These men don’t seem to be intoxicated, as they were supposed to be tonight.
Vidyut and Balvanta could not believe their eyes as they stepped into the courtyard of the Masaan-raja’s yajnashaala. It was the most morbidly repulsive place either of them had ever stepped into, or even imagined in their worst nightmare. They stared momentarily at each other and then at Prof Tripathi, who looked like a living cadaver.
The large central atrium had over one hundred taantric ceremonial pits, each surrounded by low, cemented seating platforms. The pits were burnt black with soot over years of dark rituals. Trijat’s aghoris could perform a hundred sacraments at any given time…all at once. Vidyut could only imagine the invincible spiritual traction something like that would unleash. The four corners of the atrium had magnificent but fearsome looking statues made of black marble. Vidyut instantly recognized what those statues were. Or more importantly, whose sculptures they were. The entire premises was strewn with pieces of flesh, bloodstains, chopped animal limbs, country liquor and bones of all kinds. But it was the presence of one particular accessory to their rituals that made this aghori priory truly abhorrent.
Corpses.
Some still wrapped in their white shrouds, tightly bound by rough jute ropes. The others twisted in rigor mortis, their eyes rolled up and their jaws contorted. Scores of dead bodies lay scattered around the vast field of pit-fires.
The stench of death and human decay pervaded the air of this sickening raakshasa monastery.
The fighting continued. Young warrior-monks of the Dev-Raakshasa matth had followed their devta valiantly and were now in a gory battle of stabs, punches and blood with the savage followers of Trijat Kapaalik.
Vidyut’s eyes were darting across the compound, searching for the demon that had violated the Dev-Raakshasa matth. He was looking for the black-magician that had orchestrated the killing of Bala. He was scanning the ritual ground to find the raakshasa who was colluding with a dark, global organization and had brought that lurking monster right to the doorstep of his home, his matth.
His eyes were searching for the deity of the dead – Trijat Kapaalik.
Even as he longed to catch a glimpse of his target, Vidyut noticed Balvanta surveying one of the black marble statues. It depicted a muscular man with wings like those of a prehistoric dragon. The face of the statue was handsome, but not pleasant.
‘Balvanta dada, we need to find Trijat,’ said Vidyut, as he tried to pull the war-General of the matth out of his stupor.
Balvanta took a moment but was back with Vidyut, ready for battle again.
As they stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the ritual ground and the corridors and rooms lined around it, Balvanta could not help but ask the devta.
‘Whose statues are these, Vidyut? Who is this strangely powerful yet menacing creature? I have never heard of him in our scriptures.’
Vidyut remained silent.
You have not heard of him because he is not there in our scriptures.
‘Tell me, Vidyut…’ insisted Balvanta.
Vidyut turned to the war-General.
‘I don’t know what is going on, Balvanta dada. I don’t know who these people are and what they seek. I always thought Trijat was a taantric from Kashi. But these statues tell a different story. They should not be here!’
Balvanta did not fully grasp what his devta had just said.
‘Who is this, Vidyut?’ he asked again.
The devta took just one name. Perhaps the most feared name in the entire western world.
‘It is him, dada. It is Satan.’
Balvanta understood nothing. He just repeated what Vidyut had said, without any comprehension of it.
‘It is Satan?’
‘Yes, dada,’ replied Vidyut.
‘It is Lucifer!’
Finally, Vidyut saw him. He looked terrifying, and disturbingly splendid.
They did not call him the king of the graveyards just like that. He stood like the emperor of the dark realms that he was, surrounded by gigantic followers with ashen faces and blood-red mouths.
And then Vidyut saw them.
The two pishachinis. Their eyes were transfixed on the devta. They breathed as heavily as they did when Vidyut saw them first.
Breathe. Breathe because you breathe your last today.
The Masaan-raja locked his eyes with Vidyut’s. He fearlessly gestured to the devta, inviting him to follow, as he turned around to leave and disappeared into what looked like a stairway going into the basement of the complex. His followers and the two witches left with him.
