Ganesha's Temple: Book 1 of the Temple Wars

by Rohit Gaur

  Though Arjun had ruminated at length about Vishal’s betrayal of him, he had not given much speculative thought to how Vishal had finally been brought down. The Ganesha murti, the column of fire, his own son’s surprise ability to . . . well, he didn’t even know what Tarun had done to Vishal. But then it didn’t seem to matter. The newspapers simply assumed that Tarun had been kidnapped along with Parvati and rescued by the Kashmiri military. None of the witnesses to the day chose to talk about it, probably because no one would believe them even if they tried.

  Arjun and his wife had discussed what, if anything, they should say to Tarun about what had happened. Arjun wanted answers from Tarun about where he had been during the days that Parvati had been in captivity, how he had managed to create the fire that ended the fight, but his wife finally convinced him to leave the matter alone.

  “He’ll tell us when he’s ready,” she had said. “I don’t know how he did what he did—or even what it was that he did—but I know he did it for us. I think we need to have faith in him. He’s different now. He’s grown up.”

  It was true that Tarun seemed older, more mature than he had been before. He seemed to have grown six inches taller overnight and carried himself with a swagger that his previous self had never displayed. His wife was right: they didn’t need to know everything. They could trust in their son now, trust him even with their lives.

  Arjun looked again at the piles of papers on his desk: they would have to wait. Something more important needed his attention.

  Standing up from his chair, he pulled on his suit jacket and stepped out of his office into the foyer and headed down the hallway toward the press room, a trail of assistants following in his wake. Today was the day that he followed through with his promise.

  An assistant handed him a bottle of water and he took a sip before slipping out onto the dais in front of the crowd of reporters. Instantly a barrage of questions were lobbed in his direction about the state of his family, Vishal’s trial, the ongoing investigation into the militants’ other co-conspirators. Raising his hands, Arjun quieted them.

  “I come before you today,” he said steadily, resting his hands on the podium, “to announce that I will be vetoing the legislation proposing the construction of a wall along the Kashmiri border.”

  The reporters began to murmur, but Arjun quieted them again.

  “After careful consideration, I have determined that a wall is not only unnecessary to our national security but in fact reckless in its effects on the people of northern Kashmir and thus counterproductive to the establishment of peace.”

  As he finished his statement, reporters began again to shout question in his direction.

  “Chief minister, how can you veto this wall after what happened?”

  “Why are you giving in to terrorist demands?”

  “Whose side are you on?”

  The side of peace, Arjun thought as he walked off the dais and left the pressroom. He knew his actions would confuse the public, who wanted to see northern Kashmir punished and the border sealed. But that was the easy path, the path to an illusory security purchased with resentment and fearmongering. Arjun knew that he had set himself on the harder path, but one that could save his country from itself.

  Returning to his office, Arjun gently detached from his gaggle of assistants and advisers and closed the door. He sat in his old, creaky leather chair and pulled himself up to his desk. Then he pulled the stack of papers toward him and got back to work.

  Tarun sat at his desk and pulled out the journal that his father had given to him on the last day of the Ganesh Chaturthi festival. Next to it, he placed the long mahogany box in which he kept the pen he had been given the same day. He had been thinking about how to begin, writing and rewriting the title in his mind many times. Now he hesitated, unsure whether he had it right.

  Picking up the pen, Tarun uncapped it and set the point to the crisp white first page of the journal. He planned to fill it up with everything he had heard or could remember of his journey through the Veiled Lands. He knew that if he didn’t write it down now, he would eventually forget it. And he never wanted to forget.

  Carefully, he wrote out in his slightly messy script the title he had chosen for his tale.

  The Temple Wars.

  Tarun leaned back to look at it. Nodding decisively to himself, he bent back over and began to furiously scribble away.

  Parvati watched her husband make the announcement live on television. He had, of course, invited her to join him on the dais, the perfect symbol of the country’s need to move beyond the violence of the past and into a future of reconciliation. But she had a better idea than simply standing with him on the stage, nodding in agreement. Instead, that morning Parvati had caught a flight up north.

  And now here she was, only a two-hour drive from the place where she had been held captive for nine days, getting ready to make her own announcement.

  It had taken a few weeks of finding the right building, securing the appropriate permits, and getting the blessings of local leaders, but Parvati was finally set to announce the opening of her newest orphanage, the first one not located in Srinagar but in a village six hundred miles to the north. No longer would children displaced by the conflict need to be brought down to the capital city to find a home. Now they could stay among their people, learn their language, eat their food. No longer would they be twice homeless.

  Wrapping herself in a warm shawl, Parvati stepped outside into the chill wintry air, followed closely by her bodyguard. Ever since the incident, her bodyguards refused to let her out of their sight. She didn’t really mind, of course, even though she somehow felt safer than she ever had. It was strange—her kidnapping and near death had not left her paranoid or constantly anxious, but rather just the opposite. She felt protected even when unguarded, swathed all around by invisible agents of protection that liberated her from all fears.

  Parvati stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the building she had selected. A few yards away a small stage had been set up and the usual gaggle of reporters were milling about ready for the announcement. But before she climbed the stage, Parvati wanted to look one last time at the sign she had specially ordered for the front of the building.

  Hassan Malik Home for Girls and Boys.

  It had taken some convincing for Arjun to send a helicopter to retrieve Hassan’s body from where it had fallen in the remote Kashmiri wilderness, but Parvati had insisted. Doing some digging, she had located his distant relatives and paid for his remains to be taken to them. And now she would pay her last bit of homage: she would tell his story. Parvati felt in her pocket for the notes she had written out, but at that moment she knew that she wouldn’t need them.

  “Mrs. Sharma? We’re ready for you,” an assistant told her.

