Bheem

by Jyotin Goel

  You have left a loose end, Ashvatthama. You let the healer live.

  She had studied the blood. Bheem was aware that that meant nothing in itself but the enemy was not. For all they knew, Nishi could recreate the blood and jeopardize Ashvatthama’s mission. Could Bheem entice him into returning to complete the task? He couldn’t be sure—but his eyes glittered at the prospect. Using prey to lure an enemy into a trap was a time-tested gambit. Bheem could almost sense his guru Dronacharya smile as he recalled his yuddh gyaan.

  He turned towards the three maanavs resting numbly against peepul trunks, cringing spasmodically as secondary explosions went off in the ruins of the base half a kilometre away.

  ‘There is a place, Manu Alaya, not eight kos from here,’ Bheem said. ‘We will shelter there while we decide our next step.’

  Aviva looked at him, astonished. ‘You know this area?’

  The warrior smiled grimly. ‘This land was already ancient when Kuruvansh was young. We Pandavs found sanctuary here during our years of exile. There is little about this place I do not know.’

  He ripped the jute covering off an abandoned truck’s cargo and fashioned a rough garment to replace his charred smock. Then he tore out the truck’s cabin seat, fabricating a cradle large enough to take three.

  ‘Just for the others,’ Aviva said. ‘I can walk!’

  She could manage the journey; the pain was minimal, now that Bheem had eased her dislocated shoulder back into its socket. And walking during pregnancy always helped, didn’t it? Bheem paid no attention to her protestations, hustling them on to the cradle and lashing it to his back. And then, as if they weighed nothing, he sprinted away from the smouldering base.

  At midnight, National Highway 21, the only reliable link between the Lahaul and Kulu valleys, was deserted. The last travellers had descended many hours ago, ensuring that their vehicles were off the winding mountain road. Even the military convoys that were a perennial feature here had ground to a halt, unwilling to risk treacherous night drives. But despite the fact that the highway was invitingly traffic-free, Bheem chose not to take it. He threaded his way through the undergrowth along a goat track, the mountainside bright under a silver night sky. The ground was uneven, broken up by roots and rocky outcrops, but Bheem’s pace didn’t slacken. He raced along the track, hair-raisingly close to the cliff’s edge. Barely two feet to his right, Aviva’s side of the cradle swung over empty space. She looked down at the valley below, awash in starlight, every fold and wrinkle in the land clearly visible, the highway snaking down the mountain in the distance. The goat track veered away from the abyss into the cedar forest. The shadows were deep here, the brilliant night sky almost hidden by the towering mountain range and the dense forest that surrounded them. Then, even the little light that remained was blotted out—they were underground.

  ‘The Bhrigu Surang,’ said Bheem, invisible in the dark. ‘An ancient tunnel the sage Bhrigu built through the mountains.’

  ‘But don’t you . . .’ Aviva took a deep breath, unscrambling her thoughts. ‘Our phones are dead. What will we do for light?’

  ‘With light, no one from the outside has ever been able to find the way through.’

  ‘What? How could anyone . . . without light—?’

  ‘We wait. Whatever happens, on pain of death, do not speak.’

  Minutes passed. Utter darkness. Soundless. Stifling.

  ‘Who enters the surang?’ A voice from nowhere.

  Aviva, Vineet and Nishi gasped, and spun around, sightless in the impenetrable gloom, recalling the warrior’s admonishment just in time, biting back questions that demanded answers.

  ‘Bheem.’ The warrior’s voice, unperturbed. ‘Son of Kunti.’

  ‘Welcome, warrior,’ the unknown voice rumbled. ‘It has been a hundred and twenty generations since the Pandavs trod here last. You have the key?’

  ‘I have the key. Krishna Dvaipayan.’

  ‘The key grants you one answer to one question. Is it a path you seek?’

  ‘Yes—the road to Manu Alaya. Lead us, Margdarshak.’

  ‘Take my hand, warrior.’

  They could see nothing, but suddenly, they were moving again. Nishi shut her eyes and reopened them. It made no difference. There was no light, not even the faintest glimmer to which her eyes could adjust, nothing but the disorienting yawing and pitching of the improvised cradle, the steady tread of the unknown man, the surprising lightness of the giant’s strides.

  Bheem . . . the Mahabharat’s Bheem! Does he actually exist? Or am I insane?

