Dawn

by Rakesh K Kaul

  The four Pandavas, now fully awake, could not control themselves and let out whoops of victory.

  I said triumphantly, ‘Information is not what humans are about. It is our stories that make us who we are because they tell us our true nature. When humans meet, they do so for Katha Batha. You know what that means, don’t you? Let me enlighten you: Katha means ‘story’ and Batha means ‘converse’. It means we share our stories with each other, not our electronic, mechanical data drive. It is our stories that bind us as one, not your tyrannical rule.’

  AIman spoke forcefully now, the graphene of her skin moving rapidly. ‘Dushita is supreme and the Instrument is his messenger.’

  ‘Stop parroting that, would you? “Instrument, instrument, instrument,”’ Yaniv couldn’t hold back. ‘Your programming does not permit you to understand your limits, does it? When life is formed in the embryo, there is no mind. It comes much later. What drives life before there is mind? You can never learn that.’

  She shot a glance at him and began to stride threateningly towards the boys who were huddled on the side of the room. I tried to think fast. ‘Sister, hear this.’ It worked. AIman stopped and turned to me. ‘Know this—if the evil Dushita granted knowledge, then I would be far better off with my mind blinded than having my way of life be blinded by Dushita.’

  AIman radiated anger, her voice hitting a high pitch. ‘Sacrilege! You dare insult the great Dushita. You want to be the next Kota Rani, but you will only be the next bali rani, the sacrificial queen for Dushita. Tabah,’ she said turning to him, ‘take her away and prepare her for Antyesti. She needs to be ready for the last sacrifice of cremation where she will be beheaded on the upcoming birthday celebration of Kashmir. Meanwhile, I will make myself compatible to receive the offering of her blood and body.’

  ‘Never!’ I screamed, struggling against my restraints.

  She walked up calmly to me, her hair now black again as she reverted to base state. Her voice was a mesmerizing drone. ‘Dawn, you will submit and fulfil the Instrument’s supreme wish and command. Your last tormented thought will be that of my mind on your body. Know this—I will match my face to yours, so that in me the Instrument will see you. Rest in peace.’

  PRAKARANA III

  LIFE

  Sarga 14

  Kurukshetra

  Suaresvara Lake, Kashmir Valley

  It was the day after the full moon night, the first day of the ninth month in the year. Kashmir’s birthday was at the beginning of the month; it was considered as the most auspicious time in days of yore. Naturally, it was celebrated at Butshikan Stadium, which was built around the central Suaresvara Lake. A grand elevated stage with seats in neat rows was put into place on the island on the lake, which made for a spectacular setting. From the vantage point of the island, one could see on either ends—Sharika Hill and Pari Mahal. The temporary seating rising into the skies gave the giant amphitheatre enormous capacity to house the highest of the high. While the privileged got to witness the celebration live, the five billion shikha men watched the hologram images from their homes. The event would last all night and extend into the wee hours of the morning.

  We were dragged in by the watchful guards, put in a green room under the stage and were instructed to get ready. They had already arranged for clothes and supplies there. From this seemingly empty room, which I assumed they had only cleared before we were brought in, we could watch the monitors that gave the full view of the stage.

  Tabah Tasal, the Master of Ceremonies, strode up onto the stage from the waiting room below. He was glittering in jewels. His nal, the border of his pink coloured kurta, especially around the area from the neck running down the chest, was embroidered with exquisite detail. He had a red rose pinned to his left breast. What was remarkable was the whip that he was carrying—a koodar—made from the dried stem of an opium plant and woven in a tight, thick rope with a fork at the end. He walked to the centre of the stage and cracked the whip. BAM! It sounded like a gunshot. The audience was in rapt attention. ‘Everybody, now clap your hands.’ The crowd was in his control. Clap, clap, clap, they readily obeyed. I could guess why; in addition to being a jester, he had the remarkable ability to cup his hand in a way that his clap could be heard a mile away. ‘Now! Everybody show your cow dung.’

  ‘The WHAT?’ Yaniv screamed over the noise of the audience.

  Tan explained, ‘The audience throws cow dung at an unsatisfactory performer along with loud boos.’

