Dawn

by Rakesh K Kaul

  ‘Yes,’ maej said. ‘That is the way of the warrior. Don’t overthink, just act. But to actually walk that way, on this path, will be difficult and will take enormous preparation. Yaniv, are you all right?’

  We all turned our attention to Yaniv who had not moved an inch since my mother’s terrible prediction.

  ‘Oh . . . umm,’ he broke his reverie. ‘I am overwhelmed, truth be told. It will take me a lot of time to digest everything, but . . . I have a feeling that we can now face this evil Troika.’

  ‘We will. Have faith,’ said Tan, looking at Yaniv with a reassuring smile. ‘While I am not sure that there is anything such as Maha and anything beyond emptiness—no offence, Vidya,’ he bowed curtly to my mother, ‘but I am quite intrigued by the Lila story. It is something we can use to defeat Dushita. It matches with my Kalachakra techniques to fight evil and gives me a deeper understanding of what is at play. Yes, I agree that knowledge is expanding exponentially, but the brain too is evolving in areas beyond knowledge. I think therein lies our battlefield where we win against Dushita.’

  My mother’s eyes shone with tears of pride. I could see that she had waited for this moment for many years, to give out the knowledge she had hidden within her for years. I now knew why Yuva was insistent on getting my mother’s permission: she was a vital part in our plan in defeating the man who had hurt her and destroyed her world.

  ‘It seems the war council has been fruitful. Thank you, maej,’ I said, pressing my mother’s hand. ‘I have much to learn from you and from you all,’ I said, acknowledging the brave boys who had risked their lives to help me in this quest. ‘Yuva is right. We have to learn from each other, and that is the only way we will win this war. Tegh,’ I said, turning to my fiercest warrior, ‘learn everything that you can in martial arts, on how to fight AIman’s forces. Yaniv, you will need to find out what happens at the moment when Life is created. That is the Maha power that the Troika is afraid of.’ Yaniv nodded and typed on something kept in front of him.

  ‘We need to find out the answer to one important question,’ I said, standing up. I needed to find my footing on the ground, for at this instant my head was flooded with questions and a sense of urgency. ‘Why did Arman panic so much that he killed all the women? It cannot be that simple. There must be a hidden secret there, and it is that knowledge, that weapon that we will spring on him. For this, we need you Hafiz to become a master of all the secret tunnels and backdoors into AIman herself, like the brave Yoginis Who Code. It will be difficult and dangerous, but if anyone could do it, it’s you. Tan, with your vast knowledge of the universes and human mind, prep up on the history of how the Yodhas and Yoginis and all the early outlaws fought against Dushita. I think you would need to research especially on how to go beyond the mind where we will engage with Dushita. And Tabah, you my friend, must master how to artistically unlock my full powers. Will you accept?’

  Tabah got up, and for a moment, I thought he would walk away. ‘If there was a way to shake your hand, general, I would have,’ he said simply.

  I smiled.

  ‘And, as for me, I will initiate a deep yoga training to train my body for battle, my mind for war and my heart for Maha.’

  ‘You have become a Niti warrior, my Dawn, and you will achieve Maha.’ She touched the saffron paste that was on the oval stone and then lightly placed her third finger on my forehead. ‘Lord Krishna was the first Niti warrior and you have always loved the wisdom in his life stories.’

  ‘Ma, today, you as a Vidyadhari and as the transmitter of Niti stories have become the mother of all humanity . . . You are the only mother who remains on this earth and so are absolutely precious to humanity,’ I said, and then turned to my warriors, ‘Our path forward requires us to walk on the razor’s edge. But we won’t walk it, Pandavas. Fearlessly, we will dance all our way on it to our enemy.’

  Sarga 6

  Dare the Scare

  Watalpur, Kashmir

  The torches on the wall cast a bright light into the den while filling the area with dark shadows of black. There were handsome men and women, all dressed in finery, seated around large round tables.

  ‘Where are we?’ I asked Yuva. He had a rakish air about him today and was wearing very fashionable graphite coloured pants. He was sporting a cane that he was merrily twirling around, clearly indicating that he was in a good mood.

