Ganesha's Temple: Book 1 of the Temple Wars

by Rohit Gaur

  Heaving herself upright with a start, Parvati awoke to witness the last golden rays of the vanishing sun. Hassan stood nearby with a tray of dinner, apologizing for startling and waking her. As he knelt to deliver it, he told her that a scout had spotted the Kashmiri soldiers beginning their tracking of the militants. The redness still burning spots behind her eyelids, Parvati asked him how long they had before the soldiers found their hiding place in the forest.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “My guess is by sunset tomorrow.”

  It was dark and quiet and warm underneath the surface of the lava, like the crawl space beside the water heater in the house where Tarun grew up. In the split second before Raavana had heaved him over the edge, he had winced in preparation for the excruciating pain and struggled against the thick, molten rock as it clung to his limbs, coated his face, worked its way into eyes and ears and mouth. Yet it didn’t hurt—not exactly. Perhaps lava in the Veiled Lands was different than it was at home? Or had the shock of being thrown in just numbed him to the pain? He had heard once that extreme burns could be painless because they seared off the nerve endings that transmitted pain signals to the brain. He imagined he could hear his flesh being cooked off of him as the sizzling smell of sulfur filled his nostrils. For the first few seconds, Tarun had sought wildly to find a purchase with his foot underneath the velvety cushion of the lava to regain the surface and pull himself out. But as the seconds ticked by and his search proved futile, however, the shock of his situation receded and he found himself surrendering to the embrace of his immersion. It was like sinking into softened butter or floating in a formless void, neither falling nor being held aloft but simply adrift on an open sea.

  As he sank noiselessly deeper into the thermal cavity, Tarun thought of his family. Images of his parents, his brother, his many aunts and uncles and cousins, flowed through his mind. They smiled at him, embraced him, tousled his hair, a warm and generous parade of affection from familiar faces. Tarun saw himself as a young child, sitting on the lap of his grandparents. Then as a school-age kid, clutching his backpack on his first day of class and following Kumar into the building. Then as a teenager attending his father’s inauguration ball, dressed in a new suit and dancing with his mother. Although he didn’t always appreciate them, he realized they had been a pretty happy family. Happier than most, even. Tarun knew it was said that before you die, you see your life flash before your eyes. And so it seemed to be true. But no one had ever told him that when you can see your life that way, spread out like a patchwork quilt upon a bed, you realize how beautiful a life can be in the sum of all of its parts, even including the sad times or embarrassing moments. You see your whole life in a flash—and you regret that you’re about to lose it all.

  Or perhaps it was just a final hallucination. The oozing heat of the lava, the lack of oxygen, the consciousness slipping away, Tarun felt himself giving in to sleep. And why not? Why not simply succumb to what seemed inevitable? Why continue to fight against his fate? Why resist the warmth and the darkness and the silence?

  Tarun!

  The voice shouted into his mind, but he was so tired that he could not place it. He tried to open his eyes against the thick lava that coated them and was surprised to find that he could. But all he could see was a blur of crimson red, so he let them flutter close.

  Tarun! the voice shouted again.

  This time the voice shook him partially out of his stupor. Was that Ganesha?

  Yes, Tarun. It’s Ganesha, the voice commanded. You must listen to me! There is so little time.

  Still dazed, Tarun said nothing. Could this also be a hallucination?

  Tarun, you are not dying. Not yet. You have become a transcendent and taken on a new form.

  What was he saying? Transcendent? Why wouldn’t he just let him sleep?

  Now is your time to act, Tarun, to show yourself fully. Do not succumb to the silence. Fight the darkness!

  Ganesha’s voice began to recede and grow dim. Tarun struggled to straighten out his thoughts, to understand what the voice had said, but his mind felt smothered. It seemed like too much effort to pay attention to the voice. But as it died out, he heard one final phrase:

  Remember your mother!

  His mother? The word was like a splash of cold water, shaking him out of his lethargic trance. How could he have forgotten that his mother was still in danger. She needed him. Tarun writhed against the oozing softness of the volcanic lava, but there was no grip or foothold. He needed to propel himself out of this prison but the walls were nothing but pliant and flexible sludge. You couldn’t rip them apart or knock them down, since they absorbed and deflected every movement or blow. It was a suffocating cage with no entry or exit.

