The Immortal Bind

by Traci Harding

Upon hearing it was shop talk Sara continued towards the mini-bar and fridge opposite the captain’s seat in the cabin.

  ‘Baxter?’

  Just the sound of the name made her hair stand on end, and she rushed back to hear the report.

  ‘Well, don’t stress, you don’t know enough to have told him much, and our plans have altered enough to keep us clear of him,’ Willie assured Tyrell, but the concern was clear on his face. ‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll let you know the second we get back — I will be careful. You too. Love you. Bye.’ He ended the call and tossed the phone out into the ocean.

  ‘Willie!’ Sara was surprised at him.

  ‘I have other phones.’ He waved off the loss.

  ‘Pollution?’ She referred to the pristine piece of coastline they were enjoying.

  ‘You are going there with me right now? Really?’ Willie’s drama queen came to the fore. ‘You’re right, where is my head at? Could it be that I’m more concerned about preventing your stalker from finding you?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Sara could see something was upsetting him. ‘Did Robert get to Tyrell? Is he all right?’

  ‘He can’t remember. But someone dressed in drag came to see him at the store this morning and screwed all the security footage of his visit while he was there. Tyrell can’t remember anything of their conversation, but my new brand ambassador managed to sneak a photo of him before he left because he’d been such an arsehole.’

  ‘Yep.’ Sara was nodding. ‘Sounds like Robert.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t get anything from my man, so there’s nothing to fear.’ Willie was more determined than ever.

  Sara was not so certain. But she did know India was their only hope of finding any lasting solution to his vendetta, and she couldn’t get there fast enough.

  * * *

  Diu was a city on an island in a district that went by the same name. There were no high-rise buildings here, and owing to four hundred years of occupation by the Portuguese, the town had a strong European flavour and was every bit as colourful as you would expect from a mix of the Indian and Portuguese cultures. Having survived a brief stopover in the chaos that was Mumbai airport, Jon, weary from his travels, found Diu airport a breath of fresh air. That was until he actually stepped out into the morning air, which even at dawn was a warm twenty-seven degrees with forty-seven per cent humidity. The temperature was heading for a peak of thirty-seven degrees by midday, and although the humidity would decrease then, it would rise to sixty per cent by nightfall as the temperature dropped back into the high twenties — no rain was forecast all week.

  Fortunately, Jon was in an air-conditioned coach for the last leg of his journey, which would see him arrive at Somnath by mid-morning.

  There was only himself, a couple of businessmen and their families going to Somnath this morning. From the cool comfort of the fairly empty coach cabin Jon admired the lovely pink glow that the rising sun cast over the sleepy city. It was not at all as crowded, chaotic or noisy as he’d expected, and Jon fancied he would rather enjoy exploring this place, if he’d only been at liberty to do so. He wasn’t sure what he’d do after delivering the stones and himself from the curse. His heart wanted to jump on the first flight to Australia, but until he found an internet connection and got an update on the situation there, he wasn’t packing up for down under just yet. He did have an exhibition to launch and a lot of people were expecting him to be there.

  As the families were all down the back of the coach, Jon sat up front near the driver.

  ‘What brings you to Somnath?’ the driver asked.

  ‘The temple.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve heard about the Sadhu’s vigil there?’ the man assumed. ‘Are you a reporter?’

  ‘No.’ Jon allowed that it was a safe assumption to make about a guy travelling alone to an obscure place. ‘I’m a painter.’

  ‘An artist type?’ The driver was delighted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, you’ve come to paint the Sadhu?’

  ‘What is a Sadhu? A holy man?’ Jon guessed.

  The driver laughed at Jon’s query, for it answered his own. ‘Yes, of course, and in this case he is a yogi of the highest order.

  People have been coming from miles around to witness the phenomenon, for he has not eaten, moved, slept or taken any water in over a week!’

  This was rather miraculous considering the temperature outside. Jon could only imagine how stifling the heat would be by midday.

