Immortals of Meluha

by Amish Tripathi

  The infrastructure was a sorry indictment of the Chandravanshi penchant for debate as an excuse for action. The roads were nothing better than dirt tracks. There was, however, one notable exception — the neatly paved and strikingly smooth Rajpath, the royal road, which led straight from the outer walls through to the opulent royal palace. The Swadweepans joked that instead of finding potholes on their road, they actually had to search for some stretch of road amongst the potholes! This was a far cry from the exceptionally well-planned, sign-posted, paved and tediously standard roads of Meluhan cities.

  There were, what can only be called ‘encroachments’, all over the city. Some open grounds had been converted into giant slums as illegal immigrants simply pitched their tents on public areas. The already narrow roads had been made even narrower by the intrusion of the cloth tents of the homeless. There was constant tension between the richer home owning class and the poor landless who lived in slums. The emperor had legalised all encroachments established before 1910 BC. That meant that slum dwellers could not be removed unless the government created alternate accommodation for them. The minor problem was that the Chandravanshi government was so hideously inefficient that they hadn’t managed to build even one new house for slum dwellers in the last twelve years. Now there was talk about extending the deadline further. The encroachments, the bad roads, the poor construction combined to give an impression of a city in a state of terminal decline.

  The Meluhans were outraged. What had these people done to Lord Ram’s great city? Or was it always like this? Is that why Lord Ram had crossed the Sarayu river to establish his capital at far away Devagiri on the Saraswati?

  And yet, as the initial shock of the ugliness and frenzied disorder wore away, the Meluhans started finding strange and unexpected charm about this city in constant chaos. None of the Ayodhyan houses were similar, unlike the Meluhan cities where even the royal palace was built to a standard design. Here each house had its own individual allure. The Swadweepans, unencumbered by strict rules and building codes, created houses that were expressions of passion and elegance. Some structures were so grand that even the Meluhans couldn’t imagine what divine engineering talent could create them. The Swadweepans had none of the restraint of the Meluhans. Everything was painted bright — from orange buildings to parrot green ceilings to shocking pink windows! Civic-minded rich Swadweepans had created grand public gardens, temples, theatres and libraries, naming them after their family members, since they had received no help from the government. The Meluhans, despite finding it strange that a public building should be named after a private family, were awed by the grandeur of these structures. A vibrant city, with exquisite beauty existing side by side with hideous ugliness, Ayodhya disgusted and yet fascinated the Meluhans.

  The people were living embodiments of the Chandravanshi way of life. The women wore skimpy clothes, brazen and confident about their sexuality. The men were as fashion and beauty conscious as their women — what Meluhans would call dandies. The relationship between the men and women could only be characterised as one teetering on extremes. Extreme love coexisting with extreme hate, expressed with extreme loudness, all built on the foundations of extreme passion. Nothing was done in small measure in Ayodhya. Moderation was a word that did not exist in their dictionary.

  Therefore, it was no surprise that the emotional, mercurial and uncontrollable rabble of Ayodhya scoffed at Daksha’s proclaimed intention to ‘reform’ them. Daksha entered a sullen city, as its populace stood quietly on the sides of the Rajpath, refusing to welcome the conquering force. Daksha, who had expected the Ayodhya residents to welcome him with showers of flowers since they had finally been freed from their evil rulers, was surprised at the cold reception he got. He put it down to enforcement by the Chandravanshi royalty.

  Shiva, who arrived a week later, was under no such illusions. He had expected far worse than just a quiet greeting. He expected to be attacked. He expected to be vilified for not standing up for the Swadweepans, who also believed in the legend of the Neelkanth. He expected to be hated for choosing the so-called wrong side. But while he had come to suspect that the Chandravanshis were not quite evil, he was not prepared to classify the Suryavanshis as the ‘wrong side’ either. In his opinion, the Meluhans were almost without exception honest, decent, law-abiding people who could be unvaryingly trusted. Shiva was deeply confused about his karma and his future course of action. He missed Brahaspati’s keen wit and advice.