  She must have gasped or moaned or in some way signalled distress for she felt a hand grip hers reassuringly. The journalist—her one link to the time before this madness.

  At least he’s real.

  She forced herself to believe that, desperately holding on to his arm and the tenuous connection with reality it provided. Vineet felt the pressure of her icy grip.

  Hardly surprising, he thought.

  The tunnel, or whatever it was they were in, was freezing. He felt the cold rattle through his body, taking him by the throat, shaking him like a rat.

  Won’t last very long in this.

  The only part unaffected was his right arm—which was already dead. He was in a world where reality had been upended, where every moment was fraught with danger and death but he wasn’t cursing his luck as he usually did, wasn’t railing at the universe for conspiring against him. He knew their survival was entirely in the hands of the warrior, a man whose very existence was impossible, and yet Vineet wasn’t trying to take charge. So not like me, he thought, amused. Somehow, he felt safe.

  There was no light at the end of the tunnel. One moment they were blind and the next, vast mountains sprang into view. Aviva gasped.

  An S-bend! An overhang’s shadow hiding the tunnel’s exit!

  She looked around, blinking, but no stranger stood in the sudden starlight, no gravel-voiced guide who had led them through the lightless pathways of the labyrinth.

  Where did he go?

  Her companions were looking around with the same terrified bewilderment. Had they imagined it all? The only reality was the giant carrying them, solid, dominant, undeniably there.

  ‘The margdarshak . . .’ Aviva hesitated. ‘Was he—was it all illusion? Maya?’

  ‘Their order is an ancient one, Aviva-Fein,’ Bheem replied, ‘established by my grandsire, Maharishi Ved Vyas. Which is why they use his other name as their key: Krishna Dvaipayan.’

  ‘But . . . that was thousands of years ago! How did you know there would still be one in here? That their order still existed?’

  Bheem smiled imperturbably. ‘I did not know,’ he said.

  Instantly, he was moving again, sure-footed, certain of the path ahead. The track coiled and unspooled again, out towards the rim of the mountain. And that was where Bheem halted. Twinkling in the valley below, mirroring the sky, were thousands of lights.

  Bheem grinned. ‘It’s a bit bigger than when I saw it last.’

  Vineet gazed at the spreading township. ‘Is that . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bheem nodded. ‘Manu Alaya.’

  It was hardly surprising that the three companions burst into laughter almost simultaneously.

  Of course. Manu Alaya. Manali!

  It had taken them only two hours from Rohtang, a journey that normally took a car or truck at least five hours on the traffic-choked highway. They stood at the foot of a hill just three kilometres from the heart of the bustling town, but at two in the morning, the tumbledown stalls all around were either shuttered or dismantled, tourists and hawkers long gone. Wide, uneven stone steps ascended the forested hill and clambered over a weathered wall to a broad mud-and-flagstone platform. There, nestled among the tall cedars, whitewashed by starlight, stood a sixty-foot-high wooden structure.

  ‘The Hidimbi Mandir,’ said Aviva. ‘A sixteenth-century pagoda-like temple, dedicated to the asura wife of—’ She stopped abruptly. Looked awkwardly at the giant. This was d
efinitely not the moment for an archaeology factoid. After all, it was to his wife that the temple was consecrated.

  Hidimbi. His first wife. Bheem could not be mistaken; this was the place where he had won her love. Or whatever it was they had shared. The temple had been built over the grotto in which they had lived, but the wooden superstructure, the stone stairway, the detritus of souvenir stalls and sightseers made no difference. Bheem felt the presence of Hidimbi even now, thirty centuries later. Or perhaps it was guilt he felt, self-reproach at having abandoned her, of having broken his vow, even though she was just an asura to whom not even an ordinary Kshatriya owed loyalty, let alone a Kuru prince. It was on this hill that he had slain Hidimbi’s rakshasa brother, had married her, had lain with her and then renounced her cold-heartedly, leaving her with an infant son. And she had raised that son, Ghatotkach, taught him to honour his father and to sacrifice himself for the man who had forsaken his wife and son. Bheem had been so caught up in vengeance that he had not even met her after the war, hadn’t bothered to assuage the pain of Ghatotkach’s death. He gazed at the temple. Her story was emblazoned on its sides.

