Kashi: Secret of the Black Temple (Harappa Series)

by Vineet Bajpai

  She stepped forward and kissed Manu on the forehead, before pronouncing the final part of her benedictions for the young man who was about to wage war against nature’s most destructive primal fury.

  What she blessed him with was to come true…in its entirety.

  ‘May your name become eternal, immortal, O Satyavrata Manu!’

  Banaras, 2017

  THE KILLING OF A HUMAN BEING

  It had been sixteen hours.

  ‘Nothing, Baba…’ said Sonu, as he returned with an untouched plate of food in his hands.

  Immediately upon their arrival at the Dev-Raakshasa matth, Vidyut had stormed into his room and locked himself up. He had not responded to anyone for sixteen hours since. He had not eaten anything.

  The devta’s soul was scarred.

  Beyond redemption.

  In his own moment of barbaric insanity, and in his savage zeal to avenge the humiliation of his matthadheesh, Balvanta had hacked Trijat Kapaalik’s head off with his heavy axe. It all happened in a few split seconds, before Vidyut could reach him and stop him.

  All Vidyut could do was to helplessly witness the horrific sight of the Masaan-raja’s head plummet into his own ritual pit, his long hair crackling in the fire that soon engulfed the mahataantric’s skull.

  And this was the last straw on the camel’s back. When he had packed lightly in his Gurgaon penthouse for what he thought was going to be a two-day trip to Banaras, Vidyut had no inkling of the bloodshed, the conspiracies, the black-magic and the deceit that awaited him. And yet he had braved everything with extraordinary grit – he had fought mercenaries, locked horns with a supreme assassin, endured the worst of betrayals, witnessed the beheading of Bala and come to terms with ancient curses and prophecies. But the taking of a human life by one of his own clansmen was not something he was going to be a part of.

  Life, regardless of whether it resided in a good heart or evil, was sacrosanct. Vidyut could not identify with any individual or institution that believed or acted otherwise. There could be no justification for the killing of a fellow human being.

  Balvanta’s heinous, mindless act had done greater damage than the war-chief of the matth could have ever imagined.

  It had shaken Vidyut’s faith in the Dev-Raakshasa matth.

  And in the very purpose of its existence.

  It was in the wee hours of the morning that Purohit ji offered his first prayers of the day. As he was circumambulating one of the gigantic Shiva statues in the central gardens of the Dev-khannd, he noticed something he did not expect to see.

  Vidyut sat at the stairs of the great Dwarka Shastri’s cottage. He was fully dressed and Purohit ji’s heart sank when he saw Vidyut’s small backpack by his side. It was clear to the old priest.

  Vidyut was leaving.

  Purohit ji walked up to the last devta, who greeted him with a weak but polite smile.

  The wise priest pointed at the vacant space next to Vidyut and asked in a voice as soothing as the early morning breeze that caressed them, ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course, Purohit ji,’ replied Vidyut, as he moved his backpack to make room. Despite all of Vidyut’s civility, the old priest could sense a deep gash, a festering wound in the devta’s heart.

  ‘So, you are leaving?’

  ‘Yes, Purohit ji…’

  There was silence for a minute as both men looked out into the bluish orange sky. With every passing moment, the ancient city of Kashi seemed to be waking from its holy slumber. Birds had begun to chirp and the cows were mooing, being lovingly fed by several families around the matth. Temple bells, both near and far, blended with the sacred sound of morning aarti.

  ‘Tell me, Vidyut…why are there so many stories in our puraanas that narrate the victory of good over evil?’ asked Purohit ji, without turning to Vidyut.

  Vidyut understood where this discussion was being steered to. He was in no mood to debate something he considered to be the most unspeakable of sins.

  ‘Look Purohit ji, you know how much I love and respect you. But I beg you to leave me alone for now. Nothing that you say can change the fact that I saw a man butchered in front of my eyes yesterday, and I could do nothing.’

  ‘That is not the answer to my question, Vidyut,’ replied Purohit ji calmly. ‘No one can stop you if you have made up your mind to leave. But no matter how upset you are, it would be most unfair to not allow the matth to even defend itself.’