  But what did Ganesha say about him transcending? Tarun wondered if he meant his conversion into bird form, the transformation he had been trying to ignore but which seemed now complete. It had been nothing but a nuisance until now, but maybe Ganesha was trying to tell him something.

  With nothing left to lose, Tarun figured he might as well try: he flapped his arms. The lava simply flowed around his flailing limbs, but, undeterred, he concentrated and tried again. And again. He pushed his arms down over and over, forcing down the oozing, formless lava. It shouldn’t have worked—it didn’t make sense that it would—but gradually and imperceptibly he felt himself being lifted up little by little, rising instead of sinking. He added his legs to the movement, flipping his feet to boost himself faster like a swimmer underwater. His whole body was involved, pushing and pulling and lifting and heaving, but it was a new body, one that seemed to have more limbs, greater control, extra strength.

  His lungs were close to bursting, aching for a fresh breath of air, but he felt energized by his upward momentum. It was a feat he could not have imagined accomplishing, but his transcendence seemed to have affected not only his looks, but also his agility and his perseverance. Somehow he knew that he could arise renewed from this caldron of fire.

  When he crested the surface of the lava pool in a dramatic rupturing of its simmering surface, he sucked in fresh air and let out a yell. The Serpentine soldiers gaped at him as he gave a final push and tore himself free from the crater. Galerest and Raavana stood perfectly still, awestruck by his return from surefire death. Tarun noticed that they had barely moved from the positions they had been in when he had been thrown into the lava. He realized then that he had really only been beneath the surface for a minute or so, though it had felt like much longer.

  As the oozing lava dropped from his face and the oxygen filled his lungs, Tarun took stock of his situation. Although he had stopped waving his arms, he hovered above the volcano in midair, stretching his cramped limbs. The Serpentine soldiers below cowered close to the ground, their menacing air entirely dispersed. What were they so afraid of? Tarun wondered. And it was then that he noticed the wings.

  Behind him, undulating gently in the late afternoon breeze, Tarun had grown wings of crackling fire. They rose and fell in a slow rhythm, and Tarun realized that he had been subconsciously controlling them, like the movement of legs or arms during a familiar task. Speeding up their pace, he could rise up, and slowing down, he could descend. The powerful energy coursing through Tarun’s body made him feel capable of almost anything. Testing his newfound aptitude for flying, he pivoted down and swooped in low over the heads of the Serpentine guards. As he piloted in close, they dove for the ground.

  He swung around to face Raavana, who had backed away from Tarun with a look of terror painting his features.

  “Phoenix!” he hissed, raising his black staff. Raavana muttered a few words and a globe of electric-blue light formed around the sharply pointed end. It fired off the end of the staff and came whirring directly at Tarun. Instinctively, he raised his hands in defense and, again without conscious thought, watched as a stream of molten fire poured from his hands. The fire met the globe of light in midair and the two dissolved with a fizzling sound.

  Tarun floated up over Ra
avana and pointed his outstretched hands at him. A blast of hot flames poured out, showering the startled figure below. Thrown off balance, Raavana mustered a hastily conjured shield of white-blue light to parry the thrust of the fiery downpour. Quickly Tarun formed a ball of fire between his hands and launched it. Before the fireball could even land, he formed another, and another, forcing Raavana to dodge or deflect them.

  Tarun was not sure that he could defeat Raavana like this—but he didn’t need to. As he forced Raavana back into a defensive position, Tarun was advancing upon something he had spied on the ground. Close to Raavana’s feet lay the leather bag in which Ganesha’s objects had been hidden away. With each shifting of their positions, Tarun got closer and closer, until finally he had the space to dive in and grab the bag, slinging it over his shoulder and around his neck.

  Another fireball, and then Tarun ducked over to Galerest. Reaching inside the bag, Tarun pulled out the axe and used it to swiftly cut the binds around Galerest’s wrists, feet, and mouth.

  “Tarun,” he said hoarsely. “You’re . . .”

  “I know,” he replied quickly, turning to launch another volley of fire. “I don’t understand it yet either. But we’ve got to get out of here.” Tarun looked at Galerest’s leg: it lay at an unnatural angle. “You’re injured.”

  Galerest smiled weakly, glancing