Pralay- The Great Deluge

by Vineet Bajpai

  Despite trembling with fear at the grotesque gutting of his commander, one of the slain giant’s men attacked Vivasvan with his machete. With the ease of a master warrior, Vivasvan dodged the attack, grabbed the wrist of the attacker and rammed his elbow into his face, splitting it open instantly. The Harappan soldier crumbled to the ground. But the slaughter was not over. Vivasvan Pujari slowly pressed his knee down on the fallen soldier’s back, picked up his machete and like a skilled surgeon sliced the man’s forehead from temple to temple. The pinned man screamed in pain as blood poured down on his face from the deep gash on his brow. And then, to everyone’s shock and disbelief, Vivasvan Pujari grabbed the soldier’s hair and tore out his scalp right up to the back of his shoulders. The soldier writhed with unbearable agony before succumbing - not to the injury but to the extreme pain he was systematically subjected to.

  Within a moment Tara found herself regretting what they had just done. She exchanged a quick glance with Somdutt, and they both seemed to be thinking alike.

  He, who should not have been freed, had been freed.

  The Sun had set on Harappa forever.

  Banaras, 2017

  MRITYUNJAYA

  The white Mahindra SUV of the Dev-Raakshasa Matth heaved and sped viciously through the packed streets of nighttime Banaras. None other than Balvanta, the warrior-chief of the matth, was at the wheel himself. He knew the clock was ticking.

  The lanes and roadside shops were bustling with activity even at this hour, packed such as to not allow so much as a bicycle to find its way comfortably. That was Banaras in its usual, lazy sprawl. But the city and its inhabitants found no difficulty in paving the way for this jeep turned ambulance. While no one knew who was inside this swerving and dashing vehicle, it seemed as if everyone did.

  It was Vidyut.

  His head nestled in the lap of a nervously panting Naina, Vidyut coughed and sputtered blood every now and then. After two bullet injuries, a savage gash that tore open the flesh across his chest and hours of intense battle, the wounds were too grievously threatening even for this phenomenon of a man.

  Vidyut, the prophesied protector, the last devta...was dying.

  ‘Drive faster...!’ yelled Naina, as she saw Vidyut’s breathing turn uneven. Till they found him on the ghaat, no one at the matth was aware of the bullet wound Vidyut had suffered at the hands of the assassin, Romi. The matth physician Govardhan had stayed behind to tend to the injured Sonu and other fighters of the monastery. That was a big mistake. Vidyut was now gasping for every wisp of air, clearly struggling to stay alive. Naina snuggled his head into her arms and was looking at him with the tears and the passionate intensity of a woman completely in love. She could not lose him. Not again.

  ‘We are losing him,’ muttered one of the matth warriors accompanying Balvanta and Naina in the jeep.

  ‘No, we are not!’ snapped back an angry and desperate Naina. ‘He is Vidyut! Don’t you remember? He cannot die!’

  Everyone in the vehicle knew Naina was wrong. Vidyut was breathing his last.

  Naina whipped out her mobile phone and dialed Govard-han, the miraculous healer of the Dev-Raakshasa matth.

  ‘Govardhan dada, we are still a few minutes away from the matth. But Vidyut doesn’t seem to have that much time. He is going, dada...he is going to go...!’ Naina was now crying unstoppably as she managed to utter those words into the phone.

  ‘You have to bring him to me, Naina. Stay calm and try to get him here as fast as you can,’ replied Govardhan in a quiet yet tense tone. He knew what was at stake.

  ‘But he won’t last, dada!’ screamed Naina into the phone. She was nearly hysterical with anguish.

  Govardhan remained composed.

  ‘Tell me what he is like, Naina.’

  Balvanta turned for a moment towards Naina, as the jeep slowed down in the middle of a bustling crowd.

  ‘We all love him as much as you do, Naina. We all know what Vidyut is prophesied to do. Not just for the matth, not just for Banaras...but for the whole of mankind.’

  Naina was listening. No one can love Vidyut as much as I do.

  Balvanta continued, ‘Just listen to what Govardhan is saying, and do your best, my dear.’

  The beautiful and brave Naina nodded. She knew she couldn’t lose hope. Not at this time.

