‘But Baba, since childhood we have been taught that Harappa and Mohenjo Daro were pre-historic cities, preceding even the Vedas and Puranas.’
Dwarka Shastri held his gaze on Vidyut’s face as he allowed his great grandson to continue.
‘I mean I’m sorry Baba, but all this is sounding ridiculously contradictory to everything that has been established, propagated and taught all over the world about the Indus Valley civilization. I mean, look at how you described Vivasvan Pujari riding at the spearhead of five thousand mounts, bringing the horses into Harappa’s army. However, it is now widely believed that horses never even existed in Harappa. And that they came in with the great Aryan invasion.’
Vidyut gave a flabbergasted look to the grandmaster in front of him. Dwarka Shastri smiled with sarcasm.
‘Notice the terms you use Vidyut, when you speak about Harappa and what you call the Indus Valley civilization. Note what words you used - established, propagated, taught and err…what else…oh yes, believed.’ Dwarka Shastri paused for a moment before continuing, ‘Now tell me young man, who has established this belief? Who has propagated it? Why is it being taught? How have you and billions of people over the last one and a half millennia been fooled into believing the greatest untruth in the story of mankind?!’
‘But Baba, how can you say that the Indus Valley civili…’
‘Enough!’ yelled the old grandmaster midway between Vidyut’s sentences. ‘Stop using that conspiratorial term, Indus Valley civilization!’
Dwarka Shastri broke into a bout of violent coughing once again. But that did not stop him from angrily screaming out his next words.
‘Don’t you understand even now, you dimwit boy? Harappa was not about the Sindhu (Indus) or its valley!’
He paused for a moment to see if Vidyut was getting his drift, and then nearly whispered with exhaustion.
‘Harappa was the Saraswati civilization, Vidyut!’
It was time for Dwarka Shastri’s daily incantations in the worship of his protecting deity, Lord Shiva. Vidyut had been glued to his chair ever since his conversation with his Baba began. He was baffled, dumbstruck and agitated. His great grandfather had told him the beginning of the Harappa tale, and something about the Indus Valley civilization actually being a massive settlement on the banks of the vanished river Saraswati. But Vidyut had no clue how all that was related to him or even to his great grandfather. He wanted to know more…he wanted to know everything! But he had to leave the room as Dwarka Shastri’s trusted staff entered the grand chambers to prepare their master for his daily ritual.
Vidyut walked out of the cottage into the sprawling lawns surrounding it. He desperately needed a cigarette. His head was spinning and it was only the comfort of nicotine that could keep him steady. He had to find a cigarette somewhere. He had about one hour and he decided to step out of the matth. He walked straight out of the Dev-Khand into the outer sector of the matth. He met and nodded at Purohit ji and Naina on the way. ‘A walk to the ghaats (piers), Purohit ji,’ was all he could mutter to them.
Purohit ji was astute enough to know Vidyut needed time and space. Time to digest what he had heard, because this was just the beginning of the dark intrigue and violent conflict that awaited him.
It was afternoon by now and Vidyut decided to take a cycle-rickshaw to the closest ghaat of the holy Ganges (or Ganga as it is lovingly called by a billion Indians). The ghaats of the revered river were nothing less than a wonder of the world. If there was any place on Earth that congregated so much colour in the form of millions of people of different shades, sizes, classes and creeds, it was the ghaats of the Ganga in Kashi.
This stretch of the riverbank, converted into numerous blocks and sections of unimaginable heritage and richness, had names that were equally loaded with history. Sometimes tough to pronounce for someone unfamiliar with Hindi and Sanskrit, the ghaats carried names that were eternal witnesses to the sands of time. The Dashashwamedh Ghaat translates into the ‘Pier of the Ten Sacrificed Horses’. The Tulsi Ghaat is where the immortal poet and author of the profound epic Ramcharitamaanas once lived. The Ramcharitamaanas is credited with bringing the epic-tale of Lord Rama to the common man, because it broke free from hard Sanskrit and was written in the language of the masses.