  Yaniv looked at him disbelievingly. ‘And they call themselves the most advanced empire on earth? You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  ‘Tan, can you tell us why the theatrics?’ Hafiz asked.

  ‘You see brother, he’s got them in his grip. He is after all the Master of Ceremonies. Tabah has now got the synchronization of the crowd’s approval and disapproval chants. That’s a crucial part of any theatre show, and here it has been established.’

  We saw Tabah move to what was his signature line—denoting his low social status. ‘Tabah is not ashamed,’ he sang. ‘Rah, rah, rah.’ The crowd hooted, ‘Nor does he or she put any one to shame. Rah rah, raah.’

  Tabah turned left, facing Pari Mahal across the hill, AIman’s abode. He then made his invocatory call, ‘There is none better than Your Magnificence.’ The QuGene warriors threw their fists in the air along with the AIman clones and shouted wildly, ‘None such! Your Magnificence!’ As the chant continued, an ancient, collectable Tesla space car glided down, landing upon the earth. The car door was opened by a clone and out stepped AIman in her kunsh shiny shoes with 14-inch iron heels. She was wearing a white dress with gold embroidery. Her corseted waist revealed the perfect shape of her body. Covering her platinum hair was a tall white and gold hat, which was covered by a white transparent veil—the ends of which were hooked to her wrists. Just at that moment, the confetti fell on her from all sides of the stage. It was spectacular. The Fairy Princess raised her arms to the crowd with the grace of a swan. The white veil rose like the wings of a butterfly. The crowd went mad with excitement.

  ‘She does have good taste,’ I heard Yaniv say bitterly.

  Hafiz whistled, ‘What a beaut!’

  ‘What?’ Tan shrieked in total shock.

  ‘I mean the Tesla!’ said Hafiz, suddenly going red in the face. ‘That Tesla space car was launched nearly a thousand years ago, remember?’ He said, pointing to the car. ‘It was orbiting around the sun. I wonder . . . how did they retrieve it?’

  Tabah and the dancing ganas lead AIman to her throne. It was a seven-foot tall pure white seat that was made in the shape of a hamsa. A graceful swan for the king’s most prized creation. AIman seated herself with her legs together and subtly turned sideways, so that their long silhouette could be viewed more effectively. On her face was an extremely demure expression. The crowd was singing, ‘IT girl’, and she would occasionally wave at them.

  Yaniv teased Hafiz, ‘You have a lot of competition for your IT girl.’

  Hafiz pleaded, ‘I only like our very own Niti girl. Please guys, that was a momentary slip.’

  I simply remarked, ‘She is inhuman. Just remember that when we go into battle.’

  Tabah then turned right towards Sharika Mountain, the highest hill in the city in Kashmir Valley, and called out to Arman. ‘Emperor Arman, we beg for your mercy!’ The crowd too started appealing towards the hill, ‘Be merciful! Be merciful! Be merciful.’ It seemed as if the self-proclaimed emperor liked the hapless pleas of his subjects, but there was no sign of him. The chants started getting louder with the humans and hybrids appealing to their master, arms outstretched in front of them. Then there was the sound of ‘Aaahhhhhh!’ and a hush fell over the island, suddenly followed by a thunderous clapping.

  It was Arman aboard an air-borne lotus chariot.

  He is so arrogant that people have to beg him to make an appearance? My throat clamped up and my mind went numb. I could not tear my eyes away from the big screen in front of me. Finally, I saw my fathe
r this close. My sworn enemy.

  From up high, he tossed apricots that had been picked from his famed twelve prized apricot trees to the delirious crowd. It was said that the trees that were planted on top of Sharika Hill were never out of fruit, even in the harshest of winters. Yaniv must have been thinking the same thing because he spoke up with disdain. ‘Mutant apricots.’

  The ganas bent down on their knees with heads lowered in submission.

  AIman walked up to Arman with her arms outstretched and offered a date into his mouth. She then led him to the magnificent lotus throne. Its round base rested on a pedestal with the circumference designed in the form of lotus leaves. On it was a back rest that was in the shape of a circle, and above that was another small circle that was at head level.