  Govardhan repeated his question, ‘Tell me what his symptoms are, Naina.’

  Naina wiped her tears and observed Vidyut carefully.

  ‘Dada, he is gasping for air and his entire body is burning with high fever.’

  ‘Keep sprinkling water on his forehead, Naina,’ replied Govardhan. ‘Give him another injection of Tranexamic Acid just the way I told you. Do not let him sink into complete unconsciousness. Keep talking to him, no matter what. What else...?’

  ‘His lips are dry and he is...’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘Yes Naina, what? Go on...’ urged Govardhan.

  ‘He...he is mumbling something, Govardhan dada,’ replied Naina after a few nervous seconds.

  ‘Mumbling what? You must listen to what he is saying!’

  Naina leaned forward and put her ear against Vidyut’s flickering lips. She could not make out what he was saying.

  ‘I...I can’t understand anything.’ she exclaimed, making sure that both Govardhan and the passengers in the jeep heard her clearly.

  ‘What is he saying, Naina?’ enquired a visibly panicking Balvanta. They were now just about five minutes away from the matth. But it seemed like forever.

  Naina bent down and strained her ears. She could finally catch a couple of words that Vidyut was uttering.

  ‘...trayambakam...pushtivardhanam...maamritaat...’

  After a few seconds of confusion, she looked up at Balvanta. She had disbelief written all over her face. How could someone in such deep trauma and a semi-conscious state have the faculty for this?

  ‘Naina, you have to tell us...what is Vidyut mumbling in this state?’ enquired Govardhan.

  It took her a moment or two before she could speak.

  ‘Dada...’ said Naina.

  Balvanta, Govardhan on the phone, and the warrior from the matth, were all listening with utmost attention.

  ‘Govardhan dada...you are not going to believe this,’ continued Naina. ‘Vidyut is repeatedly chanting the all-powerful Maha Mrityunjaya mantra.’

  Everyone froze. How could someone on his deathbed have the streak of consciousness left for something as powerful as this?

  The Maha Mrityunjaya intonation was believed to be the ultimate protector against death. It was the Almighty Shiva’s invocation against Yama or the God of Mortality.

  Even moments away from death, the devta was fighting. On the narrow streets of this ancient city, standing on the bridge between this world and the next, Vidyut was invoking the Lord of Kashi Himself. He was calling Shiva for help.

  Vidyut was determined not to die.

  Not today.

  East of Harappa, 1700 BCE

  ‘THESE DROPS OF WATER… I OWE YOU’

  The vultures cawed and circled their prey persistently. They could sense a feast coming their way.

  It had been twenty-eight hours since the badly wounded young man had been riding, without food and little water. His deep injuries were festering. He was on the verge of passing out because of the uncontrolled blood loss. His mouth was dry and his lips were parched. He should not have lasted this long.

  But something was keeping him alive.

  Manu was not going to die without offering the last rites to his dead mother he had been carrying on the lap all this while.

  Manu owed this to his beloved mother. He owed it to Sanjna.

  ‘Ride east...look for the B/ack Temple... ’

  Those were the last words Manu had heard from his father’s loyal friend, Somdutt. He had been riding eastwards, all day, all night. But he could not risk stopping at villages or huts. He could not ask anyone for help or for directions. He knew that
Priyamvada, the new queen of Harappa, would have unleashed a massive manhunt for him.

  But now the journey was becoming hopeless. Manu knew neither he nor his beast could trudge on much longer. His beautiful mother’s body was also showing signs of its mortal, natural vulnerability. ‘Ride east...’ was too vague an advice. Yet Manu was sure that the wise Somdutt would not offer him a suggestion without a clear motive. But nothing had presented itself so far. No Black Temple. No help. No hope.

  Manu was now a pitiable spectacle covered with blood and dust. He pulled out his leather flask. The last few drops of water were left, enough only to wet his lips one last time. These counted drops might give him a few more hours of survival, he hoped.

  The vultures would have to wait.

