Pralay- The Great Deluge

by Vineet Bajpai

  ‘Do not take our counsel otherwise, A-Surya of Harappa,’ began Sura, as he poured more wine into his guest’s drinking skull.

  When he saw Vivasvan Pujari’s anger had subsided visibly, Sura threw-in his next set of dice. He knew the devta was vulnerable. This world spares no opportunity to manipulate a shattered heart and to exploit a defeated man. It extracts the last drops of life and hope from the broken, to add bricks to its ruthless palaces of ambition. But Sura was making a mistake. Yes, Vivasvan Pujari’s heart was broken. But he was far, far from being defeated.

  ‘As we have heard, the Asaptarishi can change the course of rivers. They can command the clouds to rain and read the minds of men,’ said Sura cautiously. By now he had made sure that the devta had consumed countless skull-fulls of his supremely intoxicating wine.

  ‘So all we are saying is that we cannot help but wonder why they did not come to your rescue, O mighty a-devta…’

  This was not the first time this question had cropped up in Vivasvan’s mind. He had brushed it away each time, convincing himself half-heartedly that the Saptarishi must have got a reason. But every time this biting question came back to him. And now even Sura was raising it.

  ‘They did not come to your aid when you were framed as a murderer. They did not intervene when you were condemned to the mrit-kaaraavaas. They also ignored you when you were assaulted at the courtroom,’ continued Sura, now almost certain that this slow poisoning was working.

  The last devta of Aryavarta had stopped eating. His head was bent in deep angst over the rich dinner table and his fists had tightened. Sura’s verbal venom was showing its effect.

  ‘Be that as it may, why did they not come to salvage your beloved family, especially when they knew you were not with them? They are perceivers of all the realms of time, as I hear. Nothing could have been hidden from them,’ added Prachanda, this time very carefully.

  ‘And your wife, O a-devta…we had heard so much about her piety that she was the only one we had liberated from our a-bhasha. She was the only one we called by her true name – Sanjna.’

  Lying came easy to the demon king.

  ‘She died of a poisonous arrow wound. This was not the kind of end that a lady as pious and as devoted as she was meant to meet!’ whispered Sura into the ears of a now sobbing devta.

  Vivasvan Pujari could not help but agree with everything that Sura and Prachanda were saying. He could not hold back his anger and clawing dismay against the Seven he thought would have come to his aid. His fists were now on top of one another on the table, the devta’s forehead resting on them. He was weeping profusely. He was convinced now that he had been betrayed. Betrayed by those he loved and trusted the most.

  ‘And we hear your son, the handsome boy Manu, fought valiantly,’ said Prachanda, now almost melodramatically, circling the table like a vile midget. His eyes were sparkling with the lust of a monster that knows it has cornered its prey.

  ‘Three arrows pierced through him, you said…three arrows!’ exclaimed Sura. ‘What a valiant young man! He must have remembered you in his last moments, as he would have fallen off dead from the horse he fled with. He should be avenged with the death of every son in Harappa!’

  Vivasvan Pujari was now trembling with hate. His soul mate, his beloved wife had died on a battlefield she was never meant to be on. His son had ridden off in a wounded state so grave that Vivasvan’s friend Somdutt had submitted his tearful condolences. His whole life had been shattered to pieces in a matter of hours.

  WHERE WERE THE SAPTARISHI WHEN MY WORLD WAS COMING TO AN END?

  Banaras, 2017

  TRIJAT KAPAALIK

  It looked like the army of shaitaan (Satan) himself. Thronging the Dev-Raakshasa matth right from its arched stone gateway to the precincts of the raakshasa khand, the aghori taantrics of Trijat Kapaalik swarmed every inch. The local administration, the police and the people, all emptied the streets where Trijat and his violent band marched in procession. In several cities and towns scattered across the map of the world, law enforcers avoid taking religious and spiritual cults head-on. This is done, at times, at the behest of political bigwigs. But very often, it is an outcome of real veneration.

  Dressed in nothing but animal hide, their long hair was matted into thick locks, turned orange-brown in colour over years of gory, polluted living. All 666 followers of the feared maha-taantric had sunken eyes that gave away decades of opium and charras consumption. Their bodies and faces were smeared with white ash from the burning pyres of the cremation grounds. Their mouths looked like they had all just drank blood, a crimson red from chewing tobacco and paan. Over a third of them carried massive spears, tridents and shields made of hardened leather. Their ornaments were made of human and animal bones. But worst of all, each one of them appeared to be under a wild and inexplicable spell.