  His thoughts weighing heavy on him, Shiva quickly disembarked from the curtained cart and turned towards the Chandravanshi palace. For a moment, he was startled by the grandeur of Dilipa’s abode. But he quickly gathered his wits, reached out for Sati’s hand, and began climbing the hundred steps towards the main palace platform. Parvateshwar trudged slowly behind. Shiva glanced briefly beyond Sati, to find Anandmayi ascending the steps quietly. She had not spoken to Shiva since that terrible encounter when she realised who Shiva was. She kept climbing with an impassive face, devoid of any expression, her eyes set on her father.

  ‘Who the hell is that man?’ asked an incredulous Swadweepan carpenter, held back at the edge of the palace courtyard by Chandravanshi soldiers.

  ‘Why are our Emperor and the sincere madman waiting for him on the royal platform, and that too in full imperial regalia?’

  ‘Sincere madman?’ asked his friend.

  ‘Oh, haven’t you heard? That is the new nickname for that fool Daksha!’

  The friends burst out laughing.

  ‘Shush!’ hissed an old man, standing next to them. ‘Don’t you young people have any sense? Ayodhya is being humiliated and you are joking around.’

  Meanwhile, Shiva had reached the royal platform. Daksha bent low with a namaste as Shiva smiled weakly and returned the greeting.

  Dilipa, his eyes moist, bent low towards Shiva. He cried in a soft whisper, ‘I am not evil, my Lord. We are not evil.’

  ‘What was that?’ asked Daksha, his ears straining to hear Dilipa’s whispered words.

  Shiva’s choked throat refused to utter a sound. Not hearing anything from Dilipa either, Daksha shook his head and whispered, ‘My Lord, perhaps this is an opportune time to introduce you to the people of Ayodhya. I am sure it will galvanize them into action once they know that the Neelkanth has come to their rescue.’

  Before an anguished Shiva could answer, his caring wife spoke, ‘Father, Shiva is very tired. It has been a long journey. May he rest for some time?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ mumbled Daksha apologetically. Turning towards Shiva, he said, ‘I am sorry, my Lord. Sometimes my enthusiasm gets the better of me. Why don’t you rest today? We can always introduce you at the court tomorrow.’

  Shiva looked up at Dilipa’s angst ridden eyes. Unable to bear the tormented gaze any longer, Shiva looked beyond the Chandravanshi emperor, towards his courtiers standing at the back. Only one pair of eyes did not have a look of incomprehension. It was at that moment that Shiva realised that except for Anandmayi, nobody else in Dilipa’s court knew of his identity. Not even Dilipa’s son, Bhagirath. Dilipa had not spoken to a soul. Clearly, neither had Daksha. Possibly in the hope of a grand unveiling of the secret, in the presence of Shiva himself.

  ‘My Lord.’

  Shiva turned towards Parvateshwar. ‘Yes,’ he said in a, barely audible whisper.

  ‘I will lead the army out since the ceremonial march is over,’ said Parvateshwar. ‘They will be stationed outside the city in the camp for the earlier contingent. I will be back at your service within two hours.’

  Shiva nodded faintly.

  It had been a few hours since their arrival in Ayodhya. Shiva had not spoken a word. He stood quietly at the window of his chamber, staring out at the city as the afternoon sun bore down in its dazzling glory. Sati sat silently to his side, holding his hand, drawing all the energy that she had and passing it to him. He continued to stare out, towards a grand structure right in the heart of the city. The structure, from this distan
ce, appeared to be built of white marble. For an unfathomable reason, looking at it seemed to soothe Shiva’s soul. It was built upon the highest point in the city, on a gently sloping hill, clearly visible from every part of Ayodhya. Shiva thought it odd. Why was that building so important that it occupied the highest point in the city, instead of the royal palace?

  A loud insistent knocking disturbed his thoughts.

  ‘Who is it?’ growled Parvateshwar, rising from his chair at the back of the chamber.

  ‘My Lord,’ answered Nandi. ‘It is the Princess Anandmayi.’

  Parvateshwar groaned softly before turning towards Shiva. The Neelkanth nodded.

  ‘Let her in, Nandi,’ ordered Parvateshwar.

