Trust Satyavrata Manu!’
Several men and women of the cursed city left for their homes in haste – to pick up their children and gather at least some of their precious belongings. The others remained on the city walls, anxiously debating the course of action.
Suddenly a shrill voice tore through the windy night.
‘The Gods…have abandoned us!’ shouted a very old woman.
In the darkness and in the commotion, her shaking, witch-like voice rendered horror into every heart.
‘No, they have not!’ Manu shouted back.
‘At least One of them has not…’ he whispered to himself a moment later.
Banaras, 2017
A CURSED ASURA EMPEROR, A DEFEATED KAURAVA PRINCE, A TREACHEROUS TAANTRIC
He looked like his entire body was engulfed in red flames.
The magnificent Vidyut was now making his way through the burning embers of Trijat Kapaalik’s blazing ritual-pit. While he winced with pain with every step he took, the burning fire was no match for the inferno that was raging in the heart of the devta.
The Masaan-raja had gone too far when he had instructed his two brutal female companions to use their vile sickles on Dwarka Shastri, just the way they had deployed those to behead Bala. Intoxicated with their short-lived victory over the prophesied devta, what both Trijat and Brahmanand had failed to realize was that the great matthadheesh was Vidyut’s only family left. His precious Baba!
And the last devta was not going to forgive them for this audacious sin.
Brahmanand could not believe his evil, single eye as he saw Vidyut tear through the fiery pit, unmindful of the countless scalds inflicted on his skin by the burning coal. Vidyut appeared like a blurry, orange-hued primordial being emerging from the smoky depths of the Earth’s molten underbelly. The two daakinis now had their attention drawn to the man they had just seen breaking rusty chains and shattering stone pillars with the raw strength of his lean, muscular frame.
But the most unexpected and baffling reaction came from none other than the Masaan-raja himself. Trijat stood frozen a few steps away from the pit, staring at Vidyut without batting his eyelids. As if in a trance, he kept repeating three words.
‘It is he.
It is he.
It is he…’
For the first time since his followers had known him, they saw mortal fear on the face of the lord of the cremation grounds.
Vidyut had no doubt in his mind. The two daakinis had to be punished severely. They had decapitated Bala mercilessly, that too when the fallen villain’s hands were tied and he was defenseless. Even now, they had been more than willing to execute Vidyut’s great grandfather at the behest of Trijat Kapaalik. They were not human. Not anymore. And they had to be neutralized.
Vidyut was determined to make sure they never harmed another soul.
She was faster than the devta had anticipated. As Vidyut leapt out of the pit and dashed towards the daakini closer to Dwarka Shastri, she moved with the slippery swiftness of a serpent. Before Vidyut knew it, she had cartwheeled behind him like an expert gymnast. In one practiced move, she viciously attacked the devta with her blunt, stained sickle. But the stoned killer had no idea who she was up against.
Vidyut did not as much but turn his head and, with the prowess of a skilled kick-boxer, swung around to strike the daakini across her face with his blistered, right foot. The kick hit her with the force of an express train. For all her martial ability, the ruthless assassin spat blood and crashed to the ground. It had taken Vidyut less than ten seconds to vanquish this depraved foe.
Ready for another bout, Vidyut turned to the other daakini. What he saw was very different from what he had expected. The second murderess had dropped her weapon and was shivering with fear.
She slowly trudged backwards into a corner of the cave and crumpled down to her knees, tears rolling out of her blood-red eyes.
It was as if the petrified entrancing of Trijat himself and the punishing defeat of her twin had suddenly freed this unfortunate being from a dark spell.
Vidyut was tired, wounded, burnt and gashed. But he was not broken.
He turned to look around at the mahataantric’s henchmen who had wandered this hellhole, this paataal, under the stewardship of the wicked Masaan-raja for years. But none of them were to be seen in the glimmering red darkness of the underground cavern. The scoundrels had been summarily beaten and inflicted with extreme pain by the devta’s initial assault. Having now seen this extraordinary man demolish stone walls and splinter steel chains, they had fled.