  Just the mere sight of Trijat’s militia was enough to curdle the blood of even the most brave hearted among men.

  Aghora is an advanced and revered form of tantra. It finds its ancient origins in the worship of Lord Rudra. Believed by its practitioners to be a shorter route to unbridled spiritual power and even enlightenment, it has been deeply entrenched in the Indian spiritual landscape for thousands of years. Apart from complex devotional rituals, propitiations and interaction with pret-aatmas (unholy spirits) from the netherworld, it involves post-mortem sacraments that would repulse anyone uninitiated into their mystical world. The aghoris resorted to cannibalism and even intercourse with cadavers in order to achieve the occult goals only they understood. Yet this mysterious sect has been respected from a distance by millions of Indians.

  However, like all forms of power, Aghora also corrupted some of its most gifted mystics. Once an aghori taantric accomplished proficiency of the highest degree, he could wield boundless influence over souls and otherworldly beings, who then served him like slaves. Angry spirits in the form of pishachas, chudails and daakinis could extinguish an enemy in the most effortless and cruel manner. This made these aghoris priceless allies to unscrupulous politicians, industrialists, movie stars and other men of power.

  Trijat Kapaalik was the undisputed king of aghori taantrics that had abandoned the path to God for the lure of worldly wealth and dominance. He was known to be so powerful that just one step from him into a graveyard brought it bustling to life – though not as we know it. His punishing saadhanas or penances had taken him from the freezing caves of the Himalayas, to the darkest taantric monasteries of Bengal and Assam. He spent months together in various smashaan ghaats, chanting unnerving hymns and intonations, summoning the dead. As decades passed, Trijat or ‘the one with three locks of matted hair’ became Trijat Kapaalik – the latter part of his name being attributed to the human skull or kapaal that he carried strapped on his trident staff at all times. His feared followers laid the biggest and most domineering camps at holy congregations on the banks of Indian rivers. And it was at one of these melas or carnivals where a mysterious Italian man had approached Trijat many years ago.

  Dreaded by taantrics, priests and ordinary folk alike, Trijat Kapaalik soon earned various titles like Masaan-Raja or ruler of the graveyards. His followers spread the word that Trijat had such a massive army of ethereal beings, that he was actually worshipped by the demised. This earned him the title of Mritak-Naath or the deity of the dead.

  And yet the Masaan-Raja, the Mritak-Naath, the maha-taantric Trijat Kapaalik feared one man on Earth.

  He dreaded the greatest taantric on the planet. He feared the great matthadheesh, Dwarka Shastri.

  Vidyut saw his great grandfather standing tall at the center of the raakshasa khand. His flowing white and saffron robes, his rich long hair and his monarchical gaze were matched equally by the mighty trishul he held in his right hand. A light drizzle punctuated the surreal scenario, and the indomitable matthadheesh looked like a conqueror at the head of his army, staring into the face of a formidable adversary.

  Vidyut walked as fast as he could with his c
rutch, in order to join his Baba in what could turn out to be anything from a simple exchange of words, to a violent clash of men and mantras. He was relieved when, from a distance, he spotted Naina positioned next to the grandmaster already. By now the matth’s heavily armed warriors had tactically surrounded the quadrangular khand and riflemen were in position on all the watchtowers and perches of the holy complex. The highest priests of the matth were now also on the scene, equipped with their kamandals (vessels for consecrated water). Balvanta was walking shoulder to shoulder with Vidyut, his shocked initial reaction giving way to proud belligerence.

  DDHAAKK! DDHAAKK!

  THWANNG! THWANNG!

  The terrifying, earthshaking smashes and jangles continued unabated, by now a deafening roar. Vidyut saw what it was. Hundreds of Trijat’s manic disciples were thumping the staffs of their tridents on the ground in unison, followed by a synchronized double slamming of the metallic trident-heads against their battle-shields. The effect of this aggressive war cry was horrific.

  ‘Pranaam, Baba,’ said Vidyut, touching the feet of his great grandfather as he reached the center-stage of the impending confrontation.