  Anandmayi entered, her smiling demeanour startling Parvateshwar who frowned in suspicious surprise. ‘How may I help you, your Highness?’

  ‘I have told you so many times how you can help me, Parvateshwar,’ teased Anandmayi. ‘Perhaps if you listened to the answer rather than repeating the question again and again, we may actually get somewhere.’

  Parvateshwar’s reaction was a combination of embarrassment and anger. Shiva smiled weakly, for the first time in three weeks. For some reason, the fact that Anandmayi seemed to have returned to her original self made Shiva happy.

  Anandmayi turned towards Shiva with a low bow. ‘The truth has just come to me, my Lord. I am sorry about my sullenness earlier. But I was deeply troubled at the time. Your being on the side of the Suryavanshis can have only one of two explanations. Either we are evil. Or you are not who we think you are and the legend is false. Accepting either of these explanations would destroy my soul.’

  Shiva looked at Anandmayi attentively.

  ‘But I realised only now,’ continued Anandmayi. The legend is not false. And we are obviously not evil. It is just that you are too naive. You have been misled by the evil Suryavanshis. I will set it right. I will show you the goodness of our path.’

  ‘We are not evil,’ glowered Parvateshwar.

  ‘Parvateshwar,’ sighed Anandmayi. ‘I have told you before. That lovely mouth of yours has much better uses than talking. You shouldn’t waste your breath unnecessarily.’

  ‘Stop your impudence, woman!’ cried Parvateshwar. You think we are evil? Have you seen the way you treat your own people. Hungry eyes have stared at me all through our journey. Children lie abandoned on the side of potholed highways. Old desperate women beg for alms all through your “impregnable city”, while the Swadweepan rich lead lives better than a Meluhan emperor. We have a perfect society in Meluha. I may agree with the Lord and accept that maybe you are not evil. But you certainly don’t know how to take care of your people. Come to Meluha to see how citizens should be treated. All your lives will improve with our way of governance.’

  ‘Improve?’ argued an agitated Anandmayi. ‘We are not perfect, I agree. There are many things that our empire could do better, I agree. But at least we give our people freedom. They are not forced to follow some stupid laws mandated by an out of touch elite.’

  ‘Give them freedom? Freedom to do what? Loot, steal, beg, kill?’

  ‘I don’t need to argue with you on our culture. Your puny mind will not be able to understand the benefit of our ways.’

  ‘I don’t want to! It disgusts me to see the way this empire has been managed. You have no norms. No control. No laws. It is no wonder that despite not being evil, you have contaminated your hands by allying with the Nagas. By fighting like coward terrorists and not brave Kshatriyas. You may not be evil, but your deeds certainly are!’

  ‘Nagas? What the bloody hell are you talking about? Do you think we are mad that we will ally with the Nagas? You think we don’t know how that will pollute our souls for the next seven lives? And terrorism? We have never resorted to terrorism. We have strained against our natural instincts to avoid a war with your cursed people for the last hundred years. Hence we have retreated from the border provinces. We have cut all ties with you. We have even learned to live with the lower flow of the Ganga since you stole the Yamuna from us. My father told you that we had nothing to do with the attack on Mount Mandar! But you did not believe us. And why should you? You needed an excuse to attack us again!’

  ‘Don’t lie to me. At least not in front of the Mahadev! Chandravanshi terrorists have been found with the Nagas.’

  ‘My father told you that nobody under our control had anything to do with the attack on Mandar. We have nothing to do with the Nagas. It’s possible that some Chandravanshis, just like some Suryavanshis, could have helped the terrorists. If you had worked with us, we may have even found the criminals!’

  ‘What rubbish is this? No Suryavanshi would ally with those monsters. As for some Chandravanshis assisting the terrorists, you’ll have to answer for that. Swadweep is under your control!’

  ‘If you had kept diplomatic relations with Swadweep, you would have known that we are a confederacy, not authoritarian like you. Ayodhya is only the overlord. Other kings within Swadweep pay us tribute for protection during war. Otherwise, they have the freedom to run their kingdoms any way they choose.’

  ‘How is that possible? You’re saying the Emperor of Swadweep doesn’t run his own empire?’

