocking side to side until he was comfortably straight where he was seated, and held out his arm stick-straight with his pen in hand.

"Almost," said the old man, reaching over and placing a hand on the boy's arm. "Bend here," he said, adjusting the position of the boy's elbow, "and you'll have the greatest mobility for accurate strokes."

"As you say, lǎoshī," replied the boy. The old man dipped the brush of his pen once again and reassumed his position before his paper. The tip of the brush met the paper, and the old man made a short, diagonal stroke downward and to the right. The boy, watching from the corner of his eye, copied this single stroke with ease as the old man made a second, identical stroke just below it. From there, the old man lowered his pen a bit further from the previous strokes and made an upward stroke curving inward. The boy did the same, though he was beginning to lose pace against the old man. Another horizontal stroke, beginning to the right of the first two, then a vertical across it; a longer horizontal at its base, then a leftward crook, then a short stroke at the foot of the crook. The old man lifted his brush and placed it to the side while he waited for the boy to finish. As the boy placed his own brush down, the old man looked over the character he had written.

​

"Very well done," said the old man with approval. "Your handwriting is improving. I can tell you've practised."

"I humbly thank lǎoshī for his kind words," said the boy.

"Can you tell me what this character is called?"

"Fǎ," answered the boy. "The fourtieth tetragram of the Tàixuánjīng — law."

"I am always impressed by how well you retain your studies," said the old man, nodding with approval. "Now we shall move on to the next character." He picked up his brush once more, dipped the ink, and began straight away with a flurry of four successive sets of strokes — one-two-three-four-five, one, one, one-two-three. The boy struggled, but managed to create a legible copy of the character on his own paper next to the first character.

​

"Perhaps a little more practice on this one after today's lesson," said the old man. The boy instinctively looked up at his teacher's face, then immediately down and away.

"If lǎoshī thinks it is necessary, I will," said the boy, becoming hot behind the ears.

"Now, boy," said the old man, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There is no shame in practising in order to learn. I have seen the progress you've made in your education — you must be diligent in your studies in order to hone your natural talents."

"Yes, lǎoshī," said the boy, taking a deep breath.

"Now," said the old man, removing his hand from the boy's shoulder. "What is this character's name?"

"Shī" answered the boy. "Master, or teacher."

"Excellent," the old man replied. "And when taken together, what word do these two characters make?"

"Fǎshī," said the boy. "A monk who follows the sutras."

"Very good," said the old man. He patted the boy on the back between his shoulders. "Now, perhaps you can teach this old man something — will you tell me how to say Fǎshī in your own tongue?"

"We call these monks ṣamāne," said the boy. He paused, then added a respectful "lǎoshī."

"Ṣamāne," the old man imitated in a strong Chinese accent. "What a delightful word." The old man crossed his arms nodded with approval at his young pupil. "I have one last exercise for you, but this time you won't have my example to copy from. Are you ready to begin?"

The boy nodded politely. "I am, lǎoshī."

"Very well, then," said the old man. "Can you write for me your most honourable family name?"

"Yes — of course, lǎoshī," the boy replied, once again assuming the position to write, with his back straight and his arm out, elbow bent just slightly. He dipped his brush in the ink, and began writing out the first of two characters. The first took fifteen strokes total, but the second was much simpler, with only four. At the end of the final stroke, the boy lifted the brush from the paper and placed it off to the side, leaning back slightly to allow his teacher to judge his work.

​

"Can you pronounce them?" asked the old man.

"Déyuè," the boy answered. "Virtuous moon."

"And in your own tongue?"

"Gunacaṃdre," the boy answered.

The old man nodded with approval. "You've done well for today, young Siddharthe," he said, struggling to rise from his seated position. The boy jumped up to help the old man, offering his arm to his teacher for support. "I- oh, how my age shows!" The old man chuckled as he lifted himself up with the boy's help. "I will speak with your father and tell him of your progress, boy. Surely, he will be pleased to have been blessed by Heaven with such a splendid son."

"I thank you, lǎoshī," answered Siddharthe.

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※​

 

[Nikolai]

Intriguing. The future seems bright then.

 

[stnylan]

An intriguing dynamic in the mentor-pupil relationship we have been shown.

 

[A Yorks]

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

※ — Prologue — ※
※ — The Alliance with Qocho — ※

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※
​

Dignitaries from the King of Qocho had arrived early that morning — not an uncommon sight in the palace of Krorän, but always an auspicious event. As always, there was some sort of grown-up business to be discussed, and, as usual, Siddharthe and his younger brother Silarakite were commanded by their father to be neither seen nor heard in the great hall. As boys do, they naturally came up with a plan to descry what knowledge they could of the meeting of their father with these dictionaries whilst fulfilling these two conditions.

Crawling under one of the screened benches, they took up a position behind their father's throne, lying on their bellies and looking out through the wooden lattice that separated them from the great hall and kept their presence clandestine. For Silarakite, there was just enough room for him to sit cross legged — Siddharthe was not so fortunate, as he would hit his head on the bench above him.

Silarakite leaned over. "What do you think they're-"

"Psht," his brother shushed him. "Lower your voice," he whispered.

