Pralay- The Great Deluge

by Vineet Bajpai

  Their perverted design began to unleash itself on the planet. Decade after decade, century after century they funded revolutions and civil unrests. Some of the world’s biggest wars were fought with both sides being funded and fuelled by the secret Order. Human lives mean nothing to them. They believe they are a superior race that is obliged to rule the rest of humanity.’

  Vidyut was concentrating hard. He wanted to grasp every word, every fact and every nuance of this mysterious and grim force. A slow realization was seeping into him.

  The New World Order had to be stopped.

  ‘What were the other forms and identities that the Order masked itself behind, Baba? You said they kept changing their outward appearance.’

  ‘Yes Vidyut. The most powerful form of the Order after the

  Knights Templar was the Illuminati.’

  Illuminati...I have heard of this.

  ‘And the Illuminati was not the only one – there were several others. There was the Rosicrucian Group, the Skull and Bones Society, the Freemasons...to name the major ones among the brotherhoods.’

  Dwarka Shastri sighed. He looked visibly tired.

  ‘I will tell you all about them some other time, Vidyut,’ he said. ‘That will take a lot of energy.’

  Vidyut understood. He kicked himself for pushing his great grandfather too much. He remembered that Dwarka Shastri had recently recovered from a near-fatal illness.

  ‘Of course, Baba. Just one last question...again,’ he insisted.

  Dwarka Shastri smiled and nodded, permitting Vidyut to ask what he had in mind.

  ‘If this Order is powerful enough to influence global wars, if it is capable of controlling the world’s economy, if it has Presidents and billionaires as members, how can they be even bothered about our existence? Why would they want to kill a man as insignificant as me? If they have controlled the world for centuries and are set to establish their totalitarian regime in the future, who are we for them?

  ‘That is not one question, Vidyut. Those are many questions. That too questions that will take time to answer in detail. For now know this – these exceptionally gifted, misdirected geniuses have a very deep and intricate understanding of the influence of divinity on this planet. They are privy to ancient secrets and unlike ordinary humans, they know that an umbilical cord connects our world to the supreme power that rules the universe. Like I have said before, they are not afraid of us. They are afraid of what lies in the Black Temple.’

  The matthadheesh could notice mild irritation on Vidyut’s face. The secret of the Black Temple had not been shared with Vidyut and it was unfair to keep bringing it up. But the time had not yet come. To pacify his great grandson for the moment, Dwarka Shastri decided to share one extra piece of information.

  ‘Vidyut, an ancient prophecy connects you to the Black Temple. What lies buried there for centuries is a secret most precious to all of mankind. It is something everyone has heard of, but no one expects it to really happen. But it will. And the overlords of the Order know this.

  If they kill you, they can change the future.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  THE LAST PRINCESS OF MOHENJO-DARO

  She stood at her grand window, staring out into the wailing, frightening night. Her large, beautiful eyes were moist with an excruciating concoction of melancholy, guilt and fear. Ever since the Surya was skinned and tortured, ever since the sand of Harappa was defiled with the pious drops of San-jna’s blood, ever since a young son was pierced mercilessly with poisoned arrows – the heavens had scowled with fury. They wept and showered Aryavarta with unending cloudbursts. The skies were roaring like a celestial demon, ready to swallow the Earth. Birds had flown away from the rooftops of Harappa and dogs howled all night like werewolves. Cries of sleepless, frightened children and hushed prayers of their helpless parents could be heard from every home.

  Her face was dripping wet as the rain splattered it. Her enchanting red lips and razor-sharp features looked breathtaking, every time lightning lit her up into a white statue. But she did not believe so. Every time thunder struck, she imagined her face contorted like that of a grotesque daakini. Her self-inflicting illusion was nothing but a reflection of how she perceived herself now.

  This is what I have become. A daakini.

  News of the mountains of brick and bronze being taken by the asuras had reached her ears. She knew the ghost-like devta leading the mayhem. She had also received a detailed account of what had transpired in the rain of blood.

  I am being punished for my sins. My noble husband will share my cursed fate. The people of Harappa will perish for my evil deeds. The kingdom I so craved shall get swept away in this torrent.