  ‘He doesn’t burn in the sun, or sweat, or anything! People are saying he is a true divine master, perhaps a messenger of the Lord Shiva himself!’

  ‘That certainly sounds remarkable.’ Thinking back — it had been just a little over a week since Jon had first become acquainted with his chair — was this pure coincidence? ‘Does anyone know the purpose of the yogi’s vigil?’

  ‘They say the Sadhu is here to see Somnath returned to its former glory.’

  The claim gave Jon chills. ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, when the Sadhu first appeared at Somnath, he met with some of the Somnath Trust members, and they took the unprecedented step of closing the temple.’

  ‘Did they say why?’ Jon was alarmed, he needed to get into that temple.

  ‘They said it is closed for emergency repairs.’ The driver sounded sceptical.

  ‘Perhaps the holy man forewarned them of an accident?’ Jon posed.

  ‘There is a rumour from the site that they are digging beneath the public altar in search of the Eye of Wisdom, that’s—’

  ‘Yes, I know of the legend.’ Jon saved him the explanation. ‘Many believed that stone had been stolen from the third eye of a golden statue of Lord Shiva by Arabs, around the late tenth century.’

  The bus driver appeared very impressed by his knowledge.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘So, did they find it?’

  ‘The temple has been closed for several days. If they have found the stone, they have not announced it. Some say the yogi is waiting to see his prophecy verified, but that’s just speculation. He hasn’t spoken to anyone since his meeting with the Trust. Fortunately the holy man’s presence has been a boon for the temple, so even though it is closed, people have come to see him.’

  ‘That shall be an unexpected pleasure for me also. But I hope the temple reopens soon, so that I may view the interior before I leave.’

  ‘Even if it were to open, non-Hindus are not permitted into the temple for holy services without the express permission of the General Manager at Somnath,’ the driver was sorry to advise.

  ‘Is it difficult to obtain permission?’

  ‘Under normal circumstances, no. But I doubt the man in question would be answering his phone at present as I think most of India is chasing him for answers.’

  Getting the stones back to where they belonged wasn’t going to be quite as easy as anticipated. Jon thought that with all that was going on around the temple, quite a few of the prestigious trustees for the Somnath Trust would be in town — a few ministers, a Secretary of State and the Prime Minister of India among them. Getting a meeting might prove as difficult as trying to get inside the temple or seeking its manager.

  * * *

  The coastal village of Somnath was much smaller than Diu and its buildings in general were not as lavish. Yet the temple, constructed of Indian red sandstone, rose majestically by the sea, its architecture reflecting the talents of Gujarat’s twelfth century Hindu master masons, even though this most recent reincarnation of the temple had only been constructed in the 1950s. The main spire soared fifteen metres in height, with an eight metre flag pole on top, so it was not difficult to spot. The temple was positioned so that if you stood at the southern gate there was no landmass between Somnath and the south pole on the same longitude — a rather interesting, yet random fact that came courtesy of the coach driver.

  Jon was dropped at the guest house run by the Trust, which was more modern than he expected, and upon reporting at the rece
ption desk to check in, he was greatly relieved to be advised that a package had been delivered for him. When presented with the parcel by the hotel manager, Jon checked that the seals were intact, and as all was just as he’d left it, he signed to take possession.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Fourth floor.’ He was handed his keys by the receptionist.

  ‘Enjoy your stay in Somnath.’

  ‘I certainly shall.’ Jon headed to the elevator, package tucked securely in his hand luggage.

  The hotel appeared a new build, and Jon entered a cool room, tiled in marble and sparsely furnished with just the essentials. Behind sheer, coral-coloured curtains, a large sliding door opened to a balcony that overlooked the hotel’s magnificent fountain pools, paved area and lawns. Beyond was the Arabian Sea, and just along the shoreline towards the south the magnificent temple stood against the cloudless blue sky. The view and his accommodation were much more than he could have hoped for — he’d just booked a room at the hotel that was in closest proximity to the temple. The landmark was literally next door and about a five minute walk from where he stood.