  ‘TRIJAAAAAT…’ screamed Dwarka Shastri, his voice reverberating even across the din of the tridents and shields.

  ‘ENOOOOUGH!’ he continued.

  In a fraction of a second the entire assembly froze in pin drop silence. Even the Masaan-raja’s men could not ignore a command from the grand old matthadheesh.

  After a few moments, in the deathly quiet of the large gathering, all that could be heard was the sound of firm footsteps. This was accompanied by the jingling of heavy ghungroo or ringing-anklets and the rustle of thick garlands of bone-jewelry. The ash-smeared aghoris slowly parted in the center to make way for their overlord.

  And then he appeared. In all his glory.

  The Masaan-raja!

  East of Harappa, 1700 BCE

  THE GREATEST KING

  At the break of dawn, his horse was saddled and laden with weapons of all kinds that he had borrowed from the black-robed men and women of the mysterious mountain – scimitars, daggers, two hundred arrows, a battle axe and two spears made specially for long-distance, lethal attacks. Scorching with hate, dazed at how everything he held dear had been agonizingly obliterated in a matter of three bleeding days, Manu prepared for his final assault. He was going to ride into Harappa. Alone.

  He was going to save his beloved father. And he was going to assassinate the princess of Mohenjo-daro. Along with her husband and his very own uncle.

  The spears he carried had two names etched on them in blood.

  First was of Priyamvada the ambitious - the first queen of Harappa - who destiny was going to forever banish into the black depths of oblivion. That was going to be her final punishment.

  And the very wise Pundit Chandradhar – a man who history was to label as the fool that succumbed to an evil woman’s trickery, only to abandon righteousness and prudence…and who condemned a whole civilization to its untimely demise.

  A spear hurled by the strapping young arm of Manu Pujari was not going to miss its mark.

  ‘And where, may I ask, are you going?’

  Manu stopped as he heard this voice. He had just about mounted his steed that these words summoned him from behind. He knew instantly whose magnificent speech this was. It was the voice he was longing to hear again.

  He turned his horse around slowly, looking exactly like the marvelous warrior-prince that he was, his eyes already moistening with strange devotion towards the divine spectacle he expected to see.

  And he was right. It was he.

  Matsya.

  He glugged down Manu’s entire flask of water.

  The son of the Surya of Harappa stood there dumbfounded; his eyes locked at this man who made him sense the presence of his mother, his father and God – all at one time. In just his second meeting with Matsya, Manu seemed to have found a friend, a brother, a teacher, a confidante, a critic, a deity, a magician, a warrior, a preacher, a savior…everything!

  What Manu felt for Matsya today was not the only time it was being witnessed by Prithvi or Mother Earth. Several immortal tales of worthy devotees and their divine deities were going to shine like beacons across myth and legend - a forest-dwelling, omnipotent ‘monkey’ and the perfect prince who was the model for mankind; a gentleman archer par-excellence who lost his nerve in the face of battle with his own kin, and his spiritual reviver who spoke the ultimate truth for millennia to learn from; apostles who suffered inhuman torture just to propagate the word of their shepherd who gave his life to leave behind the message of love; or a believer who was willing to sacrifice his own son for his Lord.

  It was this very eternal bond between the devotee and the deity; between the human and the divine; between the worshipper and the Creator - that has kept this world, and all the others, going since the beginning of time.

  Manu dismounted slowly, strangely delighted that it was the second time Matsya had partaken of his water. He folded his hands and bowed deeply to the divine fish-man.

  ‘Where are you setting-off to, O great king?’ enquired Matsya again.

  Manu was once again taken aback at the manner in which Matsya had addressed him.

  ‘It appears you mistake me for someone else, O Matsya,’ replied Manu. ‘I am no king.’

  ‘Oh, but you are! You just don’t know it yet.’ Matsya was smiling again, in his typically beautiful, mysterious way. He continued, ‘we are who we are destined to be - at all times, across all universes, beyond the limitations of human senses and perception. You are the greatest king of this planet already, Manu.’

  Manu smirked in bemused irritation. Maybe Matsya was not so divine after all.

  ‘What you say will never come true, Matsya. I am going to rescue my father, avenge my family…and leave this land forever to be an ascetic.’

  ‘Hmm…interesting. And who would you be seeking when you become…what did you say…an ascetic?’

