Goa (16th Century)
THE DARKEST CRUSADE
The wildly gasping and panting man ran like only a man running from his death can run. Or a man who is willing to give his life for the cause he believes in. On this dark and stormy night Valmiki had both these reasons behind his manic dash through the narrow lanes of Bopdev, the Konkan coastal village he grew up in.
He was running from Cristovao and Agostinho, the two most brutal Portuguese executioners who were trailing him by only a few corners and turns amidst the village huts on this ominous night. These black-hooded executioners with guillotine like axes were more fearsome than the Reaper himself. Known to have unnatural fangs forged from sharpened metal, they never failed to use these savagely on the throats, scalps and faces of their unfortunate prey. They were filled with demonic hatred for the dark-skinned Goan, and in the last few months Cristovao and Agostinho had earned the reputation of being incarnates of the devil himself. But there was more. Valmiki was carrying a 3,300 year old precious treasure that could not fall in the hands of the Portuguese at any cost. Even if it meant that Valmiki died a horrible death tonight. Even if it meant that entire Bopdev and its 800 inhabitants got torched to ashes.
It had all started with the vast fleet of battle ships dropping anchor at the coast of Goa. In the sixteenth century these were the forces of one of the most powerful monarchs of Europe at that time. This mammoth marine army fought for none other than King Immannoel the Vth of Portugal. And Immannoel fought for none other than the Order and the Big Man from Rome.
The initial assault was subdued and camouflaged. The fleet of Portugal sent more priests and ‘saints’ to the quiet shores than it sent soldiers. The people of Goa were baffled to see prayer meetings and religious gatherings being organized by these priests, when a massive and impatient army waited just a few waves away. There was much talk of the love of a fairer God, when the bloodthirsty swords of Portuguese soldiers glistened even in the distance. There were discourses on the merits of one God over another, which was a completely alien concept for the simple-living masses of this peaceful settlement. They were happy with their Gods.
Amidst all this forced love, what became slowly but vividly evident was the uncanny effort of these priests and their missionaries to scan and search every religious institution and building of Goa. They would not only visit these places, but camp at them for days, sometimes weeks together. No one had the courage to object. No one could ignore the lethal swarm of ships anchored at the shore.
One thing was clear. These priests, these saints, and these men in clean white robes…they were looking for something.
Something they wanted badly. At all cost.
Valmiki turned around a corner only to be greeted by a slash of Cristovao’s gleaming axe. The blade tore through Valmiki’s chest, which spurted blood almost instantly. The brave Goan fell on the slushy mud, the crimson red liquid now flowing out from his bosom freely. The Portuguese executioner stepped forward and raised his axe to deliver the final blow. He was going to cut Valmiki into two halves.
The rain was now violent, pouring down on this black night like a cloudburst. Valmiki could see this mindless animal preparing to strike. The lightning lit-up Cristovao momentarily, with his metallic fangs shining like the devil’s claws. He appeared more monstrous than death itself.
Valmiki could not let himself perish. He cared little for his life. But the scroll sewn into his waistcoat was more precious than all the treasure in the world. It was the only hope for mankind. Even this mindless killing by the Portuguese in the name of God was nothing compared to the violent destiny that awaited the human race. The scroll was the only hope. It held the only secret that could save planet Earth.
As he scrambled backwards on the ground facing imminent death, Valmiki drew upon his last reservoir of energy. His hand bumped into a rock, which he immediately picked up and attacked Cristovao with. The rock struck home. Propelled by a dying man’s final burst of strength, the rock smashed the Portuguese’s face into a pulp. The beast Cristovao crumbled on the ground with his lower jaw dislocated. He was dead.
Valmiki stood panting, fully aware that Agostinho would arrive at any moment. He also knew his end was near. The blood loss from the deep gash on his chest was making him dizzy. He had to deliver the scroll into the safe hands of the only man he could trust in all of Goa. He had to deliver it to the only Hindu monk who could stand in the way of the Portuguese pogrom.
He had to deliver it to the doorstep of the great Markandeya Shastri.