The Manikarnika Ghaat is perhaps the most mystical and morose place in the whole universe. This ghaat is by far the busiest cremation ground for the Hindus. It is believed that there have been funeral pyres burning continuously at this ghaat for more than ten thousand years. Never a moment had lapsed in all this time when the flesh of a deceased human being was not being incandesced into amber and ashes at the Manikarnika Ghaat. It is said that a jewel from the earring of Lord Vishnu had fallen at this precise location, making it the most sanctified crossover bridge.
Vidyut got off the rickshaw at a crowded spot closest to the famous steps of the Dashashwamedh Ghaat. He left a hundred rupees bill in the hands of the rickshaw puller, over four times the regular fare for this short journey. He quickly bought a pack of the best available cigarettes at one of the many modest shops around, and walked down the steps to the first broad platform on the ghaat. As is common practice for the millions of visitors and pilgrims that visit these hallowed piers, Vidyut too offered a short prayer to Ganga maiyya, as the Ganges is referred to by the locals, maiyya being a loving term for Mother. There is something that connects Indians with their rivers. Some deep, indescribable bond.
Vidyut sat on the stairs, looking at the mighty Ganges flowing in its full glory. The sight was surreal. Almost nothing had changed since Vidyut was here last, except for the ghaat being much cleaner and better maintained. He once again witnessed what had been etched in his memory for decades, ever since he was a small child. He saw human faith and unquestioned devotion at its pinnacle. There were old women, older than you would believe could exist, hobbling down the steps of the pious ghaat just to touch the water with their shriveled finger-tips. There were young mothers carrying bawling babies tirelessly, right up to the mother river, just to anoint their infants’ foreheads with the holiest of drops. Then there were the bereaved, who had come to take a dip in the divine water, as a final duty to their departed loved ones. Every soul on the ghaat had the look of absolute submission on their faces. The Ganga was truly nectar, the giver of boundless blessings and the cleanser of sins of a million births.
As Vidyut took out a cigarette and held it between his lips, he realized he had nothing to light it with. Even before he could figure out what to do, a hand with a silver zippo lighter lit his cigarette for him. Vidyut looked up to see a lean, handsome young man smiling at him while slipping his expensive lighter back into his jeans pocket.
‘You…mind if I join you?’ asked the gentle looking fellow in stammering yet chiseled English, and with a disarming grin.
‘Of course,’ Vidyut replied welcomingly.
The young man sat down next to Vidyut, smoking a cigarette himself. They sat there for a couple of minutes without speaking, staring at the mesmerizing and muscular flow of the mighty Ganges. Vidyut could manage to notice that while the man next to him was almost his own age, he was very pleasant and nearly boyish looking. It was like someone had picked up Harry Potter, made him all grown up, but had done so without losing the innocence of childhood.
Vidyut finished one cigarette and took out another one. He needed the release. His neighbor instantly took out the zippo again and lit Vidyut’s second cigarette. He was about to keep the lighter back into his blue jeans, but then slipped it into Vidyut’s hand.
‘The way…you are going with puffing these babies, you’re going to need this more than me,’ said the gentle stranger with a nice laugh.
Vidyut laughed out loud. He was quite charmed by the seemingly shy but bright young man sitting next to him. As the early evening breeze of the Dashashwamedh ghaat caressed their faces and hair, Vidyut warmly stretched out his hand to introduce himself, ‘Hi, I’m Vidyut. Nice to meet you.’
; The handsome fellow clasped Vidyut’s outstretched hand, smiled and responded, ‘Hi I’m Romi. Romi Pereira’.
Harappa, 1700 BCE
PRALAY
‘Intoxicate him with your most potent mix of datura (Devil’s Apple), crushed pearls and rice wine,’ said Priyamvada to the now half-manic but indescribably pretty Nayantara. ‘But most of all, use the temptation of your flesh.’
Nayantara nodded like a gorgeous but deranged doll. She was not herself. Literally. Thousands of years later such a condition would be described by terms like Schizophrenia or substance-induced psychosis.