"Lower your own voice!" hissed Silarakite. He crossed his arms and huffed. "What do you think they're going to discuss?"

"Probably trade," said Siddharthe, shifting on his elbows. "It's always some kind of trade contract."

"Don't we trade enough with Qocho?"

"You can always have more trade," said Siddharthe.

"Isn't there anything more in the world?" asked Silarakite. "Why don't they discuss something exciting? Like war!"

"We're not at war with anybody," said Siddharthe. "And I don't think I want to be."

"Is anyone else at war?"

"I don't think so."

"Are you sure?" prodded Silarakite, leaning back on his hands.

"Do you think I know everything?" replied Siddharthe.

"You're right," said Silarakite. "I don't think you know anything."

"That's some big talk from somebody who can't remember how to write the character for rén."

Silarakite's eyes went wide and his volume leapt. "You're not-"

"Psht!" his brother shushed him once again. "Whatever you need to say, you can say it in a whisper."

"You're not supposed to be listening to Chu Hung lǎoshī's progress reports to father!" Silarakite whined.

"Lower your voice, Silare!" Siddharthe commanded. "And no, I know. But where do you think I learned to do this?"

Silarakite opened his mouth to protest, but no words came. He just looked back out through the wooden lattice into the hall. For a few moments longer they waited, until the sound of muffled voices speaking in Chinese came from beyond the opposite end of the hall, growing closer until their father appeared in the doorway, accompanied by a retainer and two noblemen from Qocho. They made their way up into the middle of the hallway, speaking back and forth continuously, until Siddharthe could finally begin to make out what they were saying.

"What are they talking about?" whispered Silarakite.

"They're speaking too quickly," said Siddharthe. "I can only catch parts of it."

"I thought you were so good at Chinese!"

"I am!" asserted Siddharthe. "But I can't listen unless you're silent!"

"Sorry!" Silarakite said sarcastically. Siddharthe shook his head and continued to listen for contextual clues to begin picking out words and phrases. The Prince of Qocho, something something something. Marriage, something. She would make a good bride, something something. Malika.

"They're talking about Malika," Siddharthe said. Malika, their elder sister, was three years Siddharthe's senior — fifteen years old.

"What are they saying?" asked Silarakite.

"Something about a marriage, and the Prince of Qocho," said Siddharthe. He continued to listen as the conversation unfolded between his father and these Uyghur dignitaries. Something, something, Betrothal. Something, something, Alliance, something, something. Something, something, Already have a bride for my eldest son-

Had he heard that correctly? Had a bride already been chosen for him without his knowledge? It couldn't be. Or could it?

"I think I've heard enough," said Siddharthe, laying his head down and closing his eyes.

"What did they say?" asked Silarakite.

"I'll tell you later," answered Siddharthe.

 

[stnylan]

Sometimes the price of eavesdropping is finding out that which you would rather be unaware.

 

[Nikolai]

Hopefully the coming bride is a good fit, but knowing the times it probably is a long way of learning to love each other ahead.

 

[A Yorks]

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※

※ — Prologue — ※
※ — The Two Weddings — ※

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※
​

King Bimbasare sat upon his great throne, presiding over the great hall, observing the guests that came to witness the wedding of not one but two of his children. To his left, his eldest daughter Malika sat with her new husband, the Idiqut Prince Arslan of Qocho. To his right, the elder of his two sons, Siddharthe, was seated with his new bride, the Sumpa princess Dhingyose. An official of Bimbasare's court held a great scroll before his King, and each of the guests to the wedding came up in succession to register their presence at the ceremony. As per tradition, each of the guests made a great show of the lavish gifts they presented to the newlywed couples as they registered.

Malika, now eighteen years of age, had her reservations about the arrangement — her suitor, Prince Arslan, was only thirteen years old — only a year older than her youngest sibling. Her groom was nothing more than a boy in her eyes.

Siddharthe, on the other hand, received a bride of a much more appropriate age — for he was now fifteen years of age and she was sixteen. Though he had not known her before today, they were of similar temperament and both spoke Chinese with a somewhat poetic flair. He admired her in her demure dignity, as well as what he perceived to be her cleverness when she spoke, though he was not entirely unbiased, as even he had to admit her simple charm.

The last of the guests made their presence known, and Bimbasare stood to address his guests. "My friends!" he said, holding up his hand for silence. "I am deeply honoured that all of you could come today to witness the marriage of two of my dear children to most worthy suitors."

Malika scoffed somewhat audibly, drawing the annoyance of both her father and child groom, and the amusement of her brother and his bride. Bimbasare shook his head, and continued. "May the fruits of these unions be innumerate, and may they be blessed with great prosperity going forward."

※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※
※ — End of Prologue — ※
※ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ☸ — ☸ — ☸ — གུ་ན་ཅཾ་དྲེ་གཱ་ཐཱ — ※
​

 

[stnylan]

I like Malika already

 

[Nikolai]

I like Malika already

I foresee untold complications in the future.

 

[stnylan]

I foresee untold complications in the future.

That may just be why I like her

 

[LMaquiel]

What mod do you use for the map?