The banging on the door was desperate. The thunderous night was overpowering all other sounds, yet the hammering on the door woke up Markandeya Shastri rudely. He rushed to open the door, only to find his dear friend Valmiki drenched in blood. He was dying.
Markandeya lifted his Goan friend on his shoulders and carried him into the small thatched hut he called home. He lit a lantern to inspect the wounds of his friend. He was distraught at what he saw. Valmiki’s torso was slashed across its full length, from the shoulder to the waist. His friend was not going to last more than a few breaths.
‘They are going to break it down, Markandeya! They are going to raze our Shiva temple…’ said Valmiki, coughing blood almost immediately.
‘It’s all right. You take it easy. Let’s talk about it in the morning.’ Markandeya Shastri lied to his friend. He knew Valmiki was not going to see another morning.
‘Stop fooling with me, Markandeya. We both know I don’t have that much time.’
Markandeya Shastri was the leader of a small clan of Hindu monks settled in Goa. Legend had it that his ancestors had travelled thousands of miles on horseback to reach this land. Whether they were escaping a great flood or a great adversary, none could say. They were believed to be bearers of a great secret. They carried immense wealth with them, and used it with utmost righteousness. Their clan built several grand Shiva and Vishnu temples, and created philanthropic institutions around them. Soon the people of this vast coastal settlement began to revere this clan deeply. The belief regarding their ancient secret was slowly lost in the sands of time. Several generations passed and Goa accepted Markandeya Shastri’s lineage as its own.
‘They were inches away from finding it Markandeya, when I used the key, broke the seal, and took the scripture out,’ explained Valmiki.
‘You are very brave, my friend. Your name will be immortal one day,’ replied Markandeya calmly, his arms holding his dying friend in a close embrace.
‘You will…find it…in my waistcoat, Markandeya…’ continued Valmiki, now clearly in unbearable pain. His mutilated body was twisting and writhing with suffering.
Markandeya was weeping quietly. He could not bear to see his friend in such agony, especially when he knew Valmiki was yet another sacrifice at the altar of mankind’s larger good.
Valmiki could not speak any more. He could not breathe. The world was turning dark for him. As he prepared to leave his mortal body, his bloodstained hand rose up to touch Markandeya Shastri’s face, smearing it in blood from forehead to chin. Valmiki whispered his last words.
‘They are going to build a dominating structure…in place of our temple, Markandeya…and call it holy. These wretches kill and destroy in the name of a fair shepherd, who spoke only of love and sacrificed himself for them.’
Valmiki was now sobbing…as much in physical pain as at his disbelief at the monstrosity of human beings.
‘Save us, Markandeya. Save us. Leave tonight. Leave now. Go far eastwards my friend, towards lands closer to Java and Sumatra. Take the scroll with you.’
Markandeya did not know how to react. The whole situation was overwhelming. On one end there was nothing more important than protecting the scroll. On the other he had no idea where to escape.
‘Yes I will Valmiki, my brother. I will try. But don’t be so sure. What makes you think I can save us from this mammoth bloodbath?’
‘Because…because…Markandeya…’ gasped Valmiki and raised his head in a
final effort before he whispered something and sank lifeless in Markandeya’s arms.
His last words kept ringing in Markandeya’s mind for several long moments after his friend had passed away.
‘Markandeya…you are half-human, half-God.’
This duel was not between equals.
Agostinho wore almost an impregnable armor, strapped from his shoulders to his thighs. He held two gigantic, menacing swords that he swung like feathers in his powerful hands. A helmet made from Greek metal protected his head. He had several razor-sharp daggers hanging from his belt. And last but not the least, his iron fangs still had traces of human flesh clinging to their edges.
Markandeya Shastri on the other hand, stood unarmed and bare bodied till his waist. As he stood staring at his adversary, the unending downpour washed his sculptured body, cleansing his sense of purpose. He was burning with a desire for vengeance. Valmiki’s corpse still lay in Markandeya’s hut, waiting for its final rites.
