The Philosopher-Kings of South Asia: Interview with Ashoka and Akbar

 

Host: Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this extraordinary dialogue across time. Today, we bring together two of the most iconic rulers in the history of the Indian subcontinent—two men separated by nearly two millennia, yet bound by their shared vision of governance, pluralism, and moral authority.

First, allow me to introduce Emperor Ashoka the Great of the Mauryan dynasty. Rising to power in the 3rd century BCE, Ashoka transformed from a conqueror who unleashed devastation in Kalinga to a ruler who renounced violence and became a champion of Dharma. His edicts, carved in stone across South Asia, called for tolerance among all sects, compassion for all beings, and justice beyond narrow boundaries. Today, his lion capital stands as the emblem of India, and his Dharma Chakra adorns its flag.

And alongside him, we welcome Emperor Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Akbar, the third Great Mughal, who reigned in the 16th century CE. Known as ‘Akbar the Great,’ he consolidated one of the most diverse empires of his age. His policy of Sulh-i Kul—‘peace with all’—broke barriers of religion and caste, inviting Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Christians, and Zoroastrians into a shared courtly dialogue. Abolishing discriminatory taxes and integrating Rajputs and other groups into governance, Akbar forged a political and cultural synthesis that defined Mughal India at its zenith.

Both emperors stand before us not merely as monarchs of the past, but as enduring questions for the present: Can ethical governance guide politics? Can religious tolerance survive amidst orthodoxy and extremism?

Please join me in welcoming Ashoka the Great and Akbar the Great—two rulers who shaped, and continue to challenge, the very meaning of power, justice, and pluralism in South Asia.

 

(Ashoka nods with a serene smile, and Akbar says, “Shukriya.”)

Host: So, my lords, the first question to you is: What circumstances paved the way for your rise as emperors? Were you destined to rule the Indian subcontinent?

Ashoka: The story of my rise is intertwined with the turbulence of the Mauryan empire itself.

When my grandfather Chandragupta Maurya overthrew the Nanda dynasty around 321 BCE, he established the Mauryan Empire that stretched from Bengal to Afghanistan. My father, Bindusara, inherited this vast but fragile realm, facing revolts and regional challenges. By the time my turn came, the empire was powerful but prone to instability, particularly along its frontiers.

My own rise was shaped by both internal contestation and external expansionism:

Political climate: Sources like the Divyavadana suggest I had to suppress rivals among my brothers—tradition speaks of 99 siblings, though this is likely an exaggeration. The struggle for succession was bloody, and the need for a strong, centralizing ruler was clear.

Economic setting: The Mauryan state benefited from revenue drawn from agriculture, mining, and trade routes like the Uttarapatha (North Road). Arthashastra-style administration emphasized taxation and control, which gave the ruler immense fiscal capacity.

Environmental dimension: Fertile river valleys (Ganges, Godavari) enabled agrarian surplus, while forests in Kalinga and the Deccan were targets of extraction and control. Expansion southwards into Kalinga—though tragic in its consequences—was economically motivated: securing coastal trade routes to Southeast Asia.

Social dynamics: The empire was multi-ethnic and multi-lingual. Governing such diversity required not only coercion but also legitimacy. My embrace of Dhamma (moral law) after the Kalinga War was in part a response to this challenge: how to unite such vast peoples without endless violence.

Was I destined? No. I seized my destiny through capability and, I must confess, violence. My early reign was marked by the very ambition and ruthlessness I would later renounce. My rise was less about fate, more about historical necessity—a strong emperor was required to hold the empire together, but I sought to transform conquest by the sword into conquest by Dharma.

 

Akbar: A familiar tale of princely struggle, honorable Ashoka. But my circumstances were quite different. I was a king without a kingdom, an emperor in exile. My father, Humayun, lost the empire to Sher Shah Suri, and I was born during his flight.

When I ascended the throne in 1556, I was only 13. My father, Humayun, had briefly restored Mughal authority after years of exile, but the empire was precarious, threatened by the Sur remnants, Afghan nobles, and Rajput resistance. Within months of my accession, I faced the Second Battle of Panipat (1556) against Hemu, where the Mughal throne itself hung in balance. Victory there, under Bairam Khan’s regency, was the fragile foundation of my reign.