  The land was arid till wherever the eyes could see. Manu was the lone rider for several miles around. Warm, dusty winds blew across the plains constantly. Manu wet his fingertips and rubbed them gently on his mother’s eyes, lips and forehead, with the same tender love with which a mother caresses her newborn. Just as he was about to upturn the near-empty flask into his thirsting mouth, Manu noticed something far out in the horizon. It looked like a tiny grey speck, but Manu felt he could see a human shape. Lying lifeless on the dry land.

  The young warrior-ascetic nudged his tired horse and cantered towards the seemingly lifeless body far out. He had let his mother down a day ago on the battleground at the outskirts of Harappa. He was never going to let anyone else down again.

  Manu was convinced that he was hallucinating due to his rotting wounds and the dehydration. As he rode closer to the figure, he rubbed his eyes. What he was seeing looked less like a man and more like the scales of a big fish! As far as Manu had seen during his grueling gallop over the last nearly thirty hours, there was no water body anywhere close by. How could a giant fish get swept so far inland?

  But as Manu drew nearer to the fish, he was startled. It was indeed a human, lying unconscious. Dressed in strange attire that made him resemble a fish, his body was wrapped in a cloak made from dried fish scale. The unfamiliar jewelry he wore was all made of seashells and fishbone. And let alone his clothing and trinkets, even from a few paces away, he smelled of the sea!

  The fish-man was slumped facedown on the ground. He looked lifeless. Manu noticed his skin had a bluish tinge. It either meant that he was poisoned. Or that he was dead for a long time.

  Manu’s immediate urge was to ride on. He had enough to worry about already. He anyway carried one precious body that needed to be cremated. In a matter of a few hours, he was probably going to be the second body himself. He could not take the burden of a third one.

  But then, he was Manu. Son of the great Vivasvan Pujari. He was not one to leave anyone behind, man or corpse, disrespectfully.

  Even as Manu was weighing his options, the man in the fish-skin robes moved. He was alive! Manu dismounted immediately, after settling his mother gently on the saddle. He bent down and slowly turned the man over. As Manu caught the first glimpse of the unconscious man’s dust ridden and sunburnt face, he could not take his eyes away. Even in this near dead state, it was the most exquisitely handsome face Manu had ever seen. There was something extraordinary about this man that Manu could not comprehend. Within moments, he sensed the pain of his deep wounds subsiding. A serene calm was seeping into him and he felt the familiar peace he had experienced when he had touched the feet of the Saptarishi. Only this was even more intense. Even more divine.

  Manu was still dazed, but he knew he had to do something quickly if he wanted to save this man. There were no signs of any wounds on this fish-man’s bluish skin. He was clearly dehydrated. Manu used a few drops from his water flask to moisten one corner of his robe. He then dabbed the wet cloth on the man’s cracked lips.

  ‘Water...’ muttered the fish-man as he regained a bit of consciousness.

  ‘Please...water...!’ he repeated, before Manu could respond.

  Now Manu was faced with a choice. He could drink the last few drops left in his flask and live for a few more hours. Hopefully even find the elusive Black Temple. Or he could offer the water to this dying man and save him. But that would mean certain death for himself.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, the son of Sanjna and Vivasvan Pujari lifted the man’s head and poured the last few drops of water into the fish-man’s mouth.

  The bluish man touched Sanjna’s forehead and stroked it like a loving father.

  Manu stood next to his horse stupefied. As this fish-man had opened his eyes and smiled, Manu’s whole life had flashed in front of him. His childhood laughter with his doting father, his playful memories with his loving mother, his cherished moments with Tara, his battle with the scoundrel Ranga... everything. And more. He seemed to be reliving flashes from times and places that he did not even recognize. They were probably sights from his lives before this one. Manu felt all his pain, thirst, hunger, angst...all simply vanish just as this blue skinned man cast his eyes upon Manu’s face.

  Who is he?

  The fish-man had been unexpectedly rejuvenated with just the very little water he had consumed. Without saying a word, he had got up and walked towards Sanjna’s body. He looked at her with so much love that Manu broke into heavy sobs that he had been holding back for hours. The man touched Sanjna’s forehead tenderly and stroked it a few times. Manu could not say whether he was daydreaming or it was all really happening, but with every stroke Manu saw his mother’s slowly decomposing body return to what it had been like at the time of her death. The gentle smile on her face was back, her skin glowed again and she emanated the soft fragrance that Manu recognized as his mother’s.