Agostinho charged at Markandeya like a raging bull, swinging his brutal swords in massive sweeps. Markandeya Shastri stood unfazed. A split moment before Agostinho’s swords could hit their target, Markandeya stepped on one side in an expert move to dodge the mad man’s assault. In one seamless flow of trained kalaripayattu routine, he landed his fist in a claw-formation into the Portuguese bulldog’s gut. Markandeya’s fingers were equipped with lethal tiger-claw hooks. Within moments he disemboweled Agostinho, tearing out his heart along with his intestines.
This duel was not between equals.
Harappa, 1700 BCE
NAYANTARA
The famous and respected father and son duo of Vivasvan Pujari and Manu stood tall, proud and authoritative in the palatial lobby of Nayantara’s rich and classy mansion. They had ridden their muscular horses into the courtyard of that large villa, followed by a guard of one hundred cavalry.
There was much weighing on Vivasvan Pujari’s mind from the last night at the council meeting, especially around the doomsday prophecy of Chandradhar. After much deliberation and cajoling by the devta, the decision had been taken to build massive structures of stone, wood and bronze - manmade mountains so large that they could divert the course of the raging Saraswati, and even its demonic waves. Vivasvan Pujari had then spent the remainder of the night with the architects, military commanders and council members of Harappa. With careful precision and a stunning command over engineering and Vedic mathematics, the devta had drawn out the first blueprint of the ambitious plan he had proposed. The plan scrolls had been left with Somdutt and his engineers to study, till they met again later today to discuss the detailed and arduous execution. Vivasvan’s plan was to quickly settle this irritating matter of Nayantara’s complaint and return to his duty of fighting for Harappa’s safety till his last breath.
The devta was secretly stunned at the opulence of this beautiful reception master-hall. The shining floor was glossy as polished metal mirrors. The pillars were adorned with the most beautiful and intricately carved stone tiles. The corners of the hall housed tall statues of the most erotic sculptures Vivasvan Pujari had seen in all his travels. The air of the mansion was fragrant with fresh flowers and exotic herbs. The sparkling fountains used the fall of water from higher ground to gain propulsion, and were placed at the center of the series of large halls. Beautiful choirs played harps and other musical instruments, rendering the air with enchanting symphonies.
But what dazzled the devta more than the beauty of the residence he was standing in, was the divine and unmatched splendor of its owner. The gorgeous Nayantara made such a ravishing appearance that she momentarily enraptured even the devta himself.
Vivasvan Pujari could not believe his eyes. Nayantara looked nothing less than an apsara straight from the heavens. Everything about her was crafted to perfection. Her hair was straight and brown, tied in a casual bun behind her chiseled neck and shoulders. Her fairest skin glowed like it had just been bathed in rose, saffron and milk, and her full lips carried a natural pout that attracted every beholder to them. Her eyes were large yet drunk with divine nectar, with her long-curved eyelashes punctuating her striking beauty with natural kohl.
Manu instantly figured it was not his place to remain in that hall, especially when Nayantara had presented herself in all her infinite beauty. He bowed and folded his hands towards both Vivasvan and Nayantara, and left the building. In all this while, Nayantara had not taken her eyes off Vivasvan Pujari even for a moment.
Vivasvan noticed that Nayantara stood in front of him in unabashed sensuality, with her slender and bangled hand resting on her hips. She wore a white and incredibly thin robe that did little to hide her slim yet perfectly voluptuous body. The robe threw itself casually from her left shoulder right down to her upper thighs, revealing her bejeweled red underclothing quite clearly. Rest of her flesh, from her right shoulder and collarbone to most of her full bosom, her slim waist and her legs…was bare and unclothed. Vivasvan admired her unbelievable attractiveness and charm, but he was not tempted. The devta had absolute control over his senses.
‘This palace hall is not worthy of you, the Sun, my lord,’ said Nayantara. ‘Please allow me to welcome the great devta’s lotus feet into my private chambers’, she added coyly.
Vivasvan Pujari found the request inappropriate. But he did not flinch.
‘As you please dear lady,’ he responded.
‘Please call your servant Nayantara. Or Nayan as most of her patrons call her lovingly.’
‘All right, Nayantara. Can we now discuss the court summons my fine son Manu has received from the city judge? There seems to be a mistake.’
‘Your servant is a bundle of mistakes, by lord,’ giggled Nayantara beautifully.
