The Coming of Kalki

by Poulomi Sanyal

  “Yes, sir. It is,” replied their driver with a calm face. Alejandro’s hand slipped involuntarily into the pant-pocket where he had stored his revolver that morning. Nirmala giggled and placed her hand lightly on his arm.

  “It’s okay,” she said calmly. “What he means is that, it used to be a prison. In colonial times. Now it is a museum and a tourist attraction. An innocent location for our purpose, don’t you think?” she added with a wink.

  Alejandro heaved a sigh of relief and sank back into his seat taking his hand out of his pocket.

  “Makes sense,” he finally said.

  “Also, it’s a Government building,” Nirmala added.

  “And we are meeting a Government employee…so it falls in place,” reasoned Alejandro, almost inaudibly.

  At the ticket counter, their driver said his farewell, promising to return when they called him on his cell phone, and they were handed over to an elderly gentleman with a head of grey hair that seemed to dazzle in the reflected rays of the sun. He wore dark, heavy-rimmed glasses and black cotton trousers with an off-white kurta. On his shoulders hung a kind of satchel made of cotton which was embroidered by hand and seemed to be carrying some books.

  “Dr. Sinha, I presume?” asked Alejandro extending his hand.

  “Yes, and you must be Alejandro,” said the friendly old man, shaking Alejandro’s hand, “and Nirmala; good to see you again,” he added, nodding in her direction. He then led his two visitors behind the ticket counter and into a little private office with a small desk and four chairs at the centre. A few benches piled with dusty paperwork were positioned along the walls. The room did not have any windows. Once everyone was seated around the desk, Dr. Sinha started talking again. He spoke slowly, with many pauses, and his voice shook at times, heavy with the signs of aging and weariness.

  “This used to be the warden’s office in British times and now the curator uses it sometimes when he visits this museum. He is my friend, a happy fellow. I am a historian as you know. So, they usually like me at museums,” he finished with a smile.

  “That is why you chose this location, I suppose,” said Alejandro.

  “Yes indeed. It was not hard to guess, was it? I am an old man, you see, and I like old things. Now, tell me, my friends, what ancient things may I interest you in, this morning? I hear you seek the secrets of Dwarka.”

  “You are correct, professor,” replied Nirmala. “As you already know, that is my area of research, and my friend Alejandro here is also working on a similar project and looking for some answers regarding the myth and history of the region.”

  “Very good. If you look for answers, you have come to the right place. You ask your questions and I will answer,” he said, lowering his glasses and looking at Alejandro from over them with a glint in his eye.

  “Okay. Where do I start? Let me see. First thing’s first. This Dwarka, it is a mythical city, is it not? Do you believe it actually existed?”

  “Why of course! Have you not seen the ruins with your own eyes?”

  “Yes, I have, but I understand there is some dispute regarding its authenticity. I mean the question of whether or not it truly belonged to the lost city of Dwarka is still to be answered and the dating of the ruins have been somewhat inconclusive—”

  “Rubbish! This is all a conspiracy to suppress the research. The existence of Dwarka has been documented extensively in the epic poem, The Mahabharata and known to the dwellers of this land, east of the Hindukush, for generations. As for the findings at the ruins; they have been dated indeed and some,” he paused for breath. “And some, my young friends, go back to over ten thousand years,” he completed, lowering his voice to a near whisper and looking side to side, as if to ensure that they weren’t being overheard.

  “Ten thousand years?” exclaimed Alejandro.

  “Shhh,” Nirmala cautioned, raising a finger to her lips. “Yes, it is true, but the results are known to few since they are being guarded in secrecy at the moment. We fear that once revealed, the truth will most certainly get suppressed.”

  “Is that so!” said Alejandro. “Fascinating, as well as bewildering; which brings me to the point of this need for secrecy. Why on earth would anyone want to suppress a research so valuable to the history of a civilization?”

  “But, why not? Dwarka is not just an ancient city, now in ruins. It is the gateway to heaven, the Devabhoomi, or ‘land of the Gods’ of the ancients. It was a realm of much power and magic,” said Dr. Sinha.

  “Power and magic? How do you mean?” quizzed Alejandro.

