by Jyotin Goel
Ashvatthama was close enough to the girl to notice the slight compression of lips, the shift of expression in her eyes. He smelt a foul odour, heard the whisper of wind and the thump of a heavy object striking the sand. He spun around. Sprawled on the sand, not three bow-lengths from the warrior, lay the creature that Ashvatthama had hammered down—the vaanar.
He is not dead?
That was surprising. And what was that ungainly hunk of wood an arm’s length from the prostrate warrior?
Bheem tried to move—and failed again. Saragha had crashed into the sand just metres from him, almost completing the impossible leap. The vaanar was trying to rise now, but agony contorted his face, and it wasn’t the pain of torn flesh or ravaged nerves. Saragha clutched at his head, and Bheem knew that the vaanar was at the edge, staring into the abyss of insanity. The mace had tumbled towards the warrior. Bheem willed his arm forward.
Ashvatthama sensed Bheem’s effort.
For that piece of wood? Why would he—?
And then Ashvatthama felt doom unfold.
‘No!’ he shouted and flickered forward but Bheem’s hand had already grasped that nondescript length of wood.
In an instant, untold power surged through the warrior; he whirled, the simple wooden mallet in his hand. It caught Ashvatthama in mid-charge. Pain screamed through him; he was torn apart. The world turned black and then blazing white, and he knew he had lost. Kritavarma was ripped out of his body. The Kshatriya flamed and liquefied, transforming into powdery sand that blew into the wind, which shrieked and died in sudden silence.
Ashvatthama rose to his feet. The warrior stood facing him, mace in hand.
‘The one who brought that to you,’ Ashvatthama panted, ‘he is no ordinary vaanar. Who is he?’
‘Saragha? A very good friend.’ Bheem smiled. ‘Even a Pandav can have one, you know.’
The sutras were gone; all that was left was Ashvatthama’s inherent courage. He charged at Bheem. The warrior swung. A blast of pure energy blazed as the mace struck the Kaurav. Bheem had to give him credit. He didn’t scream when the energy set him alight and swept him past the cleft into the domain of Sesha Nag, the remorseless serpent that atomizes and scatters to the far reaches of creation all those who enter unprepared. A roar, a great gush of blue mist from the cave . . . And then all was as before.
He’s gone, thought Bheem, falling to his knees in relief. It is finally over!
The crackle of fire on the far island was dying down. The hush of sea breeze and soft waves, the hum of bees, even the raucous cries of seagulls. It was all good.
A scream sliced the air open. Bheem turned.
The vaanar.
Bheem understood instantly. Madness. Saragha was healed, and the beast was loose again. Aviva stood frozen as Saragha circled her, drooling, a jagged chunk of rock in his hands.
‘Saragha, no! Stop!’ Bheem shouted.
It was useless, he knew. The vaanar leapt and the warrior hurled the mace. The weapon took Saragha square in the back. There was a flash of light, blinding, all-enveloping. In moments, Bheem could see again—the beach, the trees against the sky, Aviva—all except Saragha. The vaanar was obliterated. His friend. Whom he had slain.
Epilogue
Rameshwaram, Tamil Nadu, India
Three Days Later
From untruth lead us to truth.
From darkness lead us to light.
From death lead us to immortality.
The three of them stood on the rock that marked the end of the land—the ancient sage, the warrior from the past and the young woman whose survival had rescued the future. They were Yajika’s family, patriarch, father and distant descendant, gathered to honour her, now that her journey had finally ended. The words of the prayer intoned by the sage washed over them as they watched the clay urn containing Yajika’s ashes borne away by the mingled waters of three seas.
My daughter, thought Bheem. She had been shunned by her family, by her people, had died a violent and lonely death. But she had forged a link between maanavs and asuras within herself—the link that had saved the human race. And I had not even known that she lived. Bheem knew he had much to atone for. Forgive me, daughter. Peace be on you and your mother, my wife, Hidimbi.
‘Om, shanti, shanti, shanti . . .’
~
New Delhi
15 December 2017
‘Kerala Syndrome’ Antidote Found
BY VINEET AGARWAL-SINHA
New Delhi, 14 Dec: A cure for the deadly Z-6 virus, widely known as the ‘Kerala Syndrome’, has been discovered. A team of scientists affiliated to the Indian Centre for Disease Control (ICDC), led by Dr Nishi Agarwal-Sinha, announced the breakthrough in an official notification this morning. The highly contagious disease that has already claimed more than two thousand victims has ravaged South India and is spreading rapidly into new areas.
In an interview with this reporter, Dr Agarwal-Sinha, who was herself afflicted by the virus, provided details of the dramatic development:
When we spoke about two months ago, you were infected by Z-6 yourself and facing certain death. But this is not the case now—you are cured. Is that correct?
That’s right. All our tests indicate that I am now disease-free.
That’s wonderful! Could you tell us how this was achieved?