She turned to walk towards her private chambers, glancing into Vivasvan’s eyes, indicating that he should follow her. Vivasvan Pujari obliged. He had nothing to fear. Not even himself.
Nayantara’s bedchamber was nothing short of a coital paradise. The air was perfumed with fresh flowers, camphor and incense. The massive white and turquoise curtains made the sunlight turn silken as it entered this pleasure den from its various windows and sunroofs. A massive chandelier of rare and uncut crystal hung over what looked like an ornate fountainhead of scented wine. Large cushioned seats with rich blue bolsters and intricately crafted yellow-metal frames were placed towards one end of the large room. The other end displayed the most opulent round bed draped in black silk.
‘Please come in to my humble love nest, O great devta,’ whispered Nayantara huskily as soon as Vivasvan entered her bedroom and she shut the chamber’s doors behind her. She now had a naughty twinkle in her intoxicating eyes.
Vivasvan stood still, deciding not to react to any of this tricky woman’s antics.
‘Why was there a summons, Nayantara?’ he demanded, sternly this time.
The chamber rang with the most musical laughter Vivasvan Pujari had ever heard. Even Nayantara’s laugh sounded like a thousand heavenly harps twang their strings in symphony.
She now walked towards Vivasvan Pujari and stood daringly close to him, her body nearly brushing against his muscular frame, and her raised lips close to caressing his chin. She stared straight into his eyes. Vivasvan Pujari could now see her gorgeous face closely and could smell the intense perfume of Nayantara’s skin. He had to admit to himself that this was a heady concoction, and that he would need to brace himself more than usual. He was after all, half human.
‘Would my lord have given his humble servant the chance to come this close without the summons?’ Her fragrant breath was now heaving warmly on Vivasvan Pujari’s face.
Vivasvan Pujari stepped back in angry objection, startled at the audacity of this young enchantress. Even before he could say anything, Nayantara undid her thin white robe and let it slip to the shining floor. In one practiced move she stepped forward boldly, flung her arms around Vivasvan Pujari and pressed her lips thirstily against his.
Banaras, 2017
NAINA
It was a new and enviable fellowship. Vidyut sat in the center of the Dev-Raakshasa matth’s armory. It was a dark hall in the basement of the matth, one among many such hidden chambers in the monastery. Vidyut was smoking continuously. He didn’t care anymore. All he could think about was the cute boyish face he saw at the ghaat. And how he was going to make him pay.
They sat in a circle with an assortment of weapons kept in the center. It was a kind of presentation being made by the dreaded warrior Balwanta. In the inventory there were old Enfield bolt-action guns and a few Winchester rifles. There were shotguns, pistols and revolvers of the finest makes, ranging from Colt, to Beretta to Webley Scott. And then there were the blades – the favorite armaments of the kalaripayattu champions.
Vidyut was stunned to see the battery of arms and ammunition in front of him. The matth was truly equipped for a small-scale war.
‘Why don’t we have Kalashnikovs and Chinese grenades, Balwanta dada?’ enquired Vidyut in jest.
‘Because we are not terrorists, Vidyut’, replied Balwanta matter-of-factly. ‘We are protectors, not destroyers.’
He continued, ‘Every weapon you see here has been legitimately sourced, has a government license and can be traced back to its purchase mostly from either retired British officers or Indian government servants. These friends of the matth trusted us with these weapons to be used strictly as defense infrastructure, not offence.’
Vidyut was impressed to find a deep sense of responsibility and righteousness in even the war General of the matth. He couldn’t, however, stop himself from probing further.
‘But why does the matth need so much weaponry, dada? Who are we preparing to fight?’
Balwanta nodded, looking enquiringly into Vidyut’s eyes. He didn’t know where to start.
‘This matth has survived for hundreds of years Vidyut. It has witnessed and withstood attacks from sultans and marauders, from invaders to imperialists. When every building, every home and every temple including the great Kashi Vishwanath was razed to the ground by these violent and mindless forces, the matth stood its ground. Over the centuries a couple of hundred Hindu warrior-monks have repeatedly repelled armies of thousands.’
Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Page 9