  “Legend has it that it was the land of Krishna, the Lord of Dwarka, an incarnation of Lord Vishnu himself, the Hindu God of prosperity—a divine land full of splendour and magic. Have you not heard the stories?”

  “I am afraid not,” sighed Alejandro, “and that is why I came to you. Would you be so kind as to tell me more? I have a feeling that what you will have to say, may prove to be the missing pieces of the puzzle that I am trying to put together.”

  “I, of course, have heard the stories of Krishna, but I too am not overly familiar with his association with Dwarka and would love to hear more from you, professor, if you don’t mind,” Nirmala chimed in.

  “If you have heard nothing of this legend, then it is indeed a tale to be told and I agree that it may benefit your research. I would love to tell it, but it will take a while. We must, in that case, refresh ourselves first with some hot tea and biscuits. I am an old man, you see, and I cannot think clearly without my mid-morning tea.” Smiled Dr. Sinha.

  “Oh certainly,” said Alejandro, “Where would you like to go for tea? We can call our car—”

  “No, no, there is no need for a car, young man. There is a little canteen here at the back for the employees. They make very fine masala tea. You have to try it. It is a delicacy of our country.”

  “Yes, chai tea. I am aware of it. Let’s head there then.”

  Soon, the company of three had seated themselves on the smoky wooden benches in the little canteen on site and ordered three cups of chai tea and a plate of local biscuits. A boy, no older than nineteen, came by shortly with a large steaming kettle and three tiny earthenware cups and set the cups in front of the guests. He then filled the cups to their brims with the fresh brew from his kettle and went back to the kitchen to fetch the plate of biscuits. The beauty of terracotta, as Alejandro soon discovered, was that no matter how hot the content, the surface of the tiny cups remained at room temperature. They could drink from the cups with ease, without requiring a sleeve or even a cup handle.

  “Very nifty things, these cups,” he muttered as he held his up for a sip.

  “Yes, and a very ancient art, it is. From the times of The Mahabharata, if I may say so. Shards of pottery have been some of the treasures that were uncovered from the ruins that interest you. Were they not?” asked Dr. Sinha, looking at Nirmala.

  “Yes, they were, and luckily so because pottery, used to serve food, is easier to carbon-date than stone walls that have no organic content.”

  “How do you like your tea, foreigner?” asked Dr. Sinha, smiling at Alejandro.

  “It is very savoury and refreshing.”

  “I hope that is a good thing.” Laughed Dr. Sinha.

  “Oh yes, it is. It is a very tasty drink.”

  The professor then spoke little and focussed heavily on finishing his tea. He downed the steaming beverage with a rapidity that indicated years of practice. The others had yet to finish their tea, but that did not matter, because the issue at hand was pressing and time was limited. So, they made their way back to the little warden’s office to continue their discussion. Once in the office, Dr. Sinha sat down in the same chair that he had chosen before and taking off his glasses, laid them on the table. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a large, leather-bound book with yellowing pages that were crisp and moth-eaten at the edges. He flipped through the pages successively, as if searching for the punchline to his story, and finally finding what he
was looking for, he opened the book at that page and laid it flat on the desk.

  “Aha, here it is,” he said.

  Nirmala and Alejandro leaned forward in their seats to get a better look, but it was pointless. The pages seemed to be filled with writing in an unknown language.

  “It is in Sanskrit,” said Nirmala, recognizing the script.

  “Yes, indeed. Do you understand it?” asked Dr. Sinha enthusiastically.

  “No sir, I don’t. I just recognized the letters because they are almost the same as Hindi,” Nirmala admitted, blushing slightly.

  “Not a problem. This is for my reference only, but I will explain everything to the two of you as is stated in these ancient texts,” Dr. Sinha assured. “So, where was I? Yes, about the Devabhoomi, the land of Lord Krishna, the eighth avatar of Lord Vishnu,” he began, relaxing back into his chair and crossing his arms across his chest.

  “It is said that Lord Vishnu, the Hindu God of prosperity, visits the world in every epoch as a mortal form of himself, or an avatar, as we call it in Sanskrit. Through the ages, a total of ten avatars of Vishnu come down upon this earth to save humanity from depravity. Four in the Satya Yuga, three in the Treta Yuga, one in Dwapara and the remaining two in Kali, that is modern times.”

