Pralay- The Great Deluge

by Vineet Bajpai

  ‘Send your great grandson back to where he comes from, gurudev,’ said Trijat politely, his overpowering eyes menacingly defying that fake courtesy.

  Dwarka Shastri was stunned upon hearing these words. He could not believe that Trijat Kapaalik could dare to take Vidyut’s name. Even before the matthadheesh could react, Balvanta lunged forward at the maha-taantric, half-drawing his gleaming machete. Vidyut held him back by the arm, but even as he did that, Trijat’s militia responded in an unexpected way. Two terrifying looking women with messy, entangled hair slowly stepped forward and positioned themselves next to the Mritak-naath. The faces of these petrifying twins looked morbid like those of corpses, but their bloodshot eyes were looking provocatively at Balvanta, challenging him to make a move.

  Vidyut could swear these two were the most horrifying creatures he had seen in real life. While Trijat’s entire band looked like goblins, the spine-chilling appearance of these two dwarfed them all. They looked like they both would have been beautiful girls before they transformed into this ghastly avatar. They reminded Vidyut, Naina, Purohit ji and Dwarka Shastri of the description of pishachinis in the occult scriptures. They breathed heavily, as if under the influence of a dark spell or that of a powerful intoxicant. Their eyes were rolled-up, and mouths perpetually open. Their bosoms and legs were clothed in dirty rags of leather, with the rest of their bodies rubbed with cremation ash. In a moment Vidyut could decipher that the twisted tattoos on their arms and necks were the most terrifying verses from the dreaded Garuda Puraana, the ancient scripture that spells out the horrific punishments doled out to the dead in hell. Blunt sickles still stained with coagulated blood dangled from the waists of these two demented beings.

  ‘You have crossed your boundaries by uttering the name of my great grandson Vidyut from your foul mouth, Kapaalik. If you were not a worshipper of Rudra, today you would have joined your army of the dead.’

  Dwarka Shastri was trembling with rage.

  ‘Forgive me, gurudev. I only speak of his safety. Vidyut is the saviour, isn’t he? He should not be subjected to the risks that lurk all around this matth.’

  Trijat was once again looking straight at Vidyut. It was as if he was trying to assess whether Vidyut was really what he had been told. For all his darkness and sins, the Masaan-raja did possess powers unknown to ordinary humans. After a few brief moments, he took his eyes away. The inexplicable honesty and radiance on Vidyut’s face were disturbing him. He was convinced.

  It is he.

  ‘Leave now, Trijat,’ growled Balvanta.

  Trijat turned to look at Balvanta, and broke into a mad laugh. His men responded with their typical act of aggression.

  DDHAAKK! DDHAAKK!

  THWANNG! THWANNG!

  Suddenly Trijat stopped laughing and raised his hand. His followers immediately obeyed their overlord. The crashing reverberations stopped instantly.

  Trijat turned back to Dwarka Shastri, placed his black trishul between himself and the great matthadheesh, and pulled out the ill-omened skull. Raising the skull to the level of Dwarka

  Shastri’s eyes, he bowed and offered it to the grandmaster.

  ‘Kapaal arpan sweekaar karein, gurudev,’ he said.

  ‘Please accept this skull-offering, gurudev.’

  Dwarka Shastri did not flinch.

  ‘Leave now, Trijat,’ he said.

  Trijat Kapaalik looked up with a jerk, evidently hurt. It was yet another dramatic act from the maha-taantric.

  ‘You refuse my greatest offering, gurudev?’ he asked, pretending to be startled and disappointed. ‘You turn down my kapaal arpan?’

  ‘Leave!’ roared the matthadheesh. Vidyut put his arm around his Baba, hoping to calm him down. He noticed that the two devilish sisters had quietly vanished into the crowd of aghoris. He was relieved, to say the least.

  Trijat stared back at Dwarka Shastri, with hate and defiance written all over his face. It was for the first time since he had entered the Dev-Raakshasa matth that Trijat had shown his true color.

  ‘Kapaal arpan toh hoga aaj, prabhu,’ hissed Trijat. ‘Kapaal arpan toh hoga…’

  ‘The skull-offering will happen today for sure, my lord.’