  Parvati climbed up the steps to the small stage, walked to the microphone, and began to tell the story of how her life was saved by an unexpected friend.

  Tarun closed the book: homework done! He sat up from his position on the living room floor and checked the time: 8:14 p.m. His parents were still not home, but he had anticipated that would be the case. His father had to make an important announcement on TV and his mother had traveled up north for a few days. So he was alone, except for Tejinder, sturdy as ever.

  He wandered into the kitchen, found his jacket, and called out to Tejinder as he stepped out the sliding door into the compound’s backyard.

  “Heading outside. Be back in a few.”

  “’K,” Tejinder replied, looking up from his magazine. Tarun had taken to nightly walks in the back gardens, even in the cold. At first he had worried about Tarun out in the dark by himself, but Tejinder’s first act back on the job had been to improve the security of the Sharma compound with double-height walls, motion-sensor lights, and alarms. No one could get close to him as long as Tarun stayed within the compound—and he certainly couldn’t scale the walls to get out! Tejinder watched as Tarun walked into the darkness and disappeared.


  A few yards away from the house, Tarun turned and looked back. The yellow squares of the house windows glowed against the darkening sky. Stars appeared above it as his eyes adjusted, a glittering scatter across the inky night. This was home.

  But he still longed for more. Tarun walked out into the stand of trees at the far edge of the compound, where he had been practicing every night the prana techniques that Galerest had taught to him. Taking up a defensive crouch, he thrust his hands forward as a flare of fire roared out of his outspread palms, scorching the already-blackened tree stump he had been using as his target. His aim had improved with two months of practice.

  The fire lit up the dark copse, casting strange shadows across the trees. Suddenly, another shadow appeared.

  “Impressive fireball,” an impassive voice called out.

  Startled, Tarun’s fire sizzled out and darkness settled again on trees. “Who is that?” he challenged back, holding his hands up and waiting for a sudden movement.

  Slowly, the figure walked toward him until he could see a face in the twilit night, reflecting the light of the stars.

  “N-naddie?” Tarun said uncertainly.

  “Hi, Tarun,” she said back. In the moonlight, Tarun could see clearly her features, as well as the dark green cloak she wore about her shoulders.

  “How did you get in here?”

  She shrugged. “I was sent by Ganesha.”

  “Ganesha?” Tarun asked quickly. “Does he have a message for me?”

  “Even better. He wants to see you.”

  “But I can’t leave the compound! Tejinder would never let me.”

  Naddie smiled. “He doesn’t even have to know.”

  “But the walls—“

  “Do you trust me, Tarun?” Naddie held out a hand.

  Tarun looked down at it. He gulped and nodded, putting out his own hand and grasping hers. Tarun felt his body being stretched out longer and thinner until with a thwump he and Naddie were hurtling through the night sky in a soaring arc, over the forests and rivers and mountains. In an instant, they had landed again on the familiar patch of ground in front of Ganesha’s temple.

  Naddie let go of his hand and nodded toward the dimly lit interior. “Go on, Tarun. He’s waiting for you.”

  Stepping into the cave, Tarun felt the coolness prickle his skin just as it had on his first visit. The floating orbs cast their subtle flicker on the soaring walls of the cave. The dusty floor gave way to the thick grass of the interior chamber. And there, sitting meditatively upon his platform, sat Ganesha, his regained youthful radiance aglow in the candlelight.

  “Welcome back, Tarun,” he said, letting his eyes gently open. Tarun could see the rope slung over his shoulder and the axe carefully placed by his side. The broken tusk he held in one of his free hands.

  “Where have you been?” Tarun demanded, letting his frustration rise to the surface. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Ganesha laughed softly and raised himself from his platform. “Many places, Tarun. Many places. I have had much to do since last I saw you.” He looked Tarun levelly in the eye. “And much to think about.”

  He sauntered over to a low trunk off to the side of the platform and began to rummage through it, speaking over his shoulder.

  “Your transcendence was quite impressive, Tarun. I have not encountered a phoenix in many years. Centuries even. It gave me much to meditate on as I was traveling through the Veiled Lands. It’s a changed place. So much destruction.”

  “I want to help you, Ganesha!” Tarun blurted out before he could stop himself.

  Ganesha turned back around, holding aloft a short wood staff capped with a red jewel. “I had hoped you might say that, Tarun,” he said. “Please kneel, my friend.”

  Tarun knelt before Ganesha, who raised the staff and gently touched each of his shoulders.

  “Tarun Sharma, I, Ganesha, the Lord of Beginnings, hereby knight you into the Order of the Dvari, guardians of the sacred temples. Now, please rise.”

  Tarun stood back up. Ganesha took from the chest a cloak the same color as the one Naddie wore. With a flourish, he swung it around Tarun’s shoulders and tied it on. Then he handed Tarun the staff. When Tarun gripped it, the jewel briefly flashed with light.

  “It’s official then,” Ganesha said. “You are a dvari.”

  Tarun smiled a broad and genuine smile, the first in several months.

  “What’s my first assignment, then?”

  Ganesha laughed again. “I have just the task.”

  By Rohit Gaur

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  Serial entrepreneur Rohit Gaur is fueled by his passion of building brands, and the core of any great brand is story. His brands include Gaur Spice Whiskey and the Gaur Hotels located in the United States and India.

  Rohit has written, directed, and acted in many independent films and enjoys both the artistic and business side of filmmaking. He is the founder of Artisna.com - the artisan marketplace™, Perfumora.com - the scents marketplace™, and other tech startups.

  Temple Wars has been a five-year passion project for Rohit. Throughout the years, he has developed the business and storytelling techniques needed to make the Temple Wars series into a thrilling multimedia franchise.

  Contact the Author: rohitgaur@templewars.com