Political climate: India was divided among Afghan chiefs, Rajput kings, Deccan sultans, and the expanding Portuguese on the coasts. The Mughal state was one contender among many.

Economic setting: India was one of the richest agrarian regions in the world, producing nearly 25% of global GDP. The fertile Gangetic plain, combined with revenue reforms later under Todar Mal, became the backbone of Mughal stability. The empire thrived on cotton, indigo, and grain, and was integrated into Indian Ocean trade.

Environmental context: The 16th century was a time of climatic fluctuation—mini-droughts and monsoonal uncertainties threatened harvests. A strong central authority was needed to stabilize grain supplies and revenue collection.

Social dynamics: India was a deeply plural society—Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Buddhists, Zoroastrians, Christians. Ruling only as an orthodox Muslim emperor would have alienated the majority. Hence, my policy of Sulh-i Kul (peace with all) and the institution of the Ibadat Khana debates were both ideological and practical necessities.

Was I destined? Fate alone would not have saved me at Panipat. Nor would it have held together a patchwork of loyalties. I believe I was not merely destined, but rather forged—by circumstances, advisors, victories, and experiments in governance. Abu’l Fazl, my chronicler, might call me Insān-i Kāmil (the Perfect Man), but I see myself more as a craftsman shaping unity from fragmentation. I made my destiny by recognizing that an emperor of India must be emperor of all Indians, not merely Muslims.

 

Ashoka responds to Akbar: I see parallels, illustrious Akbar. You, too, inherited a fragile throne amidst rivals and war. Yet where my Kalinga marked a turn from conquest to compassion, you institutionalized tolerance through Sulh-i Kul. Both of us found that ruling India required not only swords but moral and cultural synthesis.

 

Akbar replies to Ashoka: Indeed, noble Ashoka. And while your pillars spoke across stone to peoples in their languages, I sought dialogue in my court at Fatehpur Sikri. Perhaps we both knew that the true conquest of India is not military but ethical and social—binding together many peoples into one political vision.

 

 

Host: Both of you faced the challenge of consolidating diverse peoples, religions, and regions under one empire. How did you approach unity, legitimacy, and governance? Did religion play a central role in your vision, or was it secondary to political strategy?

 

Akbar: For me, unity was not merely a matter of the sword, but of recognition.

My empire was 80% non-Muslim, predominantly Hindu. To govern such a realm, I had to move beyond Sharia-bound kingship. This is why in 1563 I abolished the jizya (poll tax on non-Muslims), in 1564 I banned pilgrim taxes, and by the 1580s I was promoting Sulh-i Kul (peace with all).

My legitimacy was not only military, but moral—expressed in institutions like the Ibadat Khana (House of Worship, est. 1575), where Jesuits, Jain monks, Brahmins, Sufis, and Muslim theologians debated in my presence. I wanted the emperor to be a mirror of the diversity of Hindustan.

Yet, religion was both a tool and a challenge: the orthodox ‘ulama resisted me, and even my concept of Tauhid-i Ilahi (1582) was not a religion but an elite ethical fellowship to embody loyalty, rational inquiry, and reverence for truth.

Unity required transcending religion, but also using its moral capital to bind men to the throne.

 

Ashoka: I, too, found that the heart of an empire is not in fear but in dharma.

After Kalinga, I realized that conquest by force breeds resentment. In Rock Edict XIII, I declared: “Even a hundredth or a thousandth part of the people who were slain, or who died or were carried away captive in Kalinga, is now considered very grievous by Devanampriya [Beloved of the Gods (i.e. Ashoka)].”

My Dhamma was not Buddhism alone, though I was a Buddhist lay disciple. It was a universal ethic: respect for parents and teachers, kindness to animals, non-violence, tolerance of sects, and truthfulness. I appointed Dhamma-mahamattas (officers of morality) to spread these principles across the empire.

Religion here was ethical governance, not sectarian dominance. My inscriptions even praise Brahmins and Ajivikas alongside Buddhists.

So, like you, Akbar, I realized that to rule the Indian subcontinent was to go beyond tribal, sectarian, or caste loyalties. Dharma must be for all.

 

Akbar interjects: But revered Ashoka, did not your Dharma remain somewhat paternalistic? You inscribed your words in stone, commanding subjects as a father commands children. I, instead, invited debate—sometimes even at my own peril—in the Ibadat Khana. Would you not agree that open dialogue, rather than edict, better secures unity?