At the time when the Masaan-raja needed his followers most, he had none to stand with him by his side.
Whether it is a cursed asura emperor in ancient Aryavarta, a defeated Kaurava prince hiding in the depths of the Dwaipaayana lake or a treacherous taantric who has lost his path - every time, in every world of every universe…this is how evil ends.
Alone.
Harappa, 1700 BCE
CHANDRADHAR
The sight was both unbelievable and awe-inspiring.
Tens of thousands of Harappan men, women and children were now thronging the dark streets of the metropolis, that glowed blue every now and then under sky-ripping and deafening thunder-flash. They braved the screaming storm and the pounding, cold rain.
They all had reposed their faith in one man. Yet again. They had reposed their faith in Vivasvan Pujari. Even in his death. Now, they all had unshakeable belief that if Satyavrata Manu had imbibed even a speck of the character of his great father, he was their best bet towards survival.
Even after being swallowed by the merciless deluge of the mighty Saraswati, the Surya of Harappa had not abandoned his people. He lived on in their hearts, in their remorse and in their hope.
The more prosperous merchants and priests were mounted on their steeds, their families following them in covered horse-carriages. Thousands of others trudged along in bullock-carts, carrying hastily bundled provisions and precious belongings. But the vast majority lumbered along on foot, oblivious to the daunting, never-ending journey that lay ahead of them.
The Harappan army had all but disbanded itself and had joined the civilians in this great exodus. The intoxicants that were maliciously administered by the blind Mesopotamian wizards Ap-Sha-Gun had finally loosened their grip on the minds and nerves of the Harappan warriors. They were now distraught with guilt, tearfully reminiscing the days when the Surya of Harappa had held their hands and taught them to wield the sword. Thousands of them fondly remembered how the devta had demonstrated to them how to tame an ashva, the beast they were so proud of today.
These soldiers knew they were defeated and leaderless. The tale of Ranga’s violent end had reached their ears days before this momentous night, and they could see the victor of that bloody duel humbly reaching out to offer them a helping hand. They had also heard about the Rain of Blood under which Vivasvan Pujari was rescued. Neither were they ignorant of the ghastly killing of another commander of their forces at the hands of the Surya.
What they could not do for the mighty devta Vivasvan Pujari, they would now do for his valiant son.
They had tacitly accepted the command of Satyavrata Manu.
The wise, brave yet miserably unfortunate Pundit Chandradhar sat at the entrance of his personal residential chambers in his grand palace. He had performed a private yajna, to summon all his valor, all his skill and all his courage from the deepest recesses of every cosmos his spirit had ever lived in or visited. He had unsheathed his favorite long-sword that stood like a gleaming pillar in front of him. His hands rested on the mighty sword’s handle while its tip scratched the shining floor below.
If his nephew Manu had come to avenge the humiliation, suffering and death of his parents Sanjna and Vivasvan, he was not wrong in doing so.
But you shall have to pass me, my boy.
Chandradhar was not worried for his own life. He had died from inside the day he had been a silent spectator to the lynching and public
torture of his dearest friend, mentor and the protector of Aryavarta, Vivasvan Pujari. But despite the venomous conspiracy she had hatched, despite her insatiable lust for power, despite her hate that had brought Harappa to the brink of destruction and despite her cruelty, Priyamvada was his to protect. She was the love of his life. She was his wife.
By now, Chandradhar was well aware that his blind love for Priyamvada was nothing more than a disease in his head. It made him forget reason. It made him sightless to reality and logic. It had made him a monster.
Even after all the bloodshed and betrayal, all the death and all the destruction around him, the first and last king of Harappa had not opened his eyes.
He never would.
And for this very reason, history would erase him from its pages forever.
Barrackpore (Bengal), 1856
THE GREAT ARYAN INVASION
It was way past midnight.