  Vidyut could not understand what Trijat meant. Even the great Dwarka Shastri was bewildered. But he knew this was not something to be taken lightly. Trijat was never to be taken lightly.

  The Masaan-raja, the Mritak-naath, the maha-taantric, Trijat Kapaalik bowed reverentially to Dwarka Shastri and turned to leave.

  ‘We must speak,’ said Dwarka Shastri to Vidyut, as the army of aghoris made its way out of the compound.

  ‘Yes Baba, I have been looking forward to that very eagerly. There is so much I need to know and hear from you.’

  The matthadheesh nodded. ‘Join me in my cottage after dusk today, my son.’

  ‘Sure Baba, I will be there,’ replied Vidyut. ‘But I have one question for now…’

  Dwarka Shastri stood listening.

  ‘What did this Trijat fellow mean when he said that kapaal-arpan or the skull-offering will happen today?’

  The matthadheesh looked worried as he replied, ‘it means something terrible is about to unfold, Vidyut. Trijat Kapaalik is an extremely dangerous man. We should be on guard.’

  Vidyut and Balvanta decided to continue their conversation with Bala. Sending Sonu ahead to unlock the prison cell, they followed in silence. The meeting with Trijat Kapaalik had been taxing for everyone. The only thing that Vidyut was relieved about was that Bala was talking freely. Even after everything that had happened, something told him he would be able to bring his old friend back into the fold of righteousness.

  As they reached the corridor outside the prison cell, a shivering Sonu greeted them. He looked like he had seen a ghost! Even before Vidyut and Balvanta could ask him anything, Sonu rushed to a corner and vomited repeatedly.

  The door of the cell was half open, with an eerie glow from the overhead lamp illuminating a part of the corridor. Vidyut was looking at Sonu with concern when he felt Balvanta tapping on his shoulders. As Vidyut turned, Balvanta silently pointed to the lock of the door. It had not been unlocked with a key. It hung broken.

  Has Bala escaped?

  Both Vidyut and Balvanta now rushed to the prison cell and Balvanta kicked the heavy metallic door open, his machete ready for an attack.

  What they saw froze their nerves.

  The prison floor and walls were sprayed with blood, a terrifying evidence of the violent struggle that would have ensued there.

  Under the cold white light of the overhead lamp, the steel table that Bala had used to place his glass of rum, was dripping with human blood. And there, on top of the table, clearly displaying the work of blunt sickles – it sat.

  The decapitated head of Bala.

  Its eyes were rolled up completely and its mouth was open like the skull on Trijat’s trident.

  Vidyut now understood. Those words were ringing in his mind.

  ‘Kapaal arpan toh hoga aaj, prabhu…’

  ‘The skull-offering will happen…’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  THE MOUNTAINS OF MAYHEM

  He stood atop the highest mound of brick and bronze, stalking the Harappan soldiers and workers like a hungry vulture waiting for a feast. The night was dark, and Vivasvan Pujari was going to cast his first die of revenge – a die soaked in blood.

  Climatic conditions across the vast Harappan settlements had been deteriorating rapidly ever since the first tremble of the Earth and the violent upsurge of the Saraswati had unleashed itself on the unsuspecting plains and its millions of dwellers. The days began to last only a couple of hours, as fearsome nights engulfed a large part of the daily cycle. The Saraswati swelled in size inexplicably with every passing hour, its ocean-like waters flooding hundreds of bankside villages and drowning thousands of peasants and livestock. Hardly anyone referred to the River of the Wise as the Saraswati anymore. Her name had changed and stuck. She was now the Rakt-Dhaa
ra – the Blood River! Thunder, lashing rains and unabated dust storms crippled life across known Aryavarta. Everyone was convinced that someone among them had committed a very dark sin – and the Gods were going to strike them down with their wrath. Little did they know, that by being the spectators of and accomplices in the torture of the devta, they were all perpetrators of unpardonable decadence.