 

Ashoka responds firmly: Perhaps, venerated Akbar, but consider the context. In my day (3rd century BCE), literacy was rare, and inscriptions carved in Prakrit, Greek, and Aramaic reached distant peoples better than any courtly debate in Pataliputra. I ruled an age of oral memory and public proclamation, not of courtly disputation. My Dharma was carved for the many, not just discussed among the few.

 

Akbar reflects: Fair. Yet, history remembers me as a king who invited the world into my court, and you as a king who inscribed his conscience into stone. Perhaps together, our legacies suggest two complementary strategies: one through the public sphere of dialogue, another through the enduring monument of proclamation.

 

Host: Both of you commanded armies and expanded empires. Yet your legacies differ: Ashoka is remembered for renouncing war after Kalinga, while Akbar expanded the Mughal Empire through campaigns in Rajputana and the Deccan. How do you justify the role of violence in your reigns? Was conquest ever moral?

 

Ashoka: My heart was transformed by blood.

In 261 BCE, my campaign against Kalinga resulted in catastrophic suffering: the edicts record 100,000 killed, 150,000 deported, and many more who perished later.

This was no ordinary war; it was the breaking point of conscience. I declared thereafter: “The Beloved of the Gods feels profound sorrow for the slaughter, death, and deportation that took place in Kalinga.”

From then on, I embraced Dhamma-vijaya (conquest by Dharma): not military expansion but the spread of ethics. I sent Buddhist missions to Sri Lanka, Gandhara, even as far as the Hellenistic kingdoms of Antiochus II and Ptolemy II.

My violence was a historical fact—but I sought to transform it into moral authority. A king must be a shepherd, not a butcher.

If conquest is necessary, let it be the conquest of the heart, not of territory.

 

Akbar: Great Ashoka, I respect your remorse, but in my world, an emperor without arms is no emperor at all.

When I came to the throne in 1556, the Mughal realm was on the verge of collapse. Without decisive battles—like the Second Battle of Panipat (1556) and my campaigns in Rajputana (1568–73, Chittor, Ranthambore)—the empire would have vanished.

By the end of my reign, I ruled over 1 million square miles and perhaps 100 million subjects, nearly one-fourth of humanity at the time. This was possible only because I fought and subdued rivals.

My conquests, however, were tempered with conciliation. After defeating the Rajputs, I married Rajput princesses, gave them high offices, and never imposed conversion. Even my Deccan wars were aimed at securing tribute and stability, not annihilation.

Violence, then, was not an end but a means to peace. Without it, my Sulh-i Kul would have been hollow rhetoric.

Power must be established before morality can guide it.

 

Ashoka challenges Akbar: But esteemed Akbar, do you not see the contradiction? You speak of peace, yet you drenched Rajputana and the Deccan in blood. Was this not a cycle of endless conquest? My path showed that empires could endure through moral suasion. Even 50 years after my death, Mauryan unity survived—not through terror, but through Dharma.

 

Akbar counters: And yet, exalted Ashoka, after your passing, your empire crumbled. By 185 BCE, the Mauryas were gone, replaced by Sungas and fragmented kingdoms. Perhaps your moral turn weakened the military spine of the state. My empire, however, endured long after my death, strong enough that even the British later called themselves successors of the Mughals.

 

Ashoka replies sharply: No, Lofty Akbar. My empire’s decline was not because of Dharma but because of the structural weight of a vast realm, fragile succession politics, and economic strains. If you measure greatness by survival, then the Mughals too fell within 150 years of your death, undone by Aurangzeb’s over-expansion. The real question is not longevity, but whether we ruled justly.

 

Akbar reflects: Perhaps you are right, adored Ashoka. I fought wars to build, but I also sought to heal—through Sulh-i Kul, intermarriage, patronage of temples, and a court open to many creeds. In that sense, my violence was a prelude to tolerance. You made peace by renouncing war; I made peace by winning wars and then softening them.

 

 

 

 

Host: How was your rule like or different from those of your contemporary kings in other parts of the world?

Ashoka: In my day, the world was in ferment, with great powers rising from the Mediterranean to East Asia.