Vidyut clenched his teeth to control his rage and charged towards the Masaan-raja. Only to be pulled back by Prof Tripathi, who grabbed hold of the devta’s arm.
‘Don’t Vidyut! He is beckoning you into the belly of the underworld. It is where he performs the Raktbeej Anushtthan. He is luring you into the heart of the primordial abyss.
He is luring you into Paataal.’
Harappa, 1700 BCE
THE DEVTA OF HARAPPA
Sura rested on his knees. His head was dropped as if looking with disbelief at the massive, glowing sword that had torn right through his chest, its pointed end protruding from the other side, dripping with the demon-king’s blood.
All his life Sura had hated Vivasvan Pujari. He hated the Saptarishi and he despised Aryavarta.
Little did the emperor of asuras know that it was to be in the heart of Aryavarta, at the behest of the last Saptarishi and by the sword of Vivasvan Pujari that he was to meet his end.
Destiny had drawn the legendary demon-king all the way across the ravines of the Hindukush.
To die.
The brilliance of Vivasvan Pujari’s sword had no parallel on Earth. It had taken the devta not more than a few moments to slay the demon-king and each one of his henchmen. The only asura still standing was Prachanda, who had tried to put a stop to the savagery of Sura.
The last Saptarishi lay on the rocky riverbed, broken and aged, breathing his last. Vivasvan picked him up reverently in his arms and sat him up gently against a boulder as backrest.
The distraught devta now fell at the feet of the last Saptarishi. He had had enough. His soul rejoiced at the thought of his beloved son. His conscience wept at what he had become. All Vivasvan Pujari wanted now was liberation – and to unite once again with Sanjna, wherever she was.
‘Forgive me, O pious rishi! Forgive me if you can…’ said the devta, as his tears of intense pain and indescribable remorse fell on the sacred ground of the abode of the sages.
The sage did not respond. His eyes were shut in a meditative trance.
The devta sighed and nodded to himself.
My soul is beyond forgiveness, beyond reclamation.
Vivasvan drew out his dagger with the lapis lazuli grip.
‘Hear me, O great sage. Your fallen servant is aware that aatmaghaat (suicide) is one of the greatest sins that a man or a woman can commit. It alters the cosmic cycle of birth and death. It insults creation that bestows us with the precious gift of life. But I see no other path to redeem myself. No lesser punishment shall suffice. Forgive me if you can, O divine rishi.
I, Vivasvan Pujari, offer my life to you. May the death of this blemished devta be his final submission to you and to the Gods he has let down!’
With this the blotted Surya of Harappa placed the tip of his dagger against his own belly. Prachanda stood witness to everything. He was too dazed, too overwhelmed to intervene.
The devta closed his eyes and placed his hands on the handle of the blade. He offered his last prayer to Lord Rudra.
But this was not the manner in which the greatest man of his era was meant to die. A split moment before he plunged the knife deep into his gut, the last rishi spoke.
“Lament not, O Surya of Harappa! You have sinned no doubt, but your soul is not beyond redemption. Its work is not yet done. You will return, O devta…in another age, in another time.”
Vivasvan Pujari sank to his kn
ees and rested his hands on his thighs. He shut his eyes in mild reprieve and gratitude. It was for the first time during this horrific night that he had heard the familiar, tender voice of the Saptarishi he once knew.
‘Let me go, O rishi. How you remain benevolent when I have just caused the death of six of your brothers is beyond me! I can only seek your forgiveness and lay down my life as a feeble offering,’ said the devta with folded hands.
‘You have not killed the Saptarishi, Vivasvan. Who can harm those who are one with creation itself? As soon as you had set foot here, the devta in you had sensed that our decaying bodies did not house the rishis anymore. You were right. The Saptarishi are eternal, immortal…and we now reside in the chambers of the Black Temple, that glow blue with the radiance of our penance. Our souls shall now dwell in new, divine bodies. And your son, Satyavrata Manu, shall be accompanied by us.’
Vivasvan Pujari felt as if his agitated soul had suddenly been immersed in an ocean of calm. His suffering conscience found itself peaceably unburdened. He knew what lay hidden in the heart of the Black Temple. He knew if Manu and the Saptarishi were there, they were all safe. Safer than they could be anywhere else in the universe.