  I will be the last, wretched queen of Harappa.

  I will be the last princess of Mohenjo-daro.

  ‘Don’t touch me, my lord!’ reacted Priyamvada, as her husband, Pundit Chandradhar tried to draw her away from the window. She had been standing there, braving the cold rain as if it did not exist, for hours together. Her long, silken hair was drenched, thrown back straight down to her slender waist. Her hands were trembling continuously.

  ‘Come back in, Priyamvada. You will fall sick. There is nothing out there...’ said Chandradhar.

  She stood still, as if she did not hear what Chandradhar had said. Then she slowly turned to look at him.

  ‘He will come for us, won’t he my lord? I hear he has become a ghost. Vivasvan Pujari will come for both of us...’

  Chandradhar clenched his teeth to fight his mortal fear. Priyamvada was right.

  ‘He will not, my dear. He has lost an eye, is grievously wounded and our home is defended by five hundred troops.’

  Priyamvada smiled crookedly and then broke into a horrible laughter. She continued laughing for several long moments like a lovely yet manic witch. Her laugh drowned under the shattering thunder every few seconds, and she looked haunting with her guffawing head thrown back under the blinding glare of lightning.

  ‘You know we are both dead, Pundit Chandradhar! You know he will tear through these soldiers in no time. We are both dead already, Chandradhar!’ she screamed in the midst of her lunatic laugh.

  Chandradhar knew Priyamvada was not wrong. No man in his army could stop Vivasvan Pujari.

  Except one.

  Chandradhar himself.

  While he understood he was no match for the devta, he knew he could resist him long enough for Priyamvada to be sent to safety. His beloved wife was all he had left in this whole world.

  What Pundit Chandradhar did not know was that Vivasvan Pujari was not going to come after just his queen and him. True to the chilling words the devta had screamed out while being tortured at the Great Bath, he was coming for every man, woman, child, animal, bird and insect of Harappa.

  And it was not going to be a sword fight.

  Banaras, 2017

  ‘TRIJAT WILL WAKE THE DEAD ’

  A day later Balvanta and Vidyut were successful in convincing Prof Tripathi to drive to the Dev-Raakshasa matth with them. While the professor resisted initially, the rare chance of meeting the great Dwarka Shastri was incentive enough for him to agree.

  Any taantric worth his salt could never let go of this opportunity. Just being in the presence of Dwarka Shastri was a penance of sorts. The aura of the matthadheesh was enough to exponentially multiply the inner energy of a yogi, enough to fill the spiritual kamandal of a taantric or Naga sadhu or even an aghori.

  Prabhat Tripathi fell at the feet of the grandmaster. In an unusual display of affection, the matthadheesh lifted the professor from his prostrate posture and wrapped him in a warm embrace. Vidyut could see they were two people who loved and respected each other. The professor of course was behaving as if he were a devotee in a temple, facing his deity.

  ‘I have advised them against it, guruji,’ said the academician from B.H.U.

  Dwarka Shastri nodded, as he gestured to Naina to serve some more chivda-matar (spiced rice-flakes with peppercorn) snack to
Prof Tripathi.

  ‘So what do you suggest we do, Brahmanand?’ asked Dwarka Shastri.

  Vidyut, Naina and Sonu exchanged glances. None of them could make head or tail of what the matthadheesh had addressed Prof Tripathi as. To make matters worse, the professor seemed to not even bat an eyelid and responded like nothing was out of place.

  ‘Guruji, who can claim to know Trijat better than you? You know he is capable. And you know he is capable of anything. Moreover, in the past I have never known or even imagined him to have the courage to enter the Dev-Raakshasa matth in your presence, let alone commit a gruesome, ritual beheading! Clearly, somebody is backing him. Someone so indescribably powerful that the Masaan-raja feels he can take even you head-on. This is not normal, guruji. Something is very wrong here.’

  Vidyut was making note of every word, every statement being spoken.

  Guruji, who can claim to know Trijat better than you?

  What was that? Why will Baba know Trijat better than others?

  Ritual beheading?

  Brahmanand?

  ‘There has to be a weak point, Tripathi ji,’ asked Balvanta. ‘There always is! You just need to guide us to it and we will do the rest. We will storm that citadel of pishachas!’