  At this point in the story, Alejandro sat bolt-upright, focussing intently.

  Dr. Sinha continued, “These avatars have taken various forms such as half-man, half-lion, as is seen in his Narasimha avatar, or other human-animal conjugate forms. In the more modern times however, and by modern, I mean the Kali and the Dwapara Yugas, which still go back to at least five thousand years in history, not so modern you would say, but quite modern still in the perspective of the complete cycle of ages or the Maha Yugas, in modern ages, Lord Vishnu has arrived amongst us mortals in his human form. The Dwapara Yuga saw his only avatar set foot on earth, in the body of a noble prince, Krishna or Lord Krishna as we call him today.

  “This land of Dwarka was his kingdom, the kingdom of Krishna, a land of the Gods, a piece of heaven on earth where tranquility was abundant, and prosperity reigned supreme. It is in this very Dwarka also that Lord Krishna fought his final battle with King Salva, where he was defeated, and in his defeat, he left the world and returned to his heavenly abode. Thus, the city of Dwarka fell, and eventually, it was consumed by the roaring Arabian Sea, wherein it still lies today at the bottom of its frothing waters. The age of Dwapara had ended.

  “Actually, it had ended already when Dwarka fell, shortly after the legendary War of Kurukshetra, a classic struggle of good versus evil in the battle fields of Kurukshetra. Lord Krishna fought in this war alongside the white warriors and expelled all darkness from this world, before he himself took his leave from us mortals at the battlefields of Dwarka. But this was not the end, he said, for the dark ages of Kali were upon us and he vowed to re-incarnate in mortal form yet again, when the darkness was too deep and man’s plight too dire to ignore. Twice he said he would come back in the Kali Yuga, and his second appearance would save the world from Armageddon and bring about the end of the dark ages of Kali and the beginning of a new cycle of Dwapara, where our enlightenment would only grow and grow, until Dwapara gives way to Treta again and Treta to Satya Yuga. Once back in the Satya Yuga, man would again assume a superhuman, celestial form as he did in time immemorial.”

  At this point, Dr. Sinha paused and took a deep breath and smiled affectionately at his listeners who now seemed transfixed by his story.

  “So, you see now, why this site you have discovered is a hallowed ground, a treasure-trove of ancient magic?”

  Alejandro was still frozen in his seat. Inside his head, the fragments of information were gradually falling in place like the pieces of an elaborate jigsaw puzzle. For a brief while, no one spoke. Each processing and ruminating in his or her own way, the gravity of the situation. Finally, Alejandro broke the silence.

  “Fascinating,” he said. “There is much myth surrounding these ruins, it appears.”

  “Myth, you say, but what if it is not? Who is to say it is not a historically accurate account that we find in the ancient texts of the Mahabharata? The epic is too ancient for us to verify the claims therein, but that does not make it mere legend. Just because we do not have the tools to prove something, does not make its existence invalid. Does it?” said Dr. Sinha.

  “No, it does not. Do you personally believe the legend then?”

  “Of course, I do! I believe in things that I feel in my heart to be true, not simply the things I read in so called history books. Because tell me, who writes history and who commissions its writing? It is a human author, one who is subject to personal and political bias and pressure. What is written in the books of history are, therefore far from objective. We must as historians, trust our guts, and here I am trusting my gut about Dwarka and its history.”

  “Agreed. So, if we proceed with the assumption that the story we just heard from you is indeed true, there is something that I still don’t understand. Why are we being prevented from conducting our research and uncovering the truth? The only reason that I can think of is that someone fears what we may uncover in our search. Is it possible there might be something hidden in these ruins that is extremely powerful, like a weapon? You speak of ancient magic associated with this place. Perhaps there is a magical object or recipe that is valuable?”

  “Yes, there could be. It is hard to say what we might find, but it is said that much advanced magic was employed during the last battle of Dwarka between Lord Krishna and King Salva. King Salva is said to have flown in from the sky in a flying machine and attacked from the air. There was warfare that was much advanced, like modern times. How this was possible in the absence of modern day technology is a mystery to all that have read the ancient texts. There may be some who seek to find out.”