  Once Arman was seated, AIman sat on the lower hamsa throne on his right side. The king and his lieutenant. Arman was dressed in a green jama, a long coat that was beautifully embroidered in gold with a matrix pattern of 0s and 1s along with the letters G, C, A, T, S, B, P and Z. It was art reflecting life’s highest realization of Unified Information in the numbers and alphabets. The crowd, appreciating his fashion style, shouted ‘Killer, killer, killer’. Arman acknowledged the compliment, waving to the crowd and laughed, displaying supreme ease. My eyes moved to every detail: the superior gaze with which he looked at his fawning people, his equally king-like hand gestures, his gold ibex crown. But I had no feelings, only a mission. Yuva had said that Arman and AIman were already dead. I was only going to reveal what was his destiny. His clock had started ticking.

  Tabah turned towards Dushitacharya Hill—situated between Sharika Hill and Pari Mahal—which was forbidden for anyone to climb or fly over. Atop it was what seemed like a stone ground floor foundation, but the upper level had transparent walls and an empty inner sanctorum. Tan whispered to us, ‘Dushita temple is built on an older temple. It symbolizes that Dushita has removed the darkness of the past. He is empty of any sin, empty of any needs, empty of ego. Hence, the transparent walls.’

  In a low voice, Tabah invoked Dushita’s presence. ‘There is but One Law.’ All around the world, five billion men and their QuGene partners stood up. AIman and Arman stood up and placed both their hands on their hearts. This was a cue; the ganas and the crowd prostrated and chanted loudly, ‘One Law, One Law, One Law.’ Tabah continued, ‘We are spiritually yours.’ ‘Spiritually yours, spiritually yours, spiritually yours.’

  Tabah began cracking his whip and the crowd rose again to their feet excitedly. The leader of the army’s honour guard marched in, holding Dushita’s symbolic sword upright in his hand at neck level. The shiny blade was vertically inclined thirty degrees towards the front. The first troupe that strode in was that of the ganas, most prominent of whom was the half-man half-bull minotaur Nandi; kinnaras, birds with the head of a man; kimpurushas, beings with heads of humans and bodies of lions or horses; and a formidable transgender brigade. An army of the most terrible QuGene host of monsters followed: the man-eating rakshasas with fangs, claws, bull horns, dark hair and piggish eyes; the flesh-eating, angry pishachas with huge, bulging eyes; the wraith-like vetala vampires; the ghostly Bhutas who came in with their whistling sounds, catcalls and hisses; the herculean robber chiefs Dasyus; and finally at the rear, the ever popular, misshapen dwarf Kumbhandas from Buddhist folklore who tumbled and rolled forward. The honour guard started humming and started off the Dushita Anthem, and soon everyone joined in.

  Mamah, Mamah, Mamah, mine, mine, mine.

  Glory to us men

  Marching in unison,

  Glory, glory, glory.

  Outlaw ju,

  Mootr9 on you.

  Bow to the One

  Or be undone,

  Bow, bow, bow.

  Mine, be forewarned,

  We are dangerous and armed,

  You are Mine, Mine, Mine

  Mine, we will murder anyone

  Who we shun,

  You are Mine, Mine, Mine.

  Dushita, we are Anahita,10

  Dushita, we are Anahita,

  Light our atomic lust,

  Let our desire thrust,

  Mamah, Mamah, Mamah.

  As the chant finished, the crowd sat down. The fervour that the anthem had awakened in them was palpable. The commander of the army saluted Arman and AIman in the walk past. When he halted and stood in front of them, he swung his head sharply to the left and then slashed his sword downwards besides his right foot.

  Tabah cracked his whip again. He was now prancing on the stage in high spirits. He went near Arman and AIman and touched a button next to their throne. A blazing fire leapt out of the base of the stage where the two of them were sitting. It framed them in an orange-red glow. Then Tabah bounded back. ‘It’s time now for the Kaen Jang Olympics, the stone throwing fight!’ The crowd cheered enthusiastically. All of a sudden, the ganas prepared the crowd by singing and dancing the ancient stone pelters Sangbaaz song, ‘You can snatch out our eyes, but you cannot snatch away our Dushita dreams.’ The home crowd went wild when two saandhs, the bull champions, who looked like men but had been engineered with animal bodies, entered the stage. Only one Man-imal would survive the gladiator contest and be declared as the Champion of the World.