  ‘The most famous gambling hall in Kashmir. The very rich and the very poor Kashmiris are alike in that they are inveterate gamblers. Here assembles the nobility, all equals in the eyes of fickle wealth and this vice.’

  There were also men whose shirts were in tatters. There were gruesome men too. Their noses and ears had been cut off as punishment for non-payment of their debts, I learnt later. The penalty had been designed so that the social stigma would make them leave the kingdom, but the lure of the table was so addicting that they would slink back into their old ways. The night would provide a cover for them and they would hide during the day like a vetala, a vampire. Aiding the addiction was a liberal supply of the specialty of the house, kahwah tea with saffron and intoxicants infused in it.

  Suddenly, a commotion broke around a table. A man let out a cry and fell on the ground. Some people shouted that he had fainted. But then someone checked his pulse and pronounced him dead. A murmur rose that he’d had a heart attack because he had lost all his wealth. The owner of the den came around and examined the gambler. He kicked him very hard in the stomach, but there was no response. He crudely threw some cold water on the man’s face. Then he put a mirror under his nose to see if he was breathing, but there was no moisture. The man was dead. Such episodes were bad for business, the owner said out loud. A wager that was not fulfilled would lower the reputation of his business. Now the house would have to cover the win. He ordered his men to take the corpse out to the cemetery and burn it in the pyre.

  Tabah felt pity for the wretch, but Yuva just smiled. ‘He is a kitava, a cheater. Now, shall we?’ Yuva led us out. As we stepped out, we stood rooted to the ground, shocked. The ‘dead’ man had stood up and was paying off the men to tell their master that the job was done. Yuva laughed, ‘For a professional gambler, it is not enough to take risks. He has to stick with the risk even when put to extreme discomfort. This man has been trained by Muladeva, so he knows how to will his body to fake death and escape.’

  ‘What! Fake death?’ Yaniv cried out.

  ‘But who is this Muladeva?’ Hafiz asked.

  ‘Well, how to describe him? Hmm, let’s see,’ said Yuva, swinging his cane. ‘He is an arch-thief and gambler extraordinaire. Yet, at the end of the night, he gives away his winnings to the poor.’

  ‘Like the legendary Robin Hood?’ I said. ‘My mother had told me his story.’

  ‘Yes, something like that but much greater,’ Yuva laughed. ‘He is also a celebrated author who has written a book on the science of thieving to teach the next generation of thieves.’

  ‘A book for thieves?’ Tegh echoed, pumping his fist respectfully for Muladeva, the knave.

  ‘Well, Muladeva is a complicated character. Families hand over their young sons to him so that he can teach them and protect them from the very sin we just witnessed in this den. He is, what you would call, the Prince of Rogues. He is also said to be a Casanova. But he will promote another person’s love as zealously as he pursues his own.’

  ‘So,’ interrupted Yaniv, ‘he’s a thief turned author turned teacher? And he teaches people how to fake death?’

  ‘Well, my child, Muladeva has many stories. It is said that he dispenses magic pills that make men young again. There is a story that once he changed a hunchback into a maiden who celebrated her healing by breaking out into a jig,’ laughed Yuva, twirling his trunk. ‘Muladeva is also a musician, a companion of courtesans who love him when no other man can claim their hearts, a resourceful adventurer, a magician and a follower of the black arts.’

  ‘Now we are getting somewhere,’ said Yaniv, triumphantly. ‘But
is he good or bad, black or white?’

  ‘Or grey, my favourite colour that has both black and white in it,’ remarked Yuva, tapping his trunk on Yaniv’s head. ‘Muladeva’s admirers are many and they describe him as of noble of speech, an ocean of kindness and having a virtuous and clear mind. As Outlaws, you all should study him because simply put, he is the first Master Outlaw of the world.’

  Hafiz was instantly hooked. ‘He sounds like a reformed, white hat hacker,’ he enthused, clapping his hands. ‘I want to see him in action. I want to see if he can beat my algorithm-generated bets.’

  ‘Fire away, my son. They play with five six-sided dice. The player with the highest number that is a multiple of four wins.’