The devta now gathered the strength and courage to plead with the Saptarishi. To beg him for one last mercy.
‘Free my son from the curse, O generous sage. Free his children from it. And theirs. Make me suffer as I have sinned. Condemn me to pain that is beyond human endurance. Tear my mortal body into shreds. But spare my son. Please…spare my children.’
What was causing the grinding roar in the mountains was now visible. A colossal landslide was hurtling towards the riverbed. Small pebbles had already started showering all over the land already being ravaged by rain and hail.
In a matter of minutes the battlefield, where the devta had fought the asuras, was going to be submerged under the crashing mountain.
‘What has been spoken cannot be taken back, O devta! The curse cannot be undone. But you demonstrated the righteousness of your heart, the goodness of your soul when you fought to save me, the last of the sages. So I repay this debt, O Surya of Harappa. Your son, Satyavrata Manu, shall remain untouched by the curse.
And your descendants shall all live to achieve greatness, but true to the curse – they will all die violently! They shall be the guardians of the Black Temple, till the time you arrive on the planet again.
Send the Ratna-Maru to the Black Temple, O devta, in the hands of the last asura. Prachanda shall return to the kingdom of Sura and rule over a new dawn for his kind. Leave now, Vivasvan Pujari, for the mountains come forth to shroud this land forever!’
The devta of Harappa bowed to the last sage. The Saptarishi had granted him almost everything his shattered soul could have hoped for. He pulled out his sword from the demon-king’s torso and washed it reverentially in the waters of the gushing stream and with the droplets of the incessant rain.
‘Take this to the Black Temple, O Prachanda. I will guide you to it as we ride out. Take this magnificent sword to its rightful place,’ urged the devta.
Prachanda accepted the sword respectfully and reassured Vivasvan Pujari.
‘It shall be done, O great devta. I shall return beyond the Hindukush, with the fable of Sara, for all generations of asuras to worship and learn from. Being here with you tonight has been the defining moment of my life. You truly are half-human, half-God.’
Before the holy abode of the Saptarishi was buried under mounds of stone and dust, the voice of the last rishi echoed above all the noise.
“Your name shall become immortal, O Vivasvan Pujari. You will be born again, thousands of years from now - to fulfill a destiny greater than anyone to have ever walked this planet.
You will be reborn to protect the secret of the Black Temple in its final hour. It shall be you who will unfurl it in the Rohini Nakshatra of a particularly pious purnima, millennia from now.
You are the chosen one, O great devta.”
Outskirts of Banaras, 2017
PAATAAL
Even Vidyut’s heart skipped a beat as he climbed down the winding stairway that led into the basement of Trijat’s yajnashaala.
It was a massive hall with not even a ray of natural light. It appeared to be a medieval cave of sorts, lit only by the flames of hundreds of torches that were framed into the walls. Scores of human skulls mounted on iron pikes were lined all around the hall, their mouths open, their hollow eyes gaping into the darkness. Vidyut knew their purpose. Taantrics attached great importance to the remains, skulls in particular, of ancient taantrics and yogis. They believed they could draw unearthly power from them.
The far corners of the cave had giant statues of the Goddesses – Maa Kaali, Maa Baglamukhi, Maa Smashaan Tara and others. The Masaan-raja knew no anushtthan in the realm of the dead could be concluded without the blessings of these incarnations of Shakti. Vidyut instantly realized what a big mistake Trijat was making.
No force of evil can ever vanquish the good under the watchful eyes of the Goddesses. Trijat will not win tonight.
But what astounded the devta most was the giant pit that raged in the central area of the cave. It was perhaps fifty feet long and twenty feet wide. Vidyut had never even heard of such a ritual fire. The pit was sunk about five feet into the floor of the hall and was filled with burning, glowing coal embers. The heat emanating from this fire was unbearable, and the entire place was sweltering. Vidyut noticed that the pit was not filled just with coal. He almost threw up when he spotted pieces of human limbs and bones baking in that fire of evil, and realized that the gross air of the place was actually the stench of incinerating human flesh.