  ‘Please,’ begged Shiva, stopping the argument which reflected the debate raging in his mind. He did not want to be troubled by questions for which he had no answers. At least not yet.

  Parvateshwar and Anandmayi immediately fell silent.

  Turning slowly towards the window again, he asked, ‘What is that building, Anandmayi?’

  ‘That, my Lord,’ said Anandmayi, smiling happily at being spoken to first, ‘is the Ramjanmabhoomi temple, built at the site of Lord Ram’s birthplace.’

  ‘You have built a temple to Lord Ram?’ asked a startled Parvateshwar. ‘But he was a Suryavanshi. Your sworn enemy.’

  ‘We did not build the temple,’ said Anandmayi, raising her eyes in exasperation. ‘But we have refurbished and maintained it lovingly. And furthermore, what makes you think Lord Ram was our sworn enemy. He may have been misled to follow a different path, but he did a lot of good for the Chandravanshis as well. He is respected as a God in Ayodhya.’

  Parvateshwar’s eyes widened in shock. ‘But he had sworn to destroy the Chandravanshis.’

  ‘If he had vowed to destroy us, we wouldn’t exist today, would we? He left us unharmed because he believed that we were good. That our way of life deserved to survive.’

  Parvateshwar was perturbed, out of arguments.

  ‘You know what Lord Ram’s full ceremonial name is?’ asked Anandmayi, pressing home her advantage.

  ‘Of course I do,’ scoffed Parvateshwar. ‘Lord Ram, Suryavanshi Kshatriya of the Ikshvaku clan. Son of Dashrath and Kaushalya. Husband of Sita. Honoured and respected with the tide of the seventh Vishnu.’

  ‘Perfect,’ beamed Anandmayi. ‘Except for one minor mistake. You have missed one small word, General. You have missed the word Chandra. His full name was Lord Ram Chandra.’

  Parvateshwar frowned.

  ‘Yes, General,’ continued Anandmayi. ‘His name meant “the face of the moon”. He was more Chandravanshi than you know’

  ‘This is typical Chandravanshi double talk,’ argued Parvateshwar, gathering his wits. ‘You are lost in words and names rather than deeds. Lord Ram said that only a person’s karma determines his identity. The fact that his name had the word moon in it means nothing. His deeds were worthy of the sun. He was a Suryavanshi, through and through.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he have been both Suryavanshi and Chandravanshi?’

  ‘What nonsense is that? It’s not possible. It’s contradictory.’

  ‘It appears impossible to you only because your puny mind cannot understand it. Contradictions are a part of nature.’

  ‘No, they aren’t. It is impossible that one thing be true and the opposite not be false. The universe cannot accept that. One scabbard can have only one sword!’

  ‘That is only if the scab
bard is small. Are you saying that Lord Ram was not big enough to have two identities?’

  ‘You are just playing with words!’ glared Parvateshwar.

  Shiva had stopped listening. He turned towards the window. Towards the temple. He could feel it in every pore of his body. He could feel it in his soul. He could hear the soft whisper of his inner voice.

  Lard Ram will help you. He will guide you. He will soothe you. Go to him.

  It was the third hour of the third prahar when Shiva stole into the chaotic Ayodhya streets by himself. He was on his way to meet Lord Ram. Sati had not offered to come along. She knew that he needed to be alone. Wearing a cravat and a loose shawl for protection, with a sword and shield for abundant precaution, Shiva ambled along, taking in the strange sights and smells of the Chandravanshi capital. Nobody recognised him. He liked it that way.

  The Ayodhyans seemed to live their life without even the slightest hint of self-control. Loud emotional voices assaulted Shiva’s ears as if a hideous orchestra was trying to overpower the senses. The common people either laughed like they had just gulped an entire bottle of wine or fought like their lives depended on it. Shiva was pushed and barged on several occasions by people rushing around, hurling obscenities and calling him blind. There were manic shoppers bargaining with agitated shopkeepers at the bazaar and it almost seemed like they would come to blows over ridiculously small amounts of money. For both the shoppers and shopkeepers, the harried negotiation wasn’t about the cash itself. It was about their honour in having struck a good bargain.