  So this is how she ended her days. In tapasya; in penance and prayers for me.

  She had forgiven everything. He needed that forgiveness now, one more time. Hidimbi had revealed to him that the grotto had mystical powers. It gave access to the lair of Sesha Nag and much else—who could tell what light it would shine on hidden trails and shadowed places? Of one thing, though, the warrior was almost certain: the grotto’s powers would help him track down Ashvatthama. The healer was the bait; it was time to lay the trap.

  Padlocked metal gates barred entry to the temple at night. Bheem snapped the heavy locks as if they were twigs and squeezed his giant form through the narrow doorway leading to the inner sanctum, his three companions following him in. The guttering flame of a single diya cast more shadow than light; Aviva blinked, letting her eyes adjust. The large chamber was stark in its simplicity, almost completely bare, the offerings of devotees removed by priests at day’s end. The room was dominated by a huge, flat rock that lay across two stone spurs, forming a small hearth. Within the hollow was the only idol, a three-inch figurine of a goddess, obviously representing Hidimbi. But the idol held no interest for Bheem. The warrior stooped over the flat rock, running his fingers over what appeared to be ancient claw marks.

  ‘It has changed,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’ Aviva turned, moving away from the wall she was examining.

  ‘This rock,’ Bheem said. ‘It stood upright at the entrance.’

  He looked around. There was no cave, just the earthen walls and wooden beams of the temple interior. The floor at the entrance to the sanctum too was packed earth, uneven steps leading down to the stone-floored hollow.

  Aviva looked at the walls and the floor. ‘An earthquake flattened the cave,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps a landslide.’ She slid her fingers along the stone floor at the base of the spurs. ‘This is man-made. Could be something underneath . . .’

  Bheem placed his battle-scarred fingers on the stone, knocked on it and nodded.

  ‘Move aside,’ he said, drawing back his arm.

  His strike was like a crack of thunder, resonating in the room, shaking loose the accumulated debris of ages. The other three felt the jolt of its impact, jerked back, coughing and blinking, flapping their hands in the swirling dust. The air cleared; the warrior was on his knees, using his rigid fingers like a blunt chisel, chipping away at a large newly formed split in the floor. The stone gave way suddenly, revealing a cavity below. Bheem reached in and scooped out what looked like an urn covered in layers of grime.

  ‘Careful!’ Aviva cried, starting forward.

  Whether or not it was due to her admonishment, the warrior twisted open the vessel with uncharacteristic gentleness and stood silently, looking at its contents.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Aviva.

  Bheem looked at the three maanavs sombrely. ‘Ashes,’ he replied. ‘The preserved remains of someone long gone . . .’

  They sat propped against a wall in a corner of the room, trying not to fidget, but it was proving increasingly difficult. Light within the sanctum had dropped markedly in the last half hour. The diya sputtered, its little flame shrinking as the oil steadily drained away. Aviva’s eyes strained, peering through the deepening murk at the warrior, sitting unmoving at the mouth of the hollow.

  Padmasana, the lotus pose. Aviva thought, irrelevantly. At least an hour now. I’ve never been able to fold my legs like that . . . wonder how they do it.

  And then, despite the fading light, she noticed a shift, the first change in the warrior’s still face. In the chilly room, sudden perspiration beaded his brow and trickled down his jaw.

  You have failed.

  Repeatedly, Bheem had cast the bait into the ether.

  You have failed, Ashvatthama. The healer lives.

  For an hour, he deployed the grotto’s powers, called upon the sutras Hidimbi had taught him.

  The healer will find the cure unless you stop her, Ashvatthama. I guard her. Come, face me . . . unless you truly are a coward who makes war only on those unarmed and asleep.

  For an hour, Bheem tried to taunt him, lure him. The enemy did not respond.

  Hidimbi, you forgave me even though I deserted you. I seek your help now . . . the enemy . . . help me, Hidimbi, help me.

  The plea remained unanswered. Bheem felt the slow crawl of hopelessness; he had failed.

  And then, abruptly, a veil lifted. The giant muscles convulsed, bunched, locked.

  He could see . . . a shape, a form, its clothes streaming in the wind. Was it a woman? She was strangely familiar. The wind whipped towards Bheem, carrying sound . . . sobbing . . . Bheem felt his pulse race.