Even though he was used to turning in by 9 pm in the heat of the Indian summer, tonight the British officer was glued to the papers on his cluttered mahogany desk. He was reading in the dim light of an oil lantern, his room filled with thick smoke from the cigarettes he rolled frequently.
This is unbelievable.
Wayne Ashbrook was a young officer on the rolls of the formidable East India Company. Over less than a couple of centuries the Company had transformed from being a docile trading outfit that paid taxes and homage to the Mughal court, into a mammoth imperialistic beast that dominated all of India. With the defeat and killing of the seemingly invincible Tiger of Mysore, Tipu Sultan, on 4th May, 1799, the East India Company became unstoppable. And with this dominance came what was going to draw the violent history of the subcontinent over the next few decades – British arrogance.
The English officers, clerks and soldiers that boarded ships and arrived on the ports of Bombay and Calcutta during the earlier years of the Company, fell in love with Hindustan. From Indian clothing to Indian wives, these Englishmen embraced the country with open arms. But then things changed. The new wave of Company officers came in with the conceited air of rulers, brimming with disdain for everything native. Consequently, hate began to simmer in the ranks of the Indian sepoys. Silent nods and glances among them were a telling sign of an impending, brutal uprising.
An ancient prophecy condemning mankind to hatred and killing was once again going to come true.
The curse of the Blood River was going to come true.
He cleaned his round reading glasses every now and then, as he sifted through the papers yellowed with age. Wayne Ashbrook was different from most British officers around him, and deeply admired India’s rich culture and unmatched heritage.
Born in Manchester and raised in a family that struggled for years to make ends meet, Wayne had fought hard to complete his education and get enlisted in the reputed East India Company. As he grew up amidst bullies at school, who were spoilt brats of textile barons, he learnt to appreciate gentleness. As he made way through the complex maze of the nouveau riche Manchester society, he began to deeply admire simplicity.
And it was their gentleness and simplicity that made Indians win the heart of this young, honest officer.
To his own peril.
‘I…I need an audience with Colonel Sanders right away,’ he said to the English-speaking Indian butler who opened the door of Colonel Mark Sanders’ sprawling bungalow in the heart of the Barrackpore chhaavni or cantonment.
Wayne had gathered his papers and ridden out to meet his superior. He had received these rare and mysterious set of documents from an old Hindu priest at Prayag or Allahabad in the North Western Provinces of Agra and Oudh (modern-day Uttar Pradesh). The priest had amazed Wayne by saying that he had waited for Wayne for over forty years. When the Englishman had replied saying he was not even born forty years ago, the mysterious priest had stunned him by describing everything about Wayne – his birthplace, his parents and his life-events.
‘This, Hindustan, is where all civilization really began, Wayne saahab. Take these scriptures and exhume the truth if you can,’ the priest had said, handing over a bundle of rough paper with his wrinkled hands. But ever since that day what had kept Wayne awake during nights was what the priest had cautioned out as Wayne’s palanquin had moved.
‘They will not think twice before harming you, saahab. Beware the dark forces of evil.
Beware the Order…’
Wayne could not help but think.
If the priest could see everything of my past, he can also see the future. He knows what is going to happen to me.
But what Wayne unearthed from the scriptures was far more potent than his fear.
‘This is preposterous, Wayne!’ snapped Colonel Sanders as he slammed a fist on the table in his study.
Taking a moment to calm himself down, he walked to the thick wooden cabinet in one corner of the vast, lantern-lit room. He opened a panel and picked out a shining flask of scotch whiskey. Without a word, he poured two double drinks into crystal glasses. He turned to Wayne and handed one glass to the sweating and anxious young officer. Sanders then settled down behind his desk. He took a sip of his fine whiskey and lit a pipe. He then gestured to Wayne with his smoking pipe, asking the officer to take a seat across the table.
‘Look, Wayne, I handpicked you for this assignment. I am not saying that you are not a good anthropologist and historian. In fact, you are bloody good! But I also brought you directly under my command because of the sensitivity of this assignment. I always knew I could rely on you.’
