Pralay- The Great Deluge

by Vineet Bajpai

  In his fast blurring view he saw a one-eyed monster and recognized him instantly. Grinning like an insane psychopath, the glasses of Prof Tripathi were gone. His blind eye showed the pink flesh of his hollow socket. He looked as gruesome as the daakinis.

  As Vidyut fell unconscious, he heard the last words from Brahmanand echo.

  Paataal mein tumhara swaagat hai, devta!’

  Welcome to hell, devta!

  East of Harappa, 1700 BCE

  MANU’S ARK

  ‘But what kind of a boat do you want us to build, O Matsya? And why do we have to build a new one? There are thousands of large ships at the ports. If we reach there in time, we can acquire several of those vessels.’

  Somdutt was bewildered when Matsya had asked him to be the chief architect of a giant Ark.

  There was silence in the room. Manu, Tara, the leader of the mountain-guardians and everyone else present appeared to agree with Somdutt. The need to build something anew when the skies were so unrelenting, when keeping eyes open against the lashing wind was impossible, when the hearts of both man and beast were frozen with fear, was something they did not concur with.

  Matsya got up and looked out of a natural window in the rocky wall. He saw the thunderous sky that was turning increasingly red. Raindrops pattered on his stunning blue face.

  The time has come.

  ‘As far as Aryavarta is concerned, it is the end of the world.’

  Matsya knew the time had come when he shared with everyone else what he had briefly described to Manu.

  ‘Pardon me, but what do you mean by end of the world, Matsya? The Earth is more vast than any of us can imagine. Surely there would be regions that are out of the grip of this deluge?’ enquired Somdutt, quite logically.

  He was forgetting that the cosmos was created millions of years before human logic appeared on the scene. That the logic of the Creator who oversaw billions of galaxies and trillions of planets like Earth, was a bit more comprehensive and all-encompassing than his own.

  Matsya turned around from the window. Lightning lit up the sky into daylight, as if bowing to Matsya and illuminating the words he was about to speak.

  ‘This deluge is nothing like Aryavarta has seen before. Or for that matter this whole world. Nothing will be spared. No human, no plant, no animal, no bird, no insect, no home, no temple, no mountains, no forests...

  Pralay is the cosmic force that shall cleanse Aryavarta of everything.

  Waves higher than the tallest mountains shall rise and devastate everything in their wake.

  Yes some regions will be spared. But no one from Aryavarta would make it to those far corners.

  The skies will turn a blood red. Torrential rain will not cease for months, brimming the oceans over and inundating the entire known Earth.

  Cities will be swallowed in moments, millions of lives culled in hours.

  Pralay - The Great Deluge…is coming.’

  Manu was speechless as he saw them.

  Matsya pointed towards the high cliffs further above their cave.

  Seven hermits sat meditating up in the mountains, unflinchingly braving the rain. They glowed in a soft blue hue. From what Manu could tell when thunder lit up the rocks, these sages were nothing more than young lads, perhaps even younger to him! They were delightfully calm, infectiously peaceful. Their skin was radiant as if they had just emerged from some divine womb.

  They had.

  ‘These are the Saptarishi, Manu. They shall be your companions in the arduous journey you embark upon. They will guide you, handhold you. You will do the same for them. Together, you will welcome the new dawn of Creation, the age when humans will conquer the depths of the seas, fly the skies in silver chariots and step on the Moon. The golden age.’

  Manu turned to Matsya.

  What do you mean the Saptarishi will guide me? Won’t you be there by my side, Matsya?’

  Matsya laughed. But this time it was not merry. It was a laugh that said they would soon have to part ways.

  ‘I will always be by your side, Satyavrata. I will always be there for the dwellers of this precious planet. It may be with a different name, in a dissimilar appearance, in some other land far far away…

  But I will always be there.’

  Matsya now stood on a sharp, high cliff, towering against the backdrop of the merciless skies. Manu, Tara, Somdutt and several others had gathered to hear what the celestial fish-man was going to say next.

  Wind swept violently at the leader of the fish-tribe. His long hair and loose robes fluttered in the air. Drenched in rain, the magical man stood with his arms outstretched by his sides. His face looked up at the heavens as once again thunder greeted this divine marvel. Matsya now glowed a brilliant blue under the white flashes of lightning.