  “Aifra,” whispered Nirmala almost inaudibly.

  “Yes, my dear? Did you ask me something? I am a little hard of hearing these days. I am an old man you see.”

  “Oh no, it’s nothing,” she lied, but Alejandro had heard her.

  “We can think of some terrorists who might benefit from this technology, if it were to exist,” he said, supporting her fears.

  “There are terrorists everywhere these days. The killing and the massacre, the death and destruction. It is the height of Kali and this will not end until Kalki comes to save us from this mess. All evil will be destroyed and a new age will then dawn upon us; The Dwapara yet again,” Dr. Sinha rambled on.

  “The end of Kali will bring back the age of Dwapara on earth is what we have also heard,” Nirmala agreed.

  Alejandro was listening carefully, and he was about to ask a question when there was a knock on the door. Dr. Sinha got up slowly and opening the door slightly, peered outside. He then spoke a few words in a language Alejandro did not understand and came back limping slightly on the left side.

  “My left knee is troubling me again; rheumatism,” he said with a smile. “It seems that this is all we will have time for today. My driver is here to take me to the airport. I made arrangements to leave this afternoon you see. Otherwise, I would be stuck here for two more days. No flights tomorrow, unfortunately.”

  “No problem, professor. We thank you for your time and all the information you gave us. Have a safe trip back,” said Alejandro.

  “Yes, thank you. Come with me now. We must lock this room up like it was before. Where did I put the lock and key…” he replied, while fumbling around in the room looking for it, “Ah, here it is! Let us go,” he said as he ushered his guests out the door and began locking it behind them.

  Once outside, they said their goodbyes, Nirmala summoned their car and she and Alejandro went back to the hotel. Their trip to India was not over yet. They would try to go to Dwarka in a week if they received the signal from Wolfgang, but until then, they wait.

  CHAPTER eighteen

  It had been a little over a month since Zoya arrived in London, but the city had yet to gro
w on her. The clouds hung perpetually over its smoky horizon, drowning the busy streets and dingy alleyways in semi-darkness. When it didn’t snow, it drizzled constantly throughout the day with the icy droplets freezing in a thin layer over the stony cobbled pathways, making it treacherously slippery for pedestrians. Nevertheless, she did not have a car here. Driving to school wasn’t as common an affair as it was back home. People walked and took the tube or the many buses and so did Zoya with her backpack slung over her shoulders, balancing herself precariously over black-ice. She was staying with a lovely British family, in a homestay arrangement that Dr. Faraday had facilitated, and they were very hospitable. She had already registered for the Spring Term, picking up the courses she needed to complete her credits, and all was well except for the fact that she had yet to meet the research guide and fellow Hekameses, because of whom she had come here in the first place.

  Today was finally the day that Dr. Cobb had requested to meet with her for the first time. She was at his office at eight thirty sharp for the meeting. Feeling slightly nervous, she knocked on the closed wooden door with the name plate that read:

  ‘Sir Albert. H. Cobb, Professor, Department of ECE’. Next to it was another door with Dr. Faraday’s name on it.

  “Yes, come in,” came a deep, kindly voice.

  Zoya opened the door and walked cautiously into the spacious room. The décor in here was quite different from Dr. Faraday’s prim and perfect style. There were cupboards along the walls, overflowing with bundles of papers and oddments of different sorts. The professor’s desk was set at an odd angle, close to the eastern wall and not at the perfect centre of the room like Dr. Faraday’s. Every inch of its surface was covered haphazardly with paperwork and stationary. Layers of dust coated the less frequently used objects in the room, including a very ancient-looking hourglass and a thick, leather-bound tome set next to it on a cupboard shelf. When Zoya walked in, Dr. Cobb was busy writing something in a document on his desk and didn’t look up. He was an elderly man with a pot belly and a balding head who smelled of excellent tobacco. The wisps of grey hair that remained, perfectly encircled his head leaving behind a circular island of baldness right at its centre. His plump rosy cheeks looked sunburned which was odd, given that it was winter.