‘Yes, Sir…’ replied Wayne as he took a gulp of the golden liquid in his glass. He needed to soothe his jangled nerves.
‘So, when you say you have studied these copies of ancient hand-written scriptures, and that the Aryans never came from outside India, you pose a big threat to the larger scheme of things,’ said Sanders, trying very hard to hide both his fear as well as his cruelty behind the veil of a glib smile.
‘Colonel Sanders, Sir, if you allow me to explain – the ruins that were discovered in 1842 by Charles Masson are not some ordinary settlements. It is clear from these medieval papers that were prepared by creating careful replicas of ancient scriptures. They say the original manuscript was written by none other than a great sage-king called Satyavrata Manu!’
Sanders’ grip tightened on the revolver he always kept taped under his desk.
Then it loosened.
I cannot do it myself. Not here. Not in the heart of the garrison.
Wayne had absolutely no idea how close he had come to death. He continued his elucidation with the faith of a true scholar.
‘I consulted several Hindu pundits over the last few days, Sir. They tell me that this Satyavrata Manu was not an ordinary man. He was the savior of all of creation during the great deluge or Pralay as the natives call it. Manu is to the Hindus what Noah is to us Christians, Colonel. In fact, some etymologists indicate that Noah is not the name of a person at all. It is a derivation from the native terms Nauka or Naiyya or Naav, which basically mean a boat!’
There was a cold silence in the room. In his quest to unfurl what he believed was a path-breaking reality for humankind at large, Wayne failed to notice the chilling distortion of Sanders’ face.
‘Sir, those remains are of the greatest civilization of ancient earth. The Saraswati civilization, Sir! India is the epicenter of mankind’s progress. It is the land with a heritage richer than any country or region of the world! And we must bring this glorious truth to the fore, Sir.’
The old, wrinkled priest was right.
The Order was listening to Wayne.
He thanked the Editor of the Calcutta Tribune and left the stuffy offices of the reputed daily.
As he walked past the noisy, crowded streets and stalls of street food towards the quieter alleys of bustling Calcutta, Wayne was a worried man. He was deeply disturbed with the way Colonel Sanders had forfeited his papers at gunpoint. He had never imagined such conduct from a senior officer of the East Ind
ia Company and was glad he had created copies of the medieval documents before riding out to meet Sanders.
He was lost in thought when a voice called out to him in the fading light of the evening.
‘Captain Wayne Ashbrook…?’
‘Yes…’ said Wayne, as he turned to see who had called out for him.
Wayne’s mutilated body was found hanging on a tree outside the Writers’ Building secretariat the next morning. The newspapers declared it an act of violence by two Indian sepoys. But the truth was something else. Something terrible.
The prophesied blood-thirst was about to raise its head again.
Banaras, 2017
RAAKSHASA-BALI
Vidyut picked up a thick blade left behind by one of the followers of Trijat and cut the ropes that tied the great matthadheesh’s hands. He then freed Balvanta, before coming back to his Baba, lifting him up from the ground and wrapping him in a tight, long embrace.
‘I’m sorry I took so long, Baba. I’m sorry I let myself be struck from behind…’
Dwarka Shastri was in a daze. A minute ago, he had been a razor’s edge away from a ruthless, painful death. In the bat of an eyelid, he had witnessed the fall and phoenix-like rise of his marvelous great grandson. But most of all, he had counted every breath, every moment. The moments of the hour of his own end. And the hour had come and gone! His kundali had clearly marked this specific time for Dwarka Shastri’s demise and it was riddled with the highest degree of Maarkesh – the inescapable period of death.
But here he was, alive. The great Dwarka Shastri stood hale and hearty, when he should have departed for the realm of the spirit world.
Something had changed his destiny.
Something…or someone.
Kashi: Secret of the Black Temple (Harappa Series) Page 3