  ‘Defend itself? Did you say defend itself?? God, I cannot believe this!’ exclaimed an exasperated Vidyut.

  He shook his head in disgust, picked his bag and started walking away.

  Purohit ji hesitated for a moment. But then realized it was now or never.

  He shouted out to Vidyut.

  ‘If you think we are the ones who started this violence, you are wrong, my devta.

  Do you not want to know how your father, the great Kartikeya Shastri, was killed, Vidyut?’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  HARAPPA – CURSE OF THE BLOOD RIVER

  ‘Go faster…faster, my trusted friend!’

  Manu was talking into the ears of his powerful horse, spurring him on to outpace the giant mountains of water that were now visible at the dark, crimson-sky horizon. The deluge was more mammoth, more monstrous than human imagination could envisage. Despite his rare valiance and extraordinary resilience, even the son of Surya broke into a cold sweat as he saw the distant waves that all but scraped the sky.

  Only the Gods could foretell the destruction this mother of all floods was going to unleash. Nothing could be heard except for the earth-shattering din of the approaching messengers of human extinction. The wind seemed to be moving faster than arrows as a result of the all-consuming torrents that seemed to surround the glorious city of Harappa from all sides.

  It was only now that Manu fully understood what Matsya had been warning them about over the last few eventful days. Pralay – the great deluge – had descended upon the planet to potentially destroy every life form on it. From the first glimpse that Manu saw as he galloped like lightning, he was convinced.

  Pralay was indeed the end of the world.

  They now stood atop a steep hill that overlooked the great metropolis of Harappa from a far distance of a yojana (a yojana is considered equivalent to 14 kilometers) - Tara, Somdutt, Satyavrata Manu and the platoon of the fish-folk. Behind them was an enormous caravan of fleeing Harappan men, women, children and livestock. In the few hours that Manu, Somdutt and their fellowship had been able to buy for hundreds of thousands of inhabitants of Harappa, they had succeeded in evacuating the city of all its citizens.

  All but two.

  Pundit Chandradhar and his beloved wife Priyamvada had chosen to stay on in the city as it fell prey to the annihilating deluge, Harappa being the first among numerous such settlements that were to be devoured by the great flood in the days to come. As the last king of Harappa and the princess of Mohenjo-daro forced Manu to ride away from the city gates just in time, the young lad could not help but turn every now and then. The last glimpse he caught of was of the fading silhouettes of the unfortunate couple appear on the citadel’s terrace.

  They had decided to welcome the great flood by offering themselves as the cursed city’s last sacrifice to the Gods.

  As he had galloped away to the temporary safety of higher ground, Manu’s mind was still with the dying husband and wife.

  Is there a misfortune greater than a heart filled with unbridled ambition? What throne can be so bejeweled that its glimmer numbs the spirit to the pain and suffering of human souls? And how does it all end?

  With his heart full of love and forgiveness, Satyavrata Manu mumbled his final sendoff to the royal couple.

  ‘Goodbye, O wise Pundit Chandradhar. Farewell, O beautiful princess of Mohenjo-daro.’

  The first cleansing that Pralay had successfully engineered – was of Manu’s hate.

  It was a sight that none of them had thought was possible. None of them had imagined th
at a river, as mighty as it may be, could dwarf even the mighty oceans. But here it was. The Blood River!

  Manu, Tara and Somdutt, all broke into tears as they saw the first lashing waves shatter the perimeter walls of this once-splendid city. And this was the assault of just the first foot-waves of the real monster that was coming to engulf Harappa. As a devastating blanket of water curled above Harappa like the hood of a colossal serpent, moments before swallowing the entire city in one single sweep, Manu whispered a silent prayer. In an instant that seemed to last forever, the great deluge consumed the entire city of Harappa in merciless mayhem.

  The tens of thousands of Harappans broke into wails and moans as they beheld their beloved city perish. They saw every building, every temple and every orchard get destroyed. The proud citadels fell like anthills against a sledgehammer. The giant granaries were swept away like mounds of sand. The Great Bath was submerged so deep like it would never see the light of the day again. Brick by brick, lane by lane, home by home…Harappa was lost forever.