Let me try and make it as simple as possible. Everyone in the population carries a dormant version of a gene that gives immunity to the virus. Let’s call it gene A. We were extremely fortunate to find a carrier of another gene, gene B, which produces a hormone that is unique to the carrier, the B-hormone. The B-hormone has one particularity, that it recognizes the DNA sequence primer upstream of gene A, and activates its transcription. The transcribed mRNA is then translated into a protein that acts as a restriction enzyme, and recognizes and cleaves the viral DNA sequence, therefore stopping the spread of the virus. When the B-hormone is extracted from the carrier and injected into the blood stream of the general population, it activates their dormant gene A, and starts the process of eradication of the virus, and of the disease.
So, what you are saying is that when you extract this hormone from the blood of the carrier and inject it into others, you can stop the epidemic. Effectively, it is a panacea, a universal antidote for this terrible disease.
Yes. The results have been corroborated in every instance. We are convinced about this.
That’s fantastic! I have just one more question. How quickly will you be able to make this cure widely available?
A month from now. 45 days, at most. We are coordinating with laboratories around the world to synthesize the hormone as swiftly as possible. Unfortunately, there is just one carrier of the original gene.
Could you tell us who he or she is?
I am not at liberty to reveal the carrier’s identity. Considering the nature of events leading to the discovery, that this person survived can only be termed a miracle!
That’s interesting. One doesn’t expect a scientist to use that word, to believe in miracles.
A month ago, I didn’t. But now . . .
The Cave of the Flame
21 December 2017
Little had changed in the vast cathedral. Bheem’s eyes took in the imposing stalagmite colonnade, the white lake and the plunging cataract, and the roaring, tigerish flame behind the water that streaked everything red gold. There was just one difference, the bodies of the dead had been removed. Officially, access to the cave was prohibited—it was a crime scene now. Of course, no one had to enforce the diktat; even the Maoists knew better than to prowl this region of inexplicable, horrific killings.
‘I leave Aviva-Fein in your care,’ the warrior said, turning to the sage whose ancient, ugly face gave nothing away. ‘She and her child-to-be.’
‘Samay is not to be taken lightly,’ Ved Vyas said. ‘You survived the journey once. No mortal has attempted it a second time.’
Bheem didn’t answer; there was nothing to say. His grandsire knew the purpos
e of his journey. And the question that tormented him—that was futile too. The sage would not answer.
‘Bheem . . .’ The maharishi’s voice faltered.
The warrior glanced at him, surprised. Incredibly, his grandsire looked unsure of himself.
‘Things are not what they were, my son. I am not who I was.’ He laid a hand on Bheem’s shoulder. ‘Ask. I will try and answer.’
For a moment, the warrior stared at him. Naturally, his grandsire would know he had a question. ‘The Eternal Ones,’ Bheem blurted. ‘You said they do not choose between mortals. Then why did the Vayuputra save Aviva-Fein when she fell in the shaft? Why did he provide the means to defeat Ashvatthama?’
‘I do not claim to know his mind.’ Ved Vyas grimaced. ‘Perhaps he has come to feel . . . that I was right, after all, and he wrong—that the human race is worth saving.’
Anger quickened on Bheem’s face. ‘The human race? What about his own? Why did he not stop the mace when I hurled it at Saragha? He is the Vayuputra! He can do anything! He could have altered the weapon’s flight so that it would but stun Saragha, not slay him!’
‘Yes, he could have. And yet he did not. He chose not to. Guilt arises from choice. You had none, my son. The onus of Saragha’s death is on him, not you.’
‘It is a good ploy, grandsire, but it will not do.’ There was something dreadful in Bheem’s smile. ‘I could have stopped Saragha if I had acted on time, as I had done once earlier. I hesitated . . . and left myself with no choice but to hurl the mace. I knew what would happen. I had just seen what it did.’ He held the holy man’s eye. ‘I go to seek my friend, grandsire. And my wife Hidimbi. They do not exist, now or in the hereafter. It is only through Samay, in times long gone, that I have a chance of finding them.’ He bent and touched the sage’s feet. ‘I hope to have your blessing, if you will give it. . .’
Ved Vyas had no words. He laid his hands on his grandson’s head, then raised and embraced him. After a moment, Bheem stepped away and, without a backward glance, strode through the falling water into the flame. A roar, a blast of searing heat, and he was gone.
Suddenly, the sage felt his soul lighten, and knew he was no longer alone. He turned to see the golden figure land lightly an arm’s length away. They greeted each other with mutual respect, both eternal beings, tasked with shepherding all creation. For once, though, a mortal had left them strangely humbled.
‘Maanav jaati,’ Hanuman said. ‘It never fails to surprise me.’
Ved Vyas’s eyes stayed steady on the unforgiving blaze that had swallowed Bheem. ‘Guilt is a terrible burden.’
‘And not unique to maanavs.’
The maharishi glanced at the golden vaanar. What guilt had changed him? The failure to save Yajika? The condemning of his closest friend to millennia of madness? The regal face was expressionless.
‘Your grandson will survive the vortex.’
The sage looked surprised.
‘It is not Samay that gives up its secrets,’ Hanuman continued. ‘I know Bheem. He is resilient. He will complete the journey. But just as Samay opened its store of knowledge to him on his way here, it will wipe out all memory of his time here on his return. He will emerge unburdened, his soul cleansed of guilt.’