If there was any hell, any paataal on Earth, Vidyut had stepped into it.
Welcome to my humble yajnashaala, O devta!’ shouted Trijat from the other end of the pit without looking at Vidyut. He was pouring blood from a clay pot into the pit-fire. The red glow from the sea of embers burning below him was making the Masaan-raja appear even more ominous than he otherwise looked. They were quite far but Vidyut instantly recognized the two figures that sat like zombies at the maha-taantric’s feet.
Pishachinis.
Slowly Trijat’s giant aghori guards emerged from the dark corners into the orange hue of the pit. The heat was excruciating and Vidyut was drenched with sweat. Keeping his eyes fixed on the armed aghoris that were slowly surrounding him, he quietly unbuttoned his black shirt, took it off and tied it around his waist. The chiseled, muscular frame of the devta’s torso glistened in the dim, fiery lighting.
By now Balvanta, Prof Tripathi and Sonu had clambered down to the hellish basement and joined Vidyut.
The battle was about to begin.
Vidyut dashed forward, breaking into a swift run. The speed at which he moved took the aghoris completely by surprise. In a split second the devta leapt up and crashed his foot into the chest of one of the massively built guards. Even before the other aghoris could raise their weapons, Vidyut had landed an aerial kick into the skull of the next guard. Both these men crashed to the ground like falling timber.
As he turned towards the rest of them, Vidyut noticed with the corner of his eye that Trijat was now pouring blood from the same pot over the two pishachinis - who appeared to be in a trance of some kind. Balvanta and Sonu had also charged into the enemy by now, and the war-General of the matth drew first blood. He had hacked off the forearm of one of the attackers.
This fight was not going to last long. And that was worrying Vidyut.
This is too easy. Is this all the Masaan-raja has to throw at us?
And then he saw it.
Vidyut shook his head to check if he was seeing right. What appeared like two ghostly auras were now emerging from the pit-fire. These looked like they were made of thick, grey smoke, but the devta could see two figures within. Two terrifying figures. As they suddenly turned to look at Vidyut, his sweat turned cold. They were the most chilling, the most ugly and most grotesque faces he had ever seen. T
heir horror was beyond human imagination. They were primordial daakinis that Trijat had summoned from the depths of the realm of the dead.
The two pishachinis sat at the edge of the pit, with their eyes rolled-up and their mouths open, panting profusely. Trijat Kapaalik was incessantly chanting dark spells that spoke to the angry daakinis. The two frightening figurines floating in the grey smoke were inching slowly towards the pishachinis.
Vidyut now knew what the maha-taantric was doing. He was summoning the daakinis into the bodies of his two assassins. If he succeeded, even Vidyut would not be able to withstand their demonic attack.
“Oum beejam;
Namah Shakti;
Shivayeti Keelkam…”
Vidyut, Balvanta, Sonu, Brahmanand…all turned to see the massive shadow of the towering figure of Dwarka Shastri flicker on the walls of the underground cave’s stairwell. Vidyut and Prof Tripathi knew what the grandmaster was chanting.
It was the most potent, the most powerful mantra against dark ethereal forces since the beginning of time.
He was chanting the giver of Lord Shiva’s divine armour, the unstoppable – Shiva Kavach!
The two haunting auras scowled in protest. Their shrieks were so horrendous that Sonu crashed to his knees, trembling with fear. He covered his ears with his palms, looking away from the daakinis.
They twisted, scowled, screamed…but in vain. It was clear that they were retreating. Going back into the blackness they had emerged from.
No daakini or pret-aatma could withstand the Shiva Kavach.
But Shiva’s divine armour could not defend a man from another man’s deceit.
Vidyut felt his head had been split into two. The pain was excruciating and his vision was clouding. The devta clasped his head with both hands. His fingers were instantly drenched in his own blood that was oozing profusely from the deep gash on his scalp. Moments before passing out he turned around to see what had struck him.
Pralay- The Great Deluge Page 20