  It was the cosmos that had once given humankind the will, the enterprise and the grit to build a city as magnificent as Harappa. And it was the very same power of Creation that was reclaiming its own bounties.

  The curse of the Blood River had only just begun to unleash its wrath.

  Banaras, 2017

  KARTIKEYA

  Vidyut’s steps froze as he heard the chilling words spoken by Purohit ji.

  ‘Do you not want to know how your father, the great Kartikeya Shastri, was killed, Vidyut?’

  What Vidyut had been told since he was a child was that his father, Kartikeya Shastri, had died in a car accident in San Francisco during a rainy night of that ill-fated November of 1991.

  Is there anything about my life that is real? What is this place? Who are these people?

  Vidyut dropped his backpack wearily, trembling with both anger as well as a burning desire for the truth. He turned to the old priest who still sat on the staircase.

  Purohit ji could sense Vidyut’s raging impatience and growing distrust. He knew he had to bring the anguished devta back into the fold of the last real defense for humankind – the Dev-Raakshasa matth!

  He spoke quickly, clearly.

  ‘The man who Balvanta killed yesterday was a part of the same lethal, gigantic organization that killed our beloved Kartikeya, Vidyut.

  Trijat Kapaalik was one of the many powerful members of the New World Order.’

  They were now walking along the lawns of the Dev-khannd. For all the hate and hurt that Vidyut nursed in his heart, his affection for Purohit ji outweighed everything. He had agreed to spend time with the wise old priest, till the great Dwarka Shastri rose for the day.

  ‘What I am about to tell you will be hard to grasp, Vidyut. And even harder to believe. The scale and imperishability of this unimaginable conspiracy will take anyone by shock. But everything I tell you now, or your great grandfather shares with you later – is all true. Every word of it.’

  Vidyut nodded. But the reality was that he was not interested in anything else for now. He just wanted to know who took his beloved, doting father away from him when he was all of eight years of age. He had seen his mother, the beautiful and caring Pooja, suffer quietly for years. He had spent his entire childhood fatherless, in near-hiding, prohibited from visiting Banaras for reasons unexplained till date.

  Purohit ji continued.

  ‘The Order that Constantine the Great commissioned right after the Council of Nicaea, did not take much time to morph into a dangerous and unstoppable cartel of some of the world’s most powerful and intellectually gifted men. The rise and fall of the Knights Templar was just one among the many early games of power, deceit and global control that this Order had begun to play. Slowly but surely, their design and their ambition turned more and more nefarious.’

  Vidyut was getting impatient. For now, he had no interest in the sequence of events. He did not care for any New World Order. All he needed to know was who the killers of his father were.

  ‘With all due respect, Purohit ji, I am in no frame of mind to assimilate this long and intriguing history of this Order you and Baba speak about. Will you please be kind and tell me who murdered my great father, your beloved Kartikeya??’

  Purohit ji fully empathized with Vidyut’s unenviable situation. He stopped and turned to his devta.

  ‘Just keep one thing in mind, my dear Vidyut. While no one else’s loss can be compared to yours, we all loved Kartikeya as much as we love you. Perhaps a little more.’

  With tears in his eyes, the old priest raised both his hands and stared at them. He then looked up at Vidyut.

  ‘I raised Kartikeya with these very hands, O devta. He was like my first-born son.’

  Mohenjo-Daro, 1700 BCE

  THE MOUND OF THE DEAD

  ‘You will be foolish to attempt this, O Satyavrata.’

  It was the seven young sages, the divine Saptarishi, speaking to Manu. The son of Surya was pacing up and down the vast, torch-lit cave in which they had taken refuge for the night.

  ‘The great sages are right, Manu. Mohenjo-daro is nearly thirty yojanas from here. Even the fastest and strongest ashvas cannot reach the city in time,’ added a tense Tara or Satrupa, worried deeply that Manu was on the verge of embarking upon a suicidal mission yet again.