  ‘I will seek the Almighty, the Creator, of course…’

  ‘Even now you seek the Creator, Manu?’ Matsya’s eyes twinkled with childlike naughtiness combined with enigmatic power. ‘Maybe He seeks you!’

  Manu was trying hard to grope for meaning in the ambiguous words of the blue-skinned mystic. The cool morning breeze was bringing life to the surroundings. The mountains behind Manu appeared to be rising from the Earth like black titans against the pink, early-morning sky.

  ‘Why don’t we learn to value what we have close to us, O son of Sanjna? Sometimes what we pursue is not far away.’

  ‘The Surya of Harappa is dead.’

  Manu’s mouth went dry as he heard these words from Matsya’s mouth. But something inside him was refusing to believe them.

  ‘This cannot be. My great father…the mighty Vivasvan Pujari, cannot be killed. Not by an ordinary foe…not by ANY foe!’ retorted Manu.

  Deep down, however, he knew the odds were stacked steeply against his father. Manu’s last hope was to rescue Vivasvan Pujari. But after his own escape from the battlefield at the insistence of his comrades, the survival chances of Somdutt, Tara and their last few men were almost non-existent. As far as he knew, there was no one left to rescue Vivasvan Pujari.

  My father died without a single friend in all of Harappa.

  ‘How…did my father, the great Vivasvan Pujari, meet his end?’ asked Manu. By now his tears had all but dried up. He had endured such limitless physical and emotional suffering in the last few days that his pain had now begun to metamorphose into a hardened soul.

  ‘The Surya of Harappa succumbed to his wounds…and to his hate,’ replied Matsya.

  Manu slumped to his left knee, rested his arm on his right leg and lowered his head, mourning and praying in silence for his departed father.

  He had not noticed that not once had Matsya taken Vivasvan Pujari’s name. He never said Vivasvan Pujari was dead. He only informed Manu that the ‘Surya of Harappa’ was no mor
e.

  And he was right.

  Only Matsya knew what he was doing. And for the victory of dharma over adharma, of good over evil, He would do this over and over again. Millennia apart from this day, He would tell a sparring father that his only son had fallen in battle, when it was really a war-elephant that had been killed. Today he was informing a warring son that his beloved father was dead, when, in fact, it was Vivasvan Pujari’s goodness that had perished.

  Only Matsya could glance far into cosmic time. He was engineering the preservation of this universe’s greatest creation – the human race.

  Manu was needed for a far greater cause than his own vengeance.

  Banaras, 2017

  KAPAAL ARPAN

  ‘Bhakt Trijat ka pranaam sweekaar karein, gurudev!’

  ‘Please accept salutations from your devotee Trijat, gurudev!’

  As he said these words, Trijat Kapaalik drew wide semicircles with his arms before joining them in a grand namaskaar to the matthadheesh. Melodrama was Trijat’s perpetual companion, but never did it temper the ferocity of his chilling presence.

  ‘What brings you here, Masaan-raja?’ asked Dwarka Shastri.

  ‘Just the desire of your darshana, gurudev,’ replied Trijat deviously. ‘But please don’t call me that. As long as you are in Kashi, who can rule the netherworld but you?’

  Suddenly Trijat’s gaze shifted to Vidyut. He glared deep into Vidyut’s eyes, his head tilted crookedly to one side. It was now that the devta fully beheld the maha-taantric.

  Trijat was a fearsome sight. Not very tall, he still appeared to be a giant of sorts. Nearly ten inches were added to his height by the massive, conical bun in which his matted brown hair was arranged on top of his head – a popular coiffure among the taantrics. The rest of his hair was separated into two sets of thick locks, long enough to reach well below his waist. His eyes were meticulously made-up with a deep red vermillion paste, making them glow starkly against the rest of his white, ash-smeared face. His long beard had streaks of grey hair, the only indicators of Trijat’s age. He wore several garlands of human teeth, bones and fingernails, interspersed with animal bones and astrological gemstones. He donned over twenty large rings on his thumbs and fingers, which ominously clasped his long, black, fire-burnt trident. But the ghastliest feature of Trijat’s macabre persona was the human skull fastened to his staff. The skull had all its teeth intact, and its mouth was open as if it were guffawing hideously.