  ‘He is a prophet...’ whispered Tara to Manu.

  But Manu knew better.

  ‘No he is not, Tara. He is the One who sends the prophets.’

  ‘Gather tens of thousands of men, women and children from Harappa, Mohenjo-daro and all other settlements. Collect more from the mountains and the forest tribes.

  In the few months that remain before Pralay consumes everything, build the most gigantic boat to ever float on the oceans of this planet.

  An Ark so colossal that its mast scrapes the heavens. A ship so mammoth that tens of thousands of people take refuge in it. An Ark that can carry a million plants, birds, animals and seeds.

  Gather the alchemists, the physicians, the architects, the farmers, the musicians, the writers, the traders, the teachers and the priests.

  Take with you the Vedas, the scriptures, the metals, the yarns, the medicinal herbs, the tools and the gems.

  You will rebuild the world, recreate civilization and keep kaalchakra spinning.

  This Ark, Manu’s Ark…will be remembered till the end of time!

  The immortal giant-boat will serve the universe’s most noble objective.

  It will survive Pralay.

  It will save Creation!’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  VIVASVAN PUJARI

  He was the only human for miles. He could hardly see in the dark of that unusually fearsome, stormy night. Especially with the heavy trickle of his blood, tears and sweat mixed with the muddy waters of the unseasonal, torrential rain blurring his vision. In the pitch-black night the bald, bare-chested Brahmin struck with his axe back and forth at a feverish yet futile pace. He was attempting to cut at least one of the thick jute ropes that bound one pillar of the freshly built, man-made mountain of brick and bronze. Although made with the objective of diverting the course of a river, the enormous mound of stone, brick, metal and wooden blocks appeared threatening enough to alter the assault of even the bold tsunamis of a rogue sea. But then the river under question was no less than the mighty oceans themselves.

  Muttering to himself under the roar of the downpour, like a man possessed, he used every ounce of strength from his body hardened by years of penance and Vedic discipline. He pounded the cable-like rope furiously even as his fingers splayed and started to bleed. When he couldn’t breathe anymore he threw his head back and looked up once to let the heavy raindrops slap his face angrily. With the unsympathetic water washing the red mud off his eyelids, he let out a ghastly, sky-piercing scream. It was perhaps an attempt by his recently blackened soul to make the Gods hear his indescribable angst. But he knew it was too late. The Gods were horrified at his deeds and would not forgive him. Or anyone.

  He started cutting the rope with his short axe again, more menacingly than before. He knew he had been trying to cut one coupling knot for over an hour now. The ropes were specially made, upon his own instructions. He knew there were 998 more brick, bronze and stone pillars held together by thousands of similar rope-knots that forged the unbreakable mount. And that it would take weeks to disassemble it if a thousand men worked day and night. The 999 strategically engineered and reinforced pillars were built as per his own careful architectural and astrologic guidelines
. What was he doing? Had he gone mad? He knew he could not undo the giant mound even one bit. And yet he fired away his axe incessantly, hopelessly.

  A solitary figure in the lonely miles of empty land ravaged by a mid-night cloudburst, Vivasvan Pujari, a man worshipped for decades as a devta (half-human, half-God), revered as the Sun of Harappa, looked liked a ghost. He felt extreme pain and a sinking regret at the sinister consequence he knew could not be averted. He kept weeping, kept mumbling and kept chopping away. And then he heard it.

  It had begun.

  The ominous rumble of the mighty river gushing into an unnatural course, somewhere distant but not too far, made his blood curdle. The once generous, loving and nurturing Mother River had incarnated into a thirsty rakt-dhaara (blood-river) lunging towards devouring her very own children. The River of the Wise was betrayed by one of her favorite sons. She was betrayed by her devta son, Vivasvan Pujari.

  The once righteous and indomitable Vivasvan Pujari let the axe slip from his hand and it fell on the slushy mud with a wet thud. He stood frozen gazing towards the direction he knew his now-manic Mother would appear in her demonic form. He knew it then. He knew this night he was going to be the first blood at her altar. Suddenly, he wanted it that way.