  Intoxication from the defiling potion of the Mesopotamian black-magicians, Gun, Ap and Sha, was now beginning to wear off. Even though not fully back to their peaceful and dignified selves, Harappan citizens were gradually getting released from the cruel savageness that had consumed them over the last three days. Murmurs of the injustice meted out to their Surya could now be heard from various corners. Even tears of repentance were now flowing from some eyes. But it was all too late. Sanjna was no more. Manu was presumably dead. And the Surya had now contorted into a grotesque harbinger of destruction and death.

  The plight of the now helpless Harappans was painful. On the one hand they could see their end approaching, and on the other they had nowhere to go. They knew that without a life-giving river to support agriculture, fishing and even drinking water, it was impossible to establish a new colony. Travellers, who rode a couple of hundred yojanas to the east, had always returned with tales of drought and dust. There was no escaping their ghastly fate. Mothers held their little ones close through the shrieking nights. Fathers assembled frantically to find a way to save their loved ones, only to return frustrated. Every home, every temple of Harappa was now turning to yajnas and prayers, begging the Gods for forgiveness and redemption.

  But the Gods were not going to yield. These erring humans had tried to black out their Surya in a collective fit of madness.

  And the darkened Sun was stalking them from a high perch, preparing to burn them with his fury.

  ‘At least a thousand of them,’ said Prachanda to Vivasvan, shouting at the top of his voice to be audible in the violently windy night. ‘And this is the night shift. During the day they are more than double of this.’

  Vivasvan nodded, without worrying too much about the numbers Prachanda was cautioning him about. His eye was marking his targets – Harappan soldiers that were in tactical positions around the construction site more than two hundred meters below, the area illuminated by industrial torches and bonfires struggling to stay lit in the storm. Over the last three days he had made the mistake of holding back his real supremacy in inflicting mortal damage, and had lost everything in the bargain. He was not going to repeat that blunder. Harappa was going to face the full heat of the devta’s declaration of war.

  ‘I will do the bhanjee, the advanced vertical leap,’ said Vivasvan.

  Prachanda and his handful of men went numb for a moment as they heard these words. The plan was to capture the material, equipment and workers that were building the mountains of brick and bronze under orders from Pundit Chandradhar, the new king of Harappa. This ill-fated king was following the plan originally envisioned by Vivasvan Pujari, to use man-made ranges to divert the ominously shifting Saraswati. But what use is a blueprint without its masterful architect?

  ‘Bring me the longest ropes of animal hide that you have. We have very little time,’ continued Vivasvan, ignoring the expressions of disbelief on the faces of his newfound aides.

  ‘But Avivasvan, this fall is too steep. No one has done the bhanjee jump before from such a height. Either the rope will give way or you will smash into the ground at the speed of an arrow!’

  Bhanjee or obstacle leap was a known practice in Harappa, and even in the kingdom of the Asuras. It was used primarily for stealth assassinations. But the height, from which these jumps were made with a leather rope tied to the waist of the attacker, was never more than the top of a tall tree or the roof of a three-storied building. What Vivasvan Pujari was proposing to do was unheard of, and far too perilous.

  He was ready. A rope that he had carefully measured and tied to his waist himself was anchored around a massive block of brick and bronze. His left thigh had a quiver stuffed with lethal arrows, each arrow gently glued at its tip to the quiver – so as to not fall out unless pulled by the devta.

  ‘As soon as I hit the ground after my third or fourth rebound, command your foot soldiers to surround the entire area. Kill the soldiers that resist and chain up the rest. They will also be harnessed into this massive project.’

  Prachanda and his men nodded in agreement.

  Before jumping off the cliff, deep down into the heart of the Harappan troops, Vivasvan Pujari decided to unleash panic in the enemy ranks. To the awe of the asura troops by his side, Vivasvan pulled out four arrows at one time. He masterfully placed them on his bow, took aim and shot all the arrows at once. Even while the first volley of arrows was in the air, the devta pulled out and shot another four. And then another. The lightning speed and accuracy of his archery was dazzling for the asura soldiers and their senapati Prachanda. In a flash the devta’s arrows had found their mark, and twelve Harappan soldiers were pierced through. They fell from their high and low vantage points together.