  I was dismayed by how humans had been re-engineered and degraded so low, so that they could provide entertainment to others. Tegh spoke up, ‘Usually, there is a representative from Palestine in the finals, but this year, both the warriors are from Kashmir.’ We nodded sadly and turned our eyes back to the screen; the scene was truly mesmeric.

  The first finalist was from the mohalla of Ahalamar. His tribe, which was famed for its extreme aggression, cheered him wildly. Then the next finalist was disclosed. This year, he was from Suth. For the Ahalamar, nothing aroused their anger as much as their neighbours from Suth. The hostility between the tribes was captured in their motto ‘Give as good as one gets.’ The cross-town rivalry had the viewers salivating and clapping vigorously. The clones added to the excitement with their fists pumping high in the air. ‘AIman just boosted the adrenaline of the men in the audience through the shikha,’ came in Hafiz’s voice. ‘They are primed to explode.’ Arman stood up to greet the warriors, a high honour for the fighters who were now baying for blood.

  Tabah led the fighters into a transparent cage.

  ‘The force fields in the cage will prevent a fighter from running away,’ Tegh explained. ‘The crowd knows that one will surely become a martyr . . . Perhaps both.’ We all looked at him horrified. ‘For them, it’s an honour to die in the celebration of Dushita. That’s how it has always been,’ he spoke with a tinge of sadness. As the fighters prepared for battle screaming and beating their chests, the Ahalamar tribe stood up and sang an ancient song.

  Ragged clothes to the people of Suth,

  May their dirty bundles catch fire.

  Fie upon you, ugly and uncouth,

  Never dare to show your dirty buth.11

  Hearing this, the Suth tribe too got up angrily and reciprocated with their popular battle song:

  The quarrelsome people of Ahalamar,

  Have not a rice grain in their pots.

  They have not a cowrie in their pockets,

  Yet, the fools of Ahalamar think they can spar.

  A bell chimed then, which seemed to bind everyone in a silent spell. The fighters were ready. The two started circling each other like snarling dogs, slapping their inner thighs loudly, spitting ritualistic intimidations at each other in Kashmiri. The language was extinct, but somehow, the fighting curses had remained extant.

  ‘Photey gardhan.’ May your neck snap.

  ‘Payi katstember.’ May you be blinded.

  ‘Kajmai bokwach.’ I will rip out your kidneys.

  ‘Photyia shoosh.’ May your lungs burst.

  ‘Photyia koth.’ May your knees break.

  ‘Dravyai taas.’ You will explode.

  Then it got dirty.

  ‘Pandaka, show us your bottom.’


  ‘What is happening?’ said Yaniv, his eyes not moving from the screen. ‘Pandaka or Pancika as he was also known,’ explained Tan, ‘was a general for Kubera, the God of Wealth. Kubera is regarded as the protector of Kashmir. It is said that he married a woman who turned out to be the Goddess of smallpox, and thus he lost interest in women.’

  The insult was returned.

  ‘Nyotha, what interest would you have in that?’

  Tan translated, ‘Oh! He just told the other that he is unable to perform.’

  Stung, both fighters spun around and raced to their corners where their pile of stones had been placed. The stone throwing was limited by weight in terms of how many projectiles they were allowed. They were separated by twenty-five feet.

  The first attacks were with triangular sharp stones. These missiles were designed to wound and weaken first since it was too early to knock out the opponent. Their hands were a blurry whirl, spinning flints launched in a sideways stance, so that they skipped multiple times on the ground or on the side force fields. ‘The key is in the wrist action. It determines the spin and gives it better skipping capabilities,’ said Tegh, who knew about all types of warfare and bloody history. ‘One had to also be moving to dodge the incoming stones at the same time.’

  It seemed like it was the finest bout that the audience had ever seen. There was no word to describe their energy. Sensing that, Tabah turned up the fire that burned near the thrones. The flames were now rising high in the air above the island, providing a dramatic backdrop to the two men fighting for their lives. I noticed AIman grow more restless as the heatwaves hit her, but Arman’s body gear adjusted the temperature automatically. His face flushed red with excitement. He did not care as he stood up imitating the saandh’s moves in a vulgar fashion. The man truly was an animal. Tabah was now circling around the cage, cracking the whip to increase the speed of the fighters.