  He slowly felt a sense of ease and relief spreading within him. He felt hope. Maybe his Mother would claw out his life but spare the millions of others. He dropped to his knees, stretched out arms in submission by his sides and opened his palms. The rain washed his taut and wounded body as if finally helping him cleanse his badly knotted conscience. As if pitying Vivasvan Pujari and offering him his last bath.

  ‘Take my life, O mighty Mother! I have earned your wrath. And I submit myself to thee!’ he yelled out as the night sky lit-up with an angry clap of thunder. It was as if the Gods were rejecting this fallen devta’s plea.

  He screamed again, this time his voice splitting with desperation and heavy sobbing, ‘Do you not listen to your crestfallen son, O mighty Mother?! Take my life but forgive the others! They have not sinned as your son has. Take me!!’

  The sky lit up again. It was nearly daylight for a few moments. The silent lightning flashed on Vivasvan Pujari’s bleeding, sweating and deranged face. And then it followed. The delayed noise of the thunder was as loud as an exploding sun.

  The Gods were saying NO!

  Vivasvan Pujari felt a powerful gust of wind on his face as he saw the giant water-mountain appear from the corner of the far mound, turning directly towards the path where he sat crumbled on his knees. It looked like an enormous hydra dragon turning its head towards its prey. The din of the river was louder than the thunder that roared a few moments ago. Vivasvan Pujari sat there dazed, as he looked up at the mountain-high torrent casting a looming shadow even in the darkness. He appeared as small as an ant would in front of Mount Sumeru, as the sky-high tsunami of his Mother River was all but a few moments away from engulfing him.

  Vivasvan Pujari had faltered in the last few days. He lost the glory of a lifetime in a few days of the blinding revenge he sought. But he was Vivasvan Pujari. A devta! Like all men of advancedyogic learning, he instantly summoned and centered his soul within his kundalini, he froze his heartbeat and prepared his mortal body for death. Even as he did that and was getting swept off the ground with the force of the invading water, he whispered a calm, last prayer.

  “Mother, forgive them. Don’t let them perish for my sins. Forgive them, Mother!”

  The devastating river swallowed the devta Vivasvan Pujari like a mammoth tornado erases the existence of a dry twig. The Gods, the murderous blood-river, the dark night, the thunder of Indra (the God of lightning and storm), the vast expanse of land and the merciless rain stood witness to the end of the greatest man of his time. But the death of Vivasvan Pujari was not going to be the end of his impact on this planet. It was the beginning. He was going to live on in hatred, deceit, conspiracy and violent conflicts for thousands of years. He would haunt not just Aryavarta but the whole world with never-ending bloodshed and killing in the name of the very Gods that abandoned him. Even his death would not liberate him or human kind from the curse.

  She maintained her unrelenting course. Despite Vivasvan Pujari’s dying plea, the blood-river was not going to forgive them.

  The Saraswati was going to devour the mighty city of Harappa, along with every last one of its inhabitants.

  Outskirts of Banaras, 2017

  DEV-BALI - THE SACRIFICE OF A GOD

  The heat was unbearable, as if he were on fire. His arms and legs were being pulled like they would rip apart. His head was reeling with intense pain. His wrists and ankles felt as if they were being cut into by metal.

  Vidyut was in unbearable agony and completely disoriented when he began to gain back his consciousness. As he opened his eyes, for several seconds he could not gather where he was and what was happening to him.

  He felt like he was floating in the air, overlooking a giant fire that was scalding his skin.

  He was right. Within moments Vidyut remembered where he was and realized the gravity of his situation.

  He was hanging horizontally ten feet above the center of Trijat Kapaalik’s pit-fire, his face and unclothed upper body getting scorched from the raging heat below. His hands and legs were spread in all four directions, tied by long iron chains to high hooks in the cave’s walls. During his unconscious state, the Masaan-raja, the monstrous Brahmanand, the pishachinis and the maha-taantric’s remaining henchmen had chained and suspended the devta right above the sea of burning coal and flesh.

  ‘Look…look at this devta!’ screamed out Trijat Kapaalik, walking around the ritual pit, mocking Vidyut. ‘Is this the devta those white-skinned men are so afraid of?’