Hellenistic Monarchs (Seleucids, Ptolemies, Antigonids): After Alexander’s death (323 BCE), his successors carved empires across West Asia. They pursued power through war and dynastic alliances. I, too, inherited a conquest-driven world, but after Kalinga, I diverged: while Antiochus II or Ptolemy II sought dominion by arms, I sought dominion by Dharma.

I even sent envoys, as recorded in the 13th Rock Edict, to Antiochus II (Syria), Ptolemy II Philadelphus (Egypt), Antigonus Gonatas (Macedonia), and Magas of Cyrene. This suggests the Mauryan state was in contact with the Mediterranean world.

Qin and Han China: While I turned to Dharma, the Qin (221–206 BCE) enforced unity by ruthless centralization, book burnings, and Legalist codes. In contrast, the Han (from 206 BCE) blended Confucian ethics with imperial power, a path not unlike my own Dharma-state.

Difference: Unlike most rulers, I made non-violence a state ethic. In an age where kings gloried in war and expansion, my inscriptions lamented conquest: “The only conquest recognized by Devanampriya is by Dharma.”

So my reign was both part of the great age of empires, and yet unique for its renunciation of violence as an imperial ideology.

 

Akbar: My world was one of early globalization, where empires stretched across continents.

Ottoman Empire (Süleyman the Magnificent, d. 1566; Selim II after him): The Ottomans ruled across the Middle East and Eastern Europe. Like me, they faced multi-ethnic societies. Their system of millets (religious communities) resembles my Sulh-i Kul—both were mechanisms of toleration in plural empires. Yet, while the Ottomans retained Islamic supremacy, I went further by debating with Jesuits, Jains, Hindus, and even questioning orthodoxy itself.

Safavid Empire (Shah Abbas I, r. 1588–1629): In Persia, Shi‘a Islam was made state orthodoxy, often violently enforced. My approach was opposite: I reduced religious coercion rather than imposed it.

Ming China (Wanli Emperor, r. 1572–1620): Ming China was centralized and bureaucratic, with a Confucian civil service. My empire, too, depended on efficient revenue administration under Todar Mal’s zabt system. Yet, unlike the Confucians, I opened my court to metaphysical debates, not just administrative order.

Elizabethan England (Elizabeth I, r. 1558–1603): Elizabeth faced religious strife between Protestants and Catholics, and she sought a “via media.” I, too, sought a middle path—except my experiment was broader, reaching across multiple religions. Both of us used religious tolerance as statecraft, though my empire was larger and more religiously diverse.

Spanish Empire (Philip II, r. 1556–1598): Spain pursued militant Catholicism, the Inquisition, and overseas conquest in the Americas. In contrast, while I expanded, I did not force religion. My policy was not conversion by sword, but persuasion by dialogue.

Thus, my reign resembled others in scale and administration, but differed in its radical pluralism—a pluralism that even Europe was struggling to imagine.

 

Ashoka responds to Akbar: I see in your time what mine too revealed: the world was dominated by emperors who sought legitimacy in religion. But where you embraced plurality within your empire, I declared plurality to the world—my envoys speaking of Dharma in Greek lands, my inscriptions carved in Aramaic for Iranian peoples. We both reached beyond borders, though you lived in a far more interconnected globe.

 

Akbar challenges Ashoka: Yet, hallowed Ashoka, your renunciation of war set you apart, but perhaps also isolated you. The Seleucids and Han endured longer, for they fused force with culture. I, like them, knew the empire’s survival required both—the sword and the word. Could your universal Dharma have truly survived had you faced the Ottomans or the Safavids of my age?

 

Ashoka concludes: Perhaps not, eminent Akbar. Each age has its necessities. My message was that even in a violent world, a ruler can speak differently. Your greatness was in bending pluralism into an imperial structure. Mine was in proclaiming that ethics itself could be an imperial structure.

 

 

Host: Here is my last question to my lords: How do you see the current situation in the Indian subcontinent? What would you say about religious extremism rising in the region?

 

Ashoka: When I carved my words on pillars, I hoped they would outlast kings and dynasties. Yet what I see today in the lands once held by my empire—India, Pakistan, Nepal, Bangladesh, Afghanistan—is that sectarian hatred often drowns out the voice of Dharma.

On Extremism: In Rock Edict XII, I warned: “The Beloved of the Gods desires that all sects should dwell everywhere, for all seek self-control and purity of mind.” Yet today, instead of honoring each path, people condemn one another’s gods, scriptures, and rituals. Religious extremism—whether in lynch mobs, forced conversions, or attacks on minorities—betrays the very spirit of Dharma.