  Glorious was the only word for it, but the midday heat drove the weary traveller back inside.

  The first order of the day was to check the jewels and then lock them away in his room safe, which he duly did. It was a huge relief to have them safely back in his possession and securely hidden. Jon fully intended to take a shower, then head back out to explore and possibly make some contacts; yet refreshed and naked, he collapsed onto the bed and promptly passed out.

  * * *

  When Jon awoke it was dark.

  ‘Oh shit.’ He sat immediately upright, hoping the Lord of his curse would not be offended by the delay. ‘A man has to sleep.’ He cast his eyes to the ceiling, palms upright in appeal.

  With trousers on, Jon stepped onto the balcony to find that even the temple lighting had dimmed, and the plaza out front had only minimal light. Clearly it was the wee hours; the breeze had dropped and it was almost cool, but still humid. Apart from some animal noises, the sound of the sea crashing ashore was all that could be heard.

  Eyes closed, Jon took several deep breaths. The warm, salty wind played with his hair, and it was no surprise that the ambience of the place was hauntingly familiar. As an Englishman born and bred he’d rather expected the humidity would bother him, but it didn’t — in fact, he found it a rather pleasant escape from London’s miserable late winter weather.

  It may have been three o’clock in the morning but Jon was wide awake and, eager to explore, he threw on a shirt and headed out for a stroll down the promenade.

  There were two ways to the temple — along the beach and via the road. The tide was in, and the temple was walled off along the beach to prevent unauthorised access, so Jon followed the road that ran down the other side of the temple walls. The holy cows had right of way here and seemingly wandered about of their own volition, leaving their droppings behind them — Jon needed to be very careful where he was treading. The tall stone walls surrounding the temple connected to a barred, spiked fence, through which the temple could be seen, surrounded by lush lawns and pathways and fronted by the large plaza. There was some low-lying lighting out front of the temple, but mostly the monument was in darkness, its grand outline traced against the cloudless night sky. This was still not the full view of the temple he’d been anticipating since he’d first decided to travel here, but it was awe-inspiring nonetheless. This mighty monument bore little resemblance to the temple that had been here in Bhaskara’s time, although it too had been hewn from stone. That temple had not stood as tall as the one he viewed now, but the ancient temple complex had covered far more territory in order to house all the orders that had once served here and to accommodate visiting royalty and other esteemed pilgrims — it had been rather more like a palace, a university and a place of worship, all rolled into one.

  Jon considered himself very fortunate to be able to make such comparisons. He may have seen many a misfortune in the several lives he’d experienced since he was last here in Somnath, but via the chair those beautiful, yet tragic memories had been transmuted into a unique gift. After all, how often was anyone able to learn from the mistakes of many lives? If only everyone could be so fortunate, the cycles of karma might be worked through so much faster. This was perhaps the very intention behind the creation of the Eyes of Karma in the first place.

  It was as Jon reached the access to the beach at the far end of the complex that he was finally led to wonder who had crafted the stones. How had they come into the possession of the temple at Somnath? Had they been a divine gift to humankind, or had the oracles of ancient India discovered their trance-inducing connection to Akasha by accident?

  Jon had come across the word ‘Akasha’ when researching the Hindu faith and this temple. Many Indian religions believed that Akasha was an all-pervading field — an etheric realm that penetrated this physical world. In these Akashic records all the events of earth — past, present and future — were imprinted. Psychics, seers, prophets and oracles tapped into this huge thought library to acquire much of their insight. It was Jon’s understanding that it was the sacred stones’ connection to Akasha that had allowed Sara and himself to glimpse their past lives together. Even though the stones had been reproductions of the original — Rosalind could make physical world matter do whatever she wanted, but clearly she was not permitted to control people and events in the same fashion.

  How the power of the Eyes of Karma had come to light had not been mentioned in any of the articles that Jon had read about this place. It was entirely possible that no one really knew their origins. But with so many ancient Vedic and Hindu scriptures still surviving, it seemed odd such an event was not committed to legend. Or perhaps all records had been destroyed during the numerous Arab raids of the past?