  Brahmanand laughed in evil ecstasy. We have done it, Trijat! It is done! He who was feared for centuries hangs in front of us like a roasting duck!’

  Balvanta and Sonu were both tied with ropes and sat kneeling on the ground. Sonu wept as he saw Vidyut in extreme suffering. But that was not what was most disturbing. Dwarka Shastri’s hands had been tied up too, and he had a blunt sickle pressed against his neck. The pishachini breathed heavily like a goblin, thirsting for blood.

  ‘Let them go, Trijat…’ said Vidyut, his voice shaking with pain. ‘You are a blot on the ancient name of the aghoris. You are an insult to the spiritual philosophy of aghora itself. True aghori taantrics are worshippers of Lord Rudra, devotees of Dattatreya, and they are the givers of blessings. They are denouncers of worldly materialism and true seekers of the truth. You are not an aghori at all, Masaan-raja! You are not a true taantric! Now, it is me you want. Kill me…but let them go.’

  ‘Kill you?’ asked the Masaan-raja, unfazed by Vidyut’s rebuke. You really don’t know then, do you?’ He turned to Dwarka Shastri enquiringly before looking back at Vidyut.

  You have been kept alive for years, O devta. The Rohini Nakshatra is not far. The Black Temple shall rise! It is only thereafter that you shall die…for sure.’

  The maha-taantric now slowly closed his eyes and raised his head, as if submitting a prayer to some dark force. A few seconds later he suddenly opened them. With manic cruelty and lust for power dripping from his ashen face, he pointed to Vidyut.

  ‘Ussprahar issi anushtthan-agni mein Dev-Bali chadhegi!’

  That hour a God will be sacrificed in this very ceremonial fire!

  ‘Trijat…this is a golden chance,’ said Brahmanand. ‘To add unprecedented power to our anushtthan.’

  Trijat turned to look at Brahmanand, curious to know what the one-eyed professor had in mind. He knew his aghori brother well. It had to be something devilish, something savage.

  ‘Look around you, Trijat…we have spent years collecting the skulls of accomplished taantrics. Every kapaal adds to our reach into the dark realms. Some of them were maha-taantrics as well.’

  The Masaan-raja was listening intently, but did not follow what his partner was suggesting.

  Brahmanand’s eye tw
inkled. He leaned forward to Trijat, but spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear, including Vidyut. He gestured in the great matthadheesh’s direction.

  ‘Imagine Trijat…what power the kapaal of the world’s only param-taantric will bring us!’

  Trijat nodded at the pishachini. She threw her head back and rolled it slowly, readying herself for the pleasure that was to follow.

  ‘No…! Stop…!’ screamed Vidyut, as he strained his arms and legs against the chains that held them. But they were too strong.

  Vidyut knew he had very little time. He pulled again, this time with all his strength. His chest muscles stretched like iron cables and the veins on his powerful arms were ready to explode. The devta’s desperate struggle was awe-inspiring for Sonu and Balvanta, who looked at this heroic effort with moist, hopeful eyes.

  Vidyut was indeed a devta.

  To the horror of Trijat and Brahmanand, the iron hook that held the chain tying Vidyut’s right hand, began to give way. Cracks started to appear at first. Moments later the rocky surface of the cave wall started to crumble.

  As he pulled the chain and his right hand free from the shattered wall, Vidyut’s eyes, glowing red as embers reflecting the inferno below, darted towards Trijat Kapaalik. The maha-taantric was now trembling with disbelief.

  You made a big mistake, O Masaan-raja!’ cried Vidyut, his voice splitting with pain, rage and hate.

  With this the last devta broke free his right leg as well, now swinging like a flying God just above the bed of fire.

  You forgot, Trijat!

  I am half-human, half-God!’

  TO BE CONCLUDED.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Vineet is a first-generation entrepreneur. At age 22 he started his company Magnon from a small shed. Today Magnon is among the largest digital agencies in the subcontinent, and part of the Fortune 500 Omnicom Group.

  He has led the global top-ten advertising agency TBWA as its India CEO. This made him perhaps the youngest ever CEO of a multinational advertising network in the country.