  But she understood his painful predicament. Mohenjo-daro was the second most populous city of Aryavarta. If this metropolis was devoured by the great deluge, it would mean certain death for countless inhabitants of the glorious city.

  ‘But how can we sit back and do nothing…??’ said Manu irritably. Deep inside, he knew the odds were insurmountable. ‘Have all of you forgotten how many souls reside in that magnificent city? Tens of thousands! Perhaps over a hundred thousand! How can we leave them to their certain annihilation?’

  There was a cold silence in the high cave, as the dim torches gave it a solemn, dull orange hue.

  The gloom of the cave appeared to embody the hopelessness that was slowly creeping into the hearts of those who had taken shelter in it.

  ‘I will go!’ a voice rang out.

  Everyone turned to a dark corner of the cave, where Dhruv sat sharpening his arrows on a stone sill. This remarkable young man with beautiful brown hair flowing well below his muscular shoulders, was Manu’s childhood friend and ablest warrior.

  ‘What do you mean, Dhruv?’ asked Tara.

  Dhruv stood up, picked up his bow and his quiver stuffed with arrows, and walked up to the comparatively brighter center of the cave. He faced Manu, Tara, Somdutt and the Saptarishi. The seven serene ascetics sat in a partially meditative state.

  ‘Permit me to ride out to Mohenjo-daro, Manu. I will go alone and will gallop day and night. If my horse does not survive this grueling journey, I will walk to Mohenjo-daro!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dhruv!’

  This time it was Pundit Somdutt who spoke.

  ‘I admire your courage and your willingness to sacrifice yourself for the sake of others. I really do. But trying to reach Mohenjo-daro now is nothing short of madness. The way our observers are reporting in, the flood would reach the walls and rip the city apart in a matter of hours, not days…’ said Somdutt.

  ‘But we can’t let them all die!’ screamed Manu, his eyes wide with horror and helplessness. A high-pitched statement from Manu was enough to quieten any gathering he stood in.

  Dhruv walked up to his friend and kept a hand on Manu’s shoulder.

  ‘One of us has to go, Manu. If we abandon that city today, both you and I know we will not be able to live with this burden on our conscience. And we cannot risk you, my friend. You are too important for the Ark, and for whatever is left of the human race. Permit me to go, my king.’

  Manu did not say a word. He picked up his sword and walked up to Tara. He kissed her on the forehead, looked into her eyes and whispered, ‘You know I have to do this, Tara. I am Vivasvan Pujari’s son. And the great Vivasvan Pujari w
ould never leave people behind.’

  Without waiting for Tara to say anything, Manu turned to Dhruv.

  ‘We both ride to Mohenjo-daro this very moment, brother.’

  ‘It is too late…O son of Surya.’

  Before Manu and Dhruv could step out of the cave, one of the magnificent sages spoke aloud, still in a state of trance.

  The tonsured and clean-shaven sage looked nothing more than nineteen. All seven of the Saptarishi were young boys, but radiated a brilliant halo. They seemed to glow with supernatural life-energy. To Manu it seemed as if Matsya had left a small part of him behind with the holy Saptarishi. Or so Manu hoped.

  The young sage opened his eyes, as if they were looking into some far away horizon.

  ‘It is too late, Satyavrata. The devastating waves have struck the city…moments ago.’

  With this the first sage closed his eyes. Before a horrified Manu could ask anything, the second sage opened his eyes, ready to speak.

  ‘The deluge has struck the gates, the walls and the citadels. Mohenjo-daro has fallen O great king, never to rise again.’

  Thereafter, reverberating through the grief-stricken silence of the cave, the remaining five sages made their terrifying pronouncements one after the other.

  ‘The deafening cries of the drowning masses make the entire universe weep. The great cleansing has begun…’

  Forever shall this city be remembered, shrouded in mystery. Forever shall its name remind us of the great deluge…’

  ‘‘Muaa’, as the Sindhu inhabitants of the city today call their dead, and ‘Muaan’ in multitudes, shall stick to the name of this cursed metropolis and its unfortunate inhabitants till the end of time…’

  ‘It shall forever be called Muaan-jo-daro.’