On Politics: In my day, kingship demanded being the protector of all sects. Today, politicians seek power by mobilizing one community against another. This is not kingship—it is exploitation.

On Consequences: Extremism breeds endless war. My conquest of Kalinga taught me that violence consumes both victor and vanquished. South Asia has already bled in Partition (1947), in wars between India and Pakistan, and in civil wars like Bangladesh (1971). Must this blood continue to flow in the name of gods?

If Dharma meant anything, it was this: respect all paths, for truth is manifold. Extremism is not Dharma—it is adharma (unrighteousness).

 

Akbar: Virtuous Ashoka, your words resonate with my Sulh-i Kul. For I too declared: ‘Peace with all, because all men are the creatures of God.’ Yet I see in today’s subcontinent the very opposite—religion wielded as a sword, not a balm.

India: In my time, Hindus, Jains, Christians, and Muslims debated in the Ibadat Khana. Today, debates are drowned in slogans, often backed by violence. Hindu nationalism increasingly marginalizes Muslims, Christians, and even dissenting Hindus. This recalls for me the rigidity of some of my ulema who resisted Sulh-i Kul and tried to brand me a heretic.

Pakistan: My heirs in Hindustan fractured into successor states, but in modern Pakistan, religion became the foundation of statehood. Yet what has it brought? Laws that endanger minorities—Ahmadis, Hindus, Christians—and blasphemy accusations that have killed innocents. Instead of Sulh-i Kul, there is coercion in God’s name.

Bangladesh & Afghanistan: Bangladesh, though born of cultural identity, still struggles with religious pressures on minorities. Afghanistan suffers under a harsh orthodoxy that would have silenced even the mild debates I fostered.

Here is a warning: When rulers forget inclusivity, empires fall. My dynasty reached its height under tolerance but weakened under bigotry. Aurangzeb’s rigidity alienated subjects, drained resources, and sowed rebellion. If today’s rulers repeat that mistake, the subcontinent risks endless cycles of revolt and repression.

A ruler must be a father to all. A nation cannot endure if it defines itself by excluding millions of its children.

 

Ashoka adds, reflectively: Cherished Akbar, you remind me that Dharma and Sulh-i Kul were not abstract. They were survival strategies for multi-ethnic, multi-faith polities. The subcontinent has always been plural—Buddhists, Jains, Shaivites, Vaishnavites, Sufis, Sikhs, Parsis, Christians. To deny this diversity is to deny the land itself.

 

Akbar concludes: Then let us both declare: South Asia’s strength was never in one creed’s supremacy, but in the coexistence of many. If extremism rises, it is not destiny but folly—and folly can be corrected if rulers learn from our legacies. Dharma and Sulh-i Kul remain unfinished tasks. May the people remember them before it is too late.

 

Host: Ladies and gentlemen, as we draw this extraordinary dialogue to a close, let us reflect on what we have heard from two of history’s greatest sovereigns.

From Ashoka, we learned that conquest and violence bring only sorrow, and that true strength lies in compassion, tolerance, and the moral law of Dharma. He reminded us that governance must be rooted not in sectarian pride, but in respect for the manifold truths through which human beings seek meaning.

From Akbar, we heard that peace with all—Sulh-i Kul—is not an abstract ideal but a practical necessity in a land as diverse as the subcontinent. His vision of inclusivity, of Hindus, Muslims, Jains, Christians, and Zoroastrians sharing a common civic space, remains as urgent today as it was in the 16th century.

Both emperors confronted their own times of division, extremism, and rigidity. Both found ways—different in form, but united in spirit—to build bridges rather than walls. And both leave us with a challenge: to ensure that their legacies are not merely celebrated in monuments, flags, or folklore, but practiced in policy, in politics, and in daily life.

In an age when extremism threatens to fracture societies once more, Ashoka and Akbar remind us that pluralism is not weakness—it is survival. That tolerance is not concession—it is the highest form of strength.

On behalf of our audience of scholars, I thank Emperor Ashoka and Emperor Akbar for joining us across the centuries. And I invite all of you to carry forward their unfinished task: to build a subcontinent—and a world—where peace with all, and Dharma for all, remain guiding lights.