  ‘Hidimbi!’ he called. ‘Hidimbi!’

  The wind whirled, keening, whistling. She did not hear. And then she was gone and Bheem was alone in the snow, on a hill—this very hill. But . . . there was the grotto and it was as it always had been, with no steps, no platform or wooden temple. The stone slab again stood sentinel at the entrance. And at its base . . . Was that a woman? And the carcass of a leopard? And a vaanar, a golden vaanar, gazing at four squalling infants. Bheem strained to peer through the churning snow. Abruptly, the vaanar shimmered and seemed to vanish in the wind. Bheem could do nothing but simply stand and watch as a wolf pack approached and was scattered by . . . Bheem could not make out the face of the sadhu who hurled the flaming torch, who gathered up the woman’s body, lit her pyre. He could not see his face when the holy man slipped an urn containing her ashes into the gentle stream, could not tell who he was even when he bore the infants away in a mule cart. But Bheem did see the urn drift downriver into the hands of a woman, who was not a woman.

  ‘Hidimbi,’ Bheem whispered.

  Tears streamed down Hidimbi’s face as she caressed the urn, moaning softly. ‘Yajika . . . Yajika . . .’

  She walked into the grotto carrying the urn. The wind rose and howled, and snow swirled around the grotto, a white curtain through which Bheem could no longer see.

  He shuddered and his eyes snapped open. He grasped the urn, gazing at it. Then, rising, he moved to the sanctum’s doorway and, without a word, eased his huge body through the narrow opening. Outside, the quiet of the night was unbroken. Bheem strode to the edge of the flagstone platform and leaned against the railing. He stared at the surrounding forest, oblivious to the murmur of leaves in the indulgent breeze. Nothing had changed in the hour they had been inside, and yet Bheem felt as if a storm had passed through. Why was he so shaken by Hidimbi’s tears? He was a warrior; sorrow was a comrade. Never had the sun set on a battle without the wailing of women for their dead. He was inured to their lamentations. And yet . . . Hidimbi’s raw grief, the whispered name as she wept over the urn, haunted him. Yajika . . . His eyes sought the urn. Who was she? And the infants the sadhu had rescued . . . four of them—

  ‘Are you all right?’
/>   Bheem turned. The maanavs stood a few feet away, their faces almost comical with concern.

  ‘Do you recall the words of the vaanar,’ Bheem asked, ‘when we were in the maw of Sesha Nag?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He spoke of four sisters,’ Bheem continued, trying to remember.

  Nishi looked bewildered.

  ‘Sisters?’ Vineet thought for a moment. ‘There was something, but what it was—’

  ‘“Four saviours! Four sisters were they!”’

  They turned to Aviva, completely surprised.

  ‘Eidetic memory,’ she said. ‘Never forget a thing.’

  Bheem’s eyes were far away. ‘Four sisters . . .’

  ‘But what does that mean?’ Aviva was certain something had happened to the warrior in the temple. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘I will tell you what I know. And also what I can guess. But first, I have a question for you.’ His eyes as he looked at Aviva were sharp, unsettling. ‘You survived the fall in the shaft—how?’

  How? Aviva herself did not know. The rope that had encircled her, saved her from that potentially fatal fall—where had that come from? The sudden easing of terror, the peace that had suffused her—what could have caused that? She was completely baffled.

  The warrior wasn’t. He listened to Aviva’s faltering account, his face reflecting his racing mind: emerging awareness, excitement and what could only be awe. ‘The rope,’ he said. ‘What was it like?’

  ‘I don’t . . . it had hair, I think, a kind of fur—’

  ‘It was a tail.’

  ‘A tail? You mean the vaanar’s? Saragha?’

  ‘A vaanar, yes, but not Saragha. Saragha is insane.’ Bheem gestured to Nishi and Vineet. ‘He would have killed you as he tried to kill them. It was not Saragha in the shaft.’

  ‘Then who?’

  The warrior looked at his companions. Maanav jaati had shrunk, and not just physically. To them, the days of heroes, when humans had walked the same ground as the eternal ones, were the stuff of stories and folk tales. They had lost faith in human greatness, could not believe that such a time had truly existed. They even had a derogatory word for it: mythology. His own presence had shaken them to their core; confronting what he had just learnt would overwhelm them, perhaps drive them mad.