  The devta now took a few steps back and then raced off the edge of the cliff, jumping and flying down as gracefully as a diving hawk. As he dropped at increasing speed pulled by the Earth’s gravity, he shot two more torrents of arrows, finding his mark with every shot. There was instant commotion in the Harappan troops, as they saw their soldiers crumbling all around them. And suddenly some of them saw a one-eyed ghost that pounced on them from the sky, only to vanish in a jiffy! Now all hell broke loose. Labourers carrying bricks and pulling stone blocks now dropped everything and began to flee. More arrows came shrieking out of nowhere, unnerving Harappan infantrymen that were on duty.

  Prachanda was watching the proceedings with fear and admiration like he had never felt for anyone before. Not even for his valiant king Sura.

  ‘He is one against one thousand, and yet he is winning!’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘He is truly half-human, half-God…’

  It was all over in less than one movement of the Sun-clock. Vivasvan Pujari had decimated nearly a hundred soldiers even before he finally cut himself loose using his sword and landed on the ground. He was surrounded by twenty or more Harappan soldiers, all of whom he hacked to pieces in a matter of moments. The haste at which the devta wielded his sword made it nothing more than a blur for the enemy – the last blur they ever saw.

  Sura rode-in into the center of the scene, with his soldiers now beheading or tying-up their Harappan counterparts. The short and swift battle had been won.

  The asura king dismounted and walked up to Vivasvan Pujari, who was leaning against a boulder, his arms resting on his sword that stood proudly in front of him. The Ratna-Maru was dripping with blood.

  ‘You are beyond comparison, O great a-devta!’ said Sura as he bowed to Vivasvan Pujari. There was no one else in the world Sura had bowed to before. ‘History will never forget you.’

  ‘History is precisely what I am going to erase, Sura,’ replied Vivasvan.

  Sura knew what Vivasvan meant. He let the devta continue.

  ‘No one is going to remember me. But more importantly…

  No one will ever know what happened to Harappa.’

  ‘So what is the plan now?’ asked Prachanda. They were gathered around a crackling bonfire.

  ‘Bring the head engineer of this site to me,’ said Vivasvan.

  In a few moments a middle-aged man, looking terribly frightened, was brought before the devta. He knew who Vivasvan Pujari was. Everyone in Harappa knew who Vivasvan Pujari was. The head engineer vaguely remembered seeing the Surya of Harappa being skinned alive at the Great Bath a couple of days ago. As if from a scene of an indistinct dream, he somehow pictured himself pelting this great man with a stone. He remembered laughing manically, delighted at the prospect of the great Vivasvan Pujari dying an animal’s death. And here he was, in front of the Surya, full of reverence and repentance. It wasn’t the poor man’s fault.
When the invisible hand of the universe etches misfortune on the pages of mankind’s destiny, even the pious are consumed by the venom of immorality.

  Vivasvan noticed the man shivering with fear and asked him gently, ‘what is the objective of this massive undertaking, my friend?’

  The trembling man replied, ‘to…to…to deter the course of the Rakt-Dhaara away from Harappa, my lord.’

  ‘Good,’ said Vivasvan. ‘There is just a small change of plan.’

  Everyone was listening, including the head engineer.

  ‘From this moment on, instead of diverting the Saraswati away from Harappa, we will make sure we turn it towards the wretched city!’

  Banaras, 2017

  ‘WE MADE HIM A MONSTER’

  The beautiful, pillar-like dome of the Dhamek Stupa at Sarnath stood right in front of them. Despite being a sanctum of peace and spirituality, it was somehow failing to offer any balm of respite to the two shattered minds and souls that sat facing it.

  Damini was inconsolable, frightened and distraught. Vidyut sat motionless, his face cast in stone.

  ‘Vidyut, promise me you will not do anything silly in your anger,’ insisted Damini. She could see Vidyut was burning with rage.

  Vidyut did not respond. Damini could see his teeth clench in indignant fury. She knew that by committing the grisly act of a brutal murder in the precincts of the Dev-Raakshasa matth, Trijat had thrown the gauntlet towards Vidyut.