  Vidyut noticed that the polite professor, the erstwhile aghori taantric appeared to be under visible duress because of this barrage of questions. He decided to ease the one-eyed gentleman into the conversation.

  He was also a bit wary of the riddles associated with his great grandfather. How long was it going to take him to uncover all the mysteries and secrets that lurked behind every corner and every individual even distantly connected to this ancient monastery?

  ‘Tripathi ji, why did you part ways with TK?’

  The professor’s face turned to one filled with hate, but he did not respond. There was an amused silence in the sunny verandah. Half the people in the grandmaster’s patio could not understand what Vidyut had just asked. The half that did could not believe how Vidyut could use a casual, bordering on humorous abbreviation for someone as gruesome as Trijat Kapaalik.

  None of them had an idea about the primordial fire of vendetta that was raging in Vidyut’s heart.

  Only Dwarka Shastri did.

  And Brahmanand.

  With the reluctant permission of the grandmaster, two glasses of bhang thandai had opened up the professor like a library book.

  Much against the common stereotype of someone like the grandmaster of the Dev-Raakshasa matth, Dwarka Shastri attached minimal importance to worldly pleasures like marijuana, cannabis or alcohol. He knew that any accomplished yogi’s soul was far beyond the reach of these ephemeral substances. A true ascetic was in a state of constant bliss.

  You do know that Trijat’s yajnashaala is built on a primeval graveyard? It has been laid on a vast burial and funeral ground established as a result of the great battles that raged for the control of this prehistoric, precious city. It is weird how from ancient Indian kings like Ajaatashatru to medieval monarchs like Qutb-ud-din Aibak and Razia Sultana, every emperor had an unexplained affinity to the city of Banaras. Some wanted to protect and proliferate it. Others wanted to raze it to the ground.’

  What was it about this city?

  ‘Anyhow,’ the professor continued, ‘the reason why Trijat chose that place is because it is infested with pishachas and daayans – angry spirits of those who met untimely deaths and died in great pain during the wars. He summons them and draws boundless dark powers from the netherworld through them as a medium. So when you think of attacking his compound, remember it will be more than a battle between men.

  Trijat will wake the dead!’

  Vidyut and his loyal fellowship were quiet. Almost at the same instant, they all turned to the one man that was beyond doubt the supreme occult overlord on Earth. The one man in the world who could summon even a Brahma Raakshasa into himself. The intense yogi who could beckon hundreds of holy men to join forces even in the darkness of the night.

  The only param-taantric who could vanquish the maha-taantric Trijat Kapaalik.

  They all turned to the grand old man – Dwarka Shastri.

  The matthadheesh had his eyes closed. He was in deep meditation. An expert yogi could go into meditative trance instantly. An advanced practitioner of taantric-vidya himself, Vidyut could see what his great grandfather was trying to do.

  He was mentally studying the planetary positions and the nakshatras.

  He was choosing the perfect hour for the assault.

  East of Harappa, 1700 BCE

  SATARUPA

  ‘I have read about it in the Vedas, O Matsya – more specifically in the ancient Satpatha Brahmana,’ said Manu.

  ‘And you still think Pralay is just some theoretical concept, do you, Satyavrata?’ asked Matsya.

  Manu was a little vexed at this new name Matsya had coined for him out of nowhere.

  ‘Matsya, my friend, my brother, my mentor...why do you address me as Satyavrata ever since this dark night lit up in a blue flash a few times hours ago?’

  Matsya stared deep into Manu’s eyes.

  Because the curse has been spelled out. The sixth Saptarishi has spoken from the core of the blue fire. Vidhi ka vidhaan - the inerasable writing of destiny - has been inscribed.

  ‘That is not important, Manu. Do you think Pralay is a myth?’

  ‘Of course not, Matsya. How can a Veda like the Satpatha Brahmana be wrong?’

  Tara had stood motionless when she saw her Manu. She still wore heavy battle armor. Her wounds still bled. She was wet as a fish, and was shivering in the cold, windy night. But her eyes sparkled like they always did – like dazzling gems delicately embedded in a magnificent, sculpted face. She was crying, no doubt, but not really breaking down.