  ‘She is now ready for her last ceremony,’ said the fish-man in a deep, loving voice, as he turned to look at Manu.

  Manu was overwhelmed. He was now certain that this was not an ordinary man. With one glance he had healed Manu, physically and spiritually. With a few strokes of his palm, he had reversed the decay of his beloved mother’s mortal body. Or at least that was what Manu felt and saw. Whether these were real occurrences or the delirium of a tired and dehydrated young man, who could say?

  ‘Who are you?’ Manu asked the fish-man whose long, beautiful brown hair accentuated his godly appearance.

  The man grinned. Almost instantly Manu felt the raging hot winds transform into a cool breeze. The burning fields around him were now overcast with pleasant clouds. Before Manu could react to this sudden change in the weather, he felt the patter of tiny raindrops on his face.

  He knew it was the bluish man who was doing all this. Manu turned to him, only to see the man walking away into the cloudy dawn.

  ‘Who are you, O mystical one?’ Manu shouted out to the man.

  The man in the fish robes turned and laughed at Manu, without stopping his walk.

  ‘Remember, O great devta, you must reach the Black Temple. Ride towards the rising Sun and you will find it,’ said the man in his soothing voice.

  How does he know about the Black Temple? I never told him anything.

  ‘But who are you, Arya?’

  ‘Don’t call me ‘Arya’, O king. I am indebted to you. These drops of water...I owe you. From now till the end of time, I am your friend. And I have a name.’

  ‘And what would that name be, my dear friend?’ shouted Manu louder, as the man kept going further away.

  The blue man turned briefly, smiled at Manu and shouted back with a short wave of his hand.

  ‘You can call me what everyone in this land calls me.

  You can call me Matsya.’

  Banaras, 2017

  BATTLE OF THE EXORCISTS

  Damini had dosed off on the chair next to Vidyut’s bed.

  Vidyut had been brought into the matth in a comatose state two nights back. Govardhan had not spared any effort, working tirelessly to pull his devta out of danger. He had even called in Dr. Shashi Dikshit, a renowned surgeon and a friend of the matth. It was a powerful concoction of Ayurveda, modern medicine, loving p
rayers and potent yajnas that had kept the devta alive.

  It was the hushed exchange of words between Dr. Dikshit and the great Dwarka Shastri that woke her up.

  ‘Dwarka Shastri ji, this is a big relief. Vidyut will survive this brutal onslaught,’ said Dr. Dikshit. ‘In fact...in fact...I am a bit dumbfounded.’

  Damini shut her beautiful eyes in a prayer of gratitude. Her Vidyut was not going to leave her.

  ‘What is bothering you, doctor saahab?’ enquired Dwarka Shastri. He probably knew what the doctor had in mind. But as always, he played along.

  Guruji, Vidyut’s recovery is abnormal. In my twenty-five years as a surgeon, I have never seen anyone heal so rapidly.’

  Dwarka Shastri was listening, with a faint, almost unnoticeable smile on his face.

  ‘His tissues are healing at remarkable speed. His response to both herbal and allopathic medicine is astonishing. While I can see he is an exceptionally fit man, his body is fighting back with vigor like I have never witnessed before. It is like he is superhuman!’

  ‘He is,’ replied Dwarka Shastri simply.

  The grandmaster folded his hands in gratitude to the doctor and left. Leaving the surgeon gasping for a more palatable explanation.

  ‘He is,’ whispered Damini happily under her breath.

  ‘My Vidyut is superhuman.’

  ‘Do you know how and why your great grandfather fell terribly ill, Vidyut?’ asked Purohit ji, as he dutifully peeled an orange for his adored devta.

  Purohit ji’s son, Sonu, was also well on his way to recovery. He had not only found his health, but also his innocent sense of humor back. This allowed the revered Purohit ji to focus his attention back to the Shastri scion.

  ‘No, Purohit ji,’ replied Vidyut. ‘I assumed it was old age catching up. May the Almighty grant him a much longer life, but he is over a hundred years now.’