  ‘Hmm . . . that means 7,776 outcomes,’ said Hafiz, scratching the stubble on his bearded chin. ‘What an interesting number. It had such significance for your people, Yaniv.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ll explain why another time. In any case, the highest probability outcome is sixteen at 9.45 per cent. The highest winning bet of twenty-eight has only a .19 per cent probability,’ continued Hafiz, looking up in the sky, his fingers tracing invisible numbers as if the vast expanse was his blackboard. ‘The game is an open game, so there is no possibility of bluffing. I will win this game hands down every time. Muladeva will be no match for me.’

  Yuva grinned, ‘That is what my father said when my mother invited him to play a hand with her. Then she took everything away from him leaving him wearing . . . well, that’s for another day.’

  Yuva was always saying things that I did not understand. Did he look like his father? Were there two like him—one senior and the other junior? What did they talk about? Was his father as cryptic as him? These thoughts boggled my mind.

  ‘Let’s go inside again and see what is happening there.’

  We walked inside; the people oblivious to our presence. We were like invisible ghosts. Yuva took us to a table in the corner. There we saw an extremely handsome man of noble bearing. He had a small, lithe frame that accentuated the perfect symmetry of his form. His cultured face, framed by jet-black hair, was smooth and wrinkle-free, but there was a certain maturity there. He was wearing a tight-fitting, long, cream-coloured buttoned coat under which were white pipe pants. He was clearly a witty raconteur because the people on his table were laughing uncontrollably. Occasionally, his mouth would move to chew the betel nut that he would gracefully tip into his mouth. Two young women were on either side of him and their shining eyes showed that he was a hero for them. All eyes on the table were on this man, and this was the table that they hoped to score alongside or against Muladeva. In the glittering fire that burned in the ornate fireplace, I noticed something very strange. The men on the table had missing thumbs and some even had missing small fingers. Yaniv spotted it too and looking anxiously at Yuva asked what that meant.

  ‘These are the highest rollers of the land. When they have lost everything, they bet their thumbs. If they lose both thumbs, they are out of the game since then they cannot spin the throw of the dice. As for the ones who have lost their little fingers, these are aristocrat warriors who have lost a battle to an enemy king. Sometimes, the enemy monarch is related to the warrior through marriage, so he cannot take his family member’s life. In this case, he demands the little finger as their allegiance to his sovereignty.’

  One of the aristocrats at the table spoke up, ‘Muladeva, they say that when you rob a home successfully, you meow like a cat as the cry of your victory. The owners hear you thinking that you are a cat and chase you away. It is only in the morning that they realize that it was you, the cat-man.’

  Muladeva laughed, ‘Your nobility, these are idle tales to fill the long Kashmiri winters. If there is one thing that is guaranteed to set off the watchdogs, it is the sound of a cat’s meow. Is it not? Which thief would do that?’

  The players laughed and started meowing like a cat. Another feudal lord spoke enviously, ‘Look at your perfect hair. People say that you rub bear lard on it. It is the perfect antidote to baldness because the strength of the hairy bear enters you. Is it true that you go hunting wearing a bear’s skin and head and with tiger claws to slay the bear? That is why you are the only person who supplies the genuine bear products, whereas everyone else sells pig fat.’

  Muladeva chuckled. ‘Even the Ursari tribe with their dancing bears do not do that. Bears get a bad name. Remember, they run away from humans but are social with each other. What if a sloth of bears like you and make you, the fake bear, a part of their group? The Kashmiri brown bear, like the Kashmiris, is a very amorous animal. What if your costume confuses him and you become the object of his attention?’ The gamblers laughed heartily. He continued, ‘As far as tiger claws are concerned, you are warriors and you are adept in using it. It needs courage to kill at such close quarters. But what will work on the soft abdomen of a human is useless against a bear’s chest and stomach, which are so densely matted with thick hair.’

  One of the girls smiled at Muladeva, ‘Tell me. If you are so innocent, then why are there so many stories about you?’

  Muladeva was unfazed and answered simply, ‘I was born of noble lineage but became a gypsy. I wanted to lead an interesting life and not be bound by anything or anyone. Men see me as a dissolute threat to their ordered lives. Yet, I am here solely to teach my young ward, Chandragupta, sitting by my side what not to do.’

  The bald aristocrat was persistent, ‘But where do you disappear, Muladeva, for such long periods? That is partly why people think that you are up to no good.’