A moment passed.
‘And will he remember the purpose of his journey back?’ the sage asked. ‘Those he set out to find?’
~
Adam’s Peak, Sri Lanka
21 December 2028
She was a celebrity now, Dr Aviva Nimbalkar, renowned authority on Vedic India. There had been constant pressure on her to renew the Royce team’s efforts in Bastar, but a landslide three years ago had buried the cave, completely sealing it off. Coincidence? Intervention by a superior intelligence? Whatever it had been, Aviva thought it very opportune. Disinterring the flame could crack open the fragile shell that held the world together.
And now she was at the foot of the mountain known as Adam’s Peak, or locally as Sri Pada, located in the southern reaches of the Central Highlands of Sri Lanka. The dig at its base was one of the most closely watched excavations in archaeological circles; it had lasted two years already, and Aviva and her team had made several sensational discoveries. Legend claimed that the massif was Mount Trikuta, the fabled capital of Raavan during the times of the Ramayana, and the burnt-out Vedic city that the team had unearthed added heft to the claim.
Aviva sat in a tent beyond the perimeter of the dig, meticulously piecing together fragments of a stone tablet carved thousands of years ago. Laser ablation had uncovered writing on the fragments, characters in Brahmi lipi. An ancient laundry list? Aviva smiled. It has to have more significance than that, she thought, as she continued to worry the shards together. She had never been so happy—work she loved; and in a short while, Alex would be visiting her. And Anita would be with him—their daughter, named after the woman with whom Aviva had shared blood and an illustrious ancestry.
She worked the final piece into place. It was an incomplete jigsaw—many fragments were missing—but perhaps some sense could be made of the writing:
‘. . . appeared from the mist and asked after his friend, a vaanar, despite being maanav jaati himself, and a Kshatriya . . .’
Abruptly, Aviva was all attention. There was a run of missing fragments and then the inscription continued:
‘. . . he fought for the vaanars and slew with his mace a thousand and more of the enemy . . .’
And the last fragments:
‘. . . said he had come for his friend whom he could not trace and when asked would give no other name as his own but Warrior . . .’
Aviva set down her vision enhancer and sat back. An unknown warrior, fighting for the vaanars at the gates of the Lankan capital . . . Aviva’s eyes drifted. They saw a battle four thousand years ago, part of a great war, and a hero who was omitted from the annals of that time.
‘Mom! We’re here! Where are you?’
A child burst into the tent, a miniature whirlwind, as ten-year-olds tend to be.
‘Hi, darling!’ Aviva swept her daughter up in her arms and grinned as she shrieked with laughter.
Alex followed, smiling, trying to talk but Anita was having none of it.
‘What’s that, Mom? On that jigsaw? That old writing—Brahmi? About the warrior? About Bheem?’
Aviva laughed. ‘Perhaps. The warrior and the vaanars in Lanka. And how Bheem found his friend. Wouldn’t that be a lovely story?’ She smiled at her daughter, who replied with a remarkably familiar urchin grin.
Acknowledgements
Writing is like substance abuse—one gets hooked and then needs the support of a host of loved ones, well-wishers and professionals to survive.
I am deeply grateful to Amla and Ashim Samanta, who were always there with loyalty, support and prawn biryani to see me through trying times; Rashna and Soli Cooper, who, with a unique combination of warm friendship and wise counsel, guided me out of twisted pathways and blind alleys; Prasad Ajgaonkar, Manjusha and Divesh Kalyanpur and the entire team at Interactive Realities for their unstinting encouragement and assistance; Vikram Sakhuja, Parag Amladi, Elinor Graf, Jugal Hansraj and Anupama Pant who gave generously of their time, for which I will remain perennially in their debt; a special thanks to my wonderful agent and stalwart supporter, Kanishka Gupta, for believing in me even when the text was just deluded raving; my peerless editor at Penguin Random House, Vaishali Mathur, for her unflinching support and sage advice that made the editing process so rewarding and took me painlessly through to the finish; Cibani Premkumar, also of Penguin, who polished my prose until it ceased to be an embarrassment; Lester, Anil and Jackie for the delightful Bagel Shop, a writer’s dream come true; my teachers, Conrad Matthews and Adil Jussawalla, who provided me with the tools to express myself; Serena Khambatta, whose unquestioning love is a blessing I cherish.
My parents, Raj and Devendra Goel, who, along with everything else, gave me the wonderful gift of imagination for which I am eternally gr
ateful.
And, of course, my amazingly talented siblings, Ajay and Sunil Goel and Vinita Razdan, who help create a special world of creativity into which I tap whenever I need comfort and inspiration.
None of this would have been possible without my wife, Marisa, my children, Dev and Aviva, my daughter-in-law, Anisha, and my dear grandchildren, Rehaan and Jaeh, all of whom are at once the reason and the reward for everything I do.
And an extra hat tip to my son-in-law, Noam Beckmann, who, with my daughter, discovered the cure for Z-6 and saved the world!
THE BEGINNING
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