  Tara was a very strong person.

  Manu and Tara were competitors as children. They competed against each other for everything – archery, riding, Vedic mathematics, unarmed combat, the scriptures...and even for the outdoor games they played with other children of the neighbourhood. Tara always won. She, along with eight other parent-less children, was handpicked by Sanjna to reside at the small hostel within the Shastri household. They were taken care of like family, and were trained and taught by the great Vivasvan Pujari himself. They all grew up into impressive young women and men, having imbibed all the virtues and all the talents imparted to them by the devta.

  As they grew from quarreling kids to shy teenagers, Manu and Tara had chosen one another. They never spoke about it, though sometimes their eyes did for a brief moment or two. They never touched each other. Yet they just knew. So did Vivasvan and Sanjna. They could sense the sweetly amorous attraction between these two wonderful youngsters and had wishfully imagined the beautiful Tara as the bride that would knock over the traditional vessel of rice and step into their home one day – to partner Manu as his wife and soul mate.

  ‘You made it, Manu...’ she said to the love of her life. ‘You made it!’

  Manu walked towards her, slowly at first...before breaking into an impatient jog. He ran and grasped her in his arms. He held her in a tight embrace, quietly swearing to the universe that he would never let go of her now. Never!

  ‘My Tara...’ was all he could whisper.

  Tara could no longer hold her tears back. Seeing her man alive, nestled in his arms and hearing him take her name in a manner as loving as she never knew before, she could not retain her composure. She dug her face into Manu’s chest, wrapped her arms around him and wept.

  And wept.

  Tara was a very strong person.

  But she was, after all, also just a nineteen-year-old girl who needed what every human needs most. Love.

  Tara and Manu stood on that dark, lonely cliff, against the cruel and frightening sky, braving the lashing rain. They just stood there, soaking in each other’s presence.

  It was a strange sight for Matsya, who was watching them from a sliver in the cave wall. He had witnessed this before, in an
other eon, in another galaxy, on a somewhat similar planet in a parallel Brahmannd (universe). Over and over again. There were Manus and Taras in all universes. And Vishnu watched over them all.

  Love existed across the cosmos as the most potent and indefatigable force. In the middle of all the destruction and all the death around them, despite all that was already lost and all that was being threatened into oblivion, notwithstanding the hate and the violence that surrounded them, irrespective of the fall of devtas and the decimation of cities, they stood there. Immersed in each other’s love.

  That is when Matsya remembered how and why the Creator envisaged mankind. Why it was God’s greatest work, an extension of God Himself. He smiled at this masterpiece of a species that carried within it a trace of God’s divinity. Which is why you could take away their homes, their lands, their loved ones, their wealth and everything they held dear. But you could never take away one thing from human beings.

  Hope.

  Matsya sat at the head of the meeting that was convened around a comforting wood fire. Somdutt, Tara and their handful of brave companions were by this time fed and rested.

  It was time for them to brace themselves for what was coming.

  And to play their part.

  It was to a packed house that Matsya spoke. The mountain-guardians and their leader, several of the fish-folk from Matsya’s band, Somdutt, Tara, their warriors – everyone was present. Matsya had wanted it to be so. And as the radiant blue man had expected, it was with roars of disbelief and gasps of fear that the declaration was greeted.

  ‘It is inevitable, Somdutt. Pralay will destroy everything as we know it. Have no doubt in your mind.’

  Matsya was speaking plainly, clearly. He knew this was not the time to honey-coat anything.

  It was Somdutt who stood up and urged the gathering to quiet down. While he had heard the most ominous words of his life from this person called Matsya, the great architect was unable to take his eyes off this man glowing a mellow sapphire under his fish skin robes. Somdutt had seen the world. He had met and worked with the greatest of men from Harappa, Mohenjo-daro and Lothal, right up to Kashi, Mesopotamia and even with the great Pharaohs of the far land of the Pyramids. He had had the good fortune of even being a close friend of none other than the devta of Harappa. But even Vivasvan Pujari’s luminosity was no match for the inexplicable magnetism of this man. Something told Somdutt he was something else. Matsya was something more, something greater than any man he had seen. No...he was something greater than even a devta!