  ‘If I were to tell you the wondrous land that Kashmir is in its entirety, you would not believe me. I go to the horse alley in the Deva Panchala Mountains where there are hundreds of horsemen warriors frozen in time from when Lord Krishna and the Pandavas came to Kashmir. I spend my time in solitude there.’

  The eyes of the patrons grew round. Muladeva always had a believe-him-or-not aspect. Suddenly, there was the sound of a drumbeat, a shout and an uproar at the entrance of the den. A herald shouted, ‘The king, the king! Make way. Rise all! It is the night of Kali. The king comes to gamble.’

  A richly decked emperor walked in with an attendant holding a gold parasol over him. The den owner nearly fell over in his zeal to prostrate himself at this unheard-of visit. The king walked straight in and seated himself at the head of the table facing Muladeva. The aristocrats were doubled, with their heads low trying not to be at the same level as their king. The owner rushed an attendant over with his choicest food and finest spiced kahwah. The ladies next to Muladeva bowed low to the king. Then there was a hushed silence.

  The king spoke, ‘It is the night of Kali. Come now, I will have a game with you. I will act as the keeper of the gaming table and will fling the dice, and mind you, you must always pay up what you lose.’

  The mildly annoyed aristocrats stood up, and one stammered, ‘O king, how can we oppose you? I sit out of the game so that I can wish you well.’ The others all nodded their heads in vigorous agreement.

  Only Muladeva was silent. He had not objected, so it meant that he had agreed to play.

  The king said, ‘The rules of the game are that the stakes have to be such that both are equals. So now then, what do you have to wager to help me be fair and set the stakes right?’

  Muladeva looked up at the emperor, ‘My king, we are unequal in every respect. You own everything and I own nothing. At this table, we find ourselves naked and equal in only one respect. We are both slaves of an addiction, no different than Yudhisthira, to an identical craving that grips our mind. It mercilessly binds us and drives us relentlessly. But oh, when we win, the nectar that drips inside our minds ever so briefly gives us ecstasy.’

  The crowd gasped. Muladeva had gone too far. To call the king a slave to his gambling addiction was the ultimate insult. The king’s eyes narrowed as he stared intently at Muladeva. Then he quaffed his drink, finishing it in one gulp and roared.

  ‘So, fool, having no g
race or a redeeming aspect, you want to make a bet on the ultimate high. I ask again, what is the wager of your dare?’

  Muladeva bowed, unperturbed. ‘I propose that I will steal your pyjamas tonight.’

  A loud gasp was heard around the hall.

  But an unfazed Muladeva continued, ‘If I win, they will be hung here, so that whosoever enters this hallowed space of the sacred game of dice will know who the greatest gambler was. You, of course, will order your palace guards to watch out for me and behead me for attempting to do that. Kali will be well served by your victory and reward you favourably for the sacrifice.’

  There was pin-drop silence. The king understood how Muladeva had recognized his weakness completely and tricked him. The gambling rules were inflexible about the stakes being equal, and Muladeva had done that. The life of a gambler had been offered in exchange for a king’s shame—a kind of living death. For a moment, the king trembled, but then he steadied himself.

  ‘The wager is life. I will let Kali make the call. I will roll the dice as I had said. Five cowries on the table. Four or five means we go forward. A number of less than three means that we stop.’

  Muladeva stayed silent, implying acceptance. Then the king, as was the convention in Kashmir, recited the gambler’s sacred and most ancient Atharva Veda prayer for success. All stood up and recited it along with him.

  ‘My homage to the strong, the brown, the sovereign lord among the dice!

  Butter on Kali I bestow; may she be kind to one like me.

  With butter, fill my hands, and give me, to be my prey, the man who plays against me.

  Evil be mine opponent’s luck! Sprinkle thou butter over us. Strike, as a tree by a lightning flash, my adversary in the game.’

  As the prayer finished, the king pulled out five personal cowries that had been beautifully painted in gold. Then, with a swift twist of his wrist, he flipped them on the table. The cowries rolled on the table with the silk cover. There was not a sound in the hall. All eyes were fixed on the table. There were three cowries with the open side up. The crowd sighed. It was a neutral roll.