  As he sat on the beach Jon was fascinated by the view, for it had not really changed at all. This beach had once been part of the temple complex, but these days it played host to many snoozing camels, their handlers and stray dogs. Jon didn’t have a watch — he never wore one, and as he worked from home usually, and he’d never got used to carrying a mobile phone and had left that in his luggage in his hotel room. Still, despite his lack of technology, he felt that dawn was close as he could feel and hear the town at his back beginning to stir.

  He spied a figure walking down the beach and when he realised the man was headed right for him, he worried that he might be trespassing.

  ‘Namaskar.’ The Indian fellow placed his hands together and bowed his head to him. This Indian greeting meant, ‘The god in me honours the god in you.’

  ‘Namaskar.’ Jon stood and returned the greeting. ‘Am I not meant to be here?’

  ‘I think perhaps quite the opposite is true,’ the man, dressed simply in yellow trousers and a white shirt, allowed with a smile.

  Surely this was not the holy man he’d heard word of. ‘Are you the Sadhu?’ Jon rather doubted his hopeful assumption, given that the holy man hadn’t spoken or moved in over a week.

  ‘Oh no,’ the man was humbled by his misapprehension. ‘But it is he who sent me to ask you a question.’

  Jon was a little amused by this. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you are the only foreigner sitting on the beach right now,’ he explained.

  Looking around, Jon conceded this was true enough. ‘What is the question?’

  ‘You have changed your name since last you were in Somnath. The last time you were here you went by the name of . . .’ The man paused to await his answer, and inwardly Jon was surprised by the question, though he knew the answer.

  ‘Bhaskara,’ he stated without blinking an eye.

  ‘Follow me, please.’ The man turned and proceeded up the beach towards the plaza and the temple entrance beyond.

  As he trailed his guide, who seemed a pleasant fellow, doubt began battling Jon’s instinct — which was to trust in the path being laid before him, even if it di
d seem rather too good to be true. What if someone had learned that he had the stones? Was he about to have the truth beaten out of him? Of course he didn’t think the priests were planning to accost him, but if they’d contacted the local authorities he could be in trouble.

  As Jon was led straight through the guarded gates into the complex, he considered that if he’d had the stones in his possession right now, the curse would have been lifted, for it was here that the inscription regarding the curse had been engraved over the huge carved, wooden entrance doors that once stood here.

  When the Arab raiders had failed to find the greatest treasures of Somnath within the temple, they tore down the sandalwood gates and carted them all the way home as proof they had ransacked the great temple. The doors were hung on their leader’s tomb when he died shortly after returning home. Many centuries later the doors were returned to India, but they were never rehung at Somnath as they were considered to be impure after their long stint in Arab possession.

  The sun leaked its light across the sky and Jon was finally presented with the most outstanding view of the monument that he ever could have hoped for.

  ‘Oh my God.’ The sheer beauty of his perception stopped him in his tracks as a flock of pigeons took flight around the spire of the illuminated temple, dusted pink by the dawn.

  Jon looked to the man guiding him, whom he now had to assume was one of the local priests that were called Pujari, and were addressed as Pandit, out of respect for their learning. The caste system was still very much alive in India and the Brahman were still at the top of the hierarchy. India was the only place on earth where spirituality was primary and physical world affairs were second place. The man Jon was being led to meet was someone that even the Brahman honoured as a master, and that was humbling.

  On the landing atop the main stairs to the temple sat a man in the lotus position, a staff resting across his lap.

  Upon delivering Jon, the Pandit bowed to the Sadhu, and left without saying a word.

  The Sadhu wore a turban, and on his forehead were painted three stripes — one red, with a white stripe either side. He was wearing a simple white cotton shirt and pants, and his feet were bare. His grey hair and beard made him appear old, yet his form was slender and fit, and vitality appeared to exude from every fibre of his being. Eyes closed, and motionless, he appeared too serene to be of this world and that might well have been the case.