But in 1700 BC, amidst the vast stretches of the Harappan civilization, the condition of Nayantara was nothing but the outcome of the shav-saadhana conducted by Gun, Sha & Ap. Nayantara was possessed by an angry daakini (spirit of an untimely dead woman) that had never been beaten.
The grisly ritual had begun at the abandoned smashaan or cremation-ground at the outskirts of Harappa. Sha, Ap & Gun, the three dark conjurers of spells and spirits, began the preparations of the shav-saadhana. The captain of Priyamvada’s bodyguard had sourced a fresh cadaver from the city mortuary. It was of a young, fair and beautiful woman of perhaps thirty years of age.
The three evil Mesopotamian magicians had travelled for seven months to reach the sprawling city of Harappa. They were here on the invitation of Priyamvada, one of the city’s most powerful women. She had summoned them because their notoriety as matchless artists of the dark forces had spread far and wide. Priyamvada was aware that no one from Harappa or even the far provinces would dare attack the great Vivasvan Pujari. She had to seek and hire specialists from distant and unknown lands.
Sha stretched the beautiful corpse naked next to the ritual fire. Ap poured human blood on the ground from an earthen container, circling the ritual area. Gun placed the most powerful human skull he had on a jar that held an offering of wine in it. They then placed the raw meat of five different animals in mud-plates and placed them on the ground in a pre-decided configuration. The scene was set.
The chanting began. The gruesome ritual was aimed at pleasing Smashaan-Tara, the divine Goddess of the cremation realm. But the fearsome yet benevolent Tara was never going to respond to these beastly creatures. She saved her blessings for the true taantric. But as the horrifying chanting continued into the wee hours of the dark morning, it began attracting several daakinis or dissatisfied female spirit forms. One particularly powerful daakini decided to take the body of the beautiful fair corpse.
Gun, Ap & Sha looked at each other with their hollow eyes in manic delight, as they saw the corpse first shiver and then begin growling in a horrifying unearthly voice. The daakini was entering the flesh and struggling to take control against the laws of nature. It was only if she entered a corpse first, that she would be able to transmit herself into a living human, Nayantara in this case.
The lifeless body of the young woman was now trying to get up from the prostrate position, scowling and growling unstoppably. Sha pinned her back to the ground with a tight strangle on her neck and hard strikes from a ritual femur (human bone). The demonic chanting continued. The daakini was slowly but surely entering the now undead body.
The magicians knew they were now very close to stealing and replacing the soul of the beautiful Nayantara. The prohibited shav-saadhana was about to be concluded successfully.
The three evil fiends were now certain that they would be appointed as the chief priests of Harappa, making them the most powerful men in the world. They had been promised.
Even these wretches underestimated the darkness that resided in Priyamvada’s heart.
The famous exotic dancer of Harappa, the ravishing Nayantara was dead. Her physical form was still alive.
The first casualty of an exorcism via the shav-saadhana route was the soul of the victim. While Nayantara’s was not an evil spirit, years of worldly suffering, material hunger and subduing of her conscience had weakened it substantially. Which in turn enabled the daakini to easily vanquish it and take over her mortal body. Some of Harappan and Kashi folklore for centuries attributed this dramatic change in Nayantara to simply an overdose of an unknown datura concoction. No one knows what really happened.
Nayantara was now dressing and behaving even more sensually than before. The daakini that possessed her was well versed with these earthly tricks, as she had exposure to much higher crafts of the spirit world. She knew what little and ephemeral things humans fall for. Even her servants were startled to see the new enchanting avatar of Nayantara. Her female accomplices joked with her that if her new form attracted them so much, what devastating effect would it have on the rich and powerful men of Harappa!
Nayantara knew she had to entice only one man - the richest and the most powerful in the entire state. She laid out an elaborate quagmire for Vivasvan Pujari. She sought justice for an act of molestation that never happened. She registered a complaint with the city magistrate that a young man named Manu Pujari attempted to take her by force. Her loyal staff was readied as witnesses to the false accusation and a malicious rumour was unleashed. Given the stringent Harappan laws safeguarding its women, such an allegation could not be ignored. She, the daakini, knew where to attack Vivasvan Pujari. She knew what his weak spot was.
Sanjna could not believe her eyes as she read the summons from the city court. Vivasvan Pujari sat next to her, his eyes shut and his fingers flipping the beads of a rosary. Manu stood in a corner of the same room. He looked perplexed, bewildered, and yet unquestionably righteous. He knew it was a mistake.
‘What do we do now, Vivasvan?’ enquired Sanjna anxiously. The calmness she saw on her husband’s face was worsening her nervousness and angst. Her son’s composed posture was also bothering her. Didn’t they remember that in Harappa court summons meant a public hearing?!
Vivasvan Pujari opened his eyes and turned to his son.
‘Manu, pardon me for asking this my son. I know by even questioning you on something so despicable I do you great injustice. But I have to ask for the sake of propriety,’ he continued. ‘Did you visit the quarters of this lady Nayantara?’
Manu stood steadfast, listening to his beloved father and letting him finish. At that time neither young Manu nor his celebrated father knew that one day Manu was going to change the fate of not just Aryavarta, but of all of mankind.
‘No, father.’
‘Thank you my son. And once again, forgive me for ever subjecting you to this enquiry.’
‘You only do your duty, father. I would expect nothing less from you,’ replied Manu with grace and confidence.
Vivasvan Pujari smiled. He stood up from his seat and walked a few steps to hug his son. As they locked into a soulful embrace that only a loving father and a devoted son can share, Sanjna felt mildly relieved. But she could still not share the relaxed demeanor her husband and son were displaying. She could only remember the brutal public court hearings of Harappa.
If there was anything even remotely uncivilized about the great metropolis, it was the public spectacle that its criminal proceedings made. For all its grace and luminous Vedic way of life, both the justice as well as the prison systems in Harappa seemed untouched by the civility. These were the only things that Sanjna ever dreaded. And these were now knocking at her family’s hallowed doors.
‘Okay, so what now, you two?’ exclaimed Sanjna. She looked visibly worried.
Both Vivasvan and Manu burst out laughing at the way Sanjna looked. They were unafraid. Their confidence emanated from the glowing torch of their impeccable character and their faith in the harsh yet honest judicial machinery of Harappa. In fact Vivasvan Pujari and Pundit Chandradhar were among the guardians of the metropolis who had purposefully engineered the justice framework into a huge deterrent. However, sometimes when someone is too deeply immersed within the picture, he misses seeing the dark imperfections. Sanjna could sense the threat that Vivasvan and Manu were carelessly unheeding of.
‘I will go and meet this Nayantara t
omorrow morning,’ said Vivasvan Pujari, casually flicking the summons document to a nearby table.
Even before Vivasvan could complete these words, the Earth moved. The city of Harappa shook along with every house, every temple and every living being within it. The clouds burst into violent thunder and Manu had to jump and grab his mother’s arm to prevent her from ramming her head into a nearby pillar. The vast Saraswati settlement was witnessing the greatest tectonic shift of all times. And the Harappans had never witnessed this phenomenon before.
Was it the Gods trying to warn their last devta against what he had just decided to do? Were they foretelling the disastrous consequences of Vivasvan’s meeting with the possessed Nayantara? This quake of the Earth and this deafening clap of the skies was nothing compared to the destruction in store for all generations of mankind, should the black daakini within Nayantara succeed in her blind and evil quest.
And no one knew at that time, not even Vivasvan Pujari and Chandradhar, that the massive shift in the inner Earth was the first sign of the mighty Saraswati inching towards the most powerful river-Tsunami humankind was to ever witness.
These were all horrifying omens of a dark age approaching fast. It seemed like the Gods were preparing planet Earth for its worst and never-ending nightmare. It was as if the prophesied pralay or the Great Deluge was finally coming.
Banaras & Somewhere in the Swiss alps, 2017
‘HE CANNOT BE KILLED.’
Dwarka Shastri looked somewhat refreshed. But it was evident that an illness was slowly and surely eating into him. He was a strange combination of a tired body and an enflamed spirit. But most of all, his eyes burned through everything they inspected. His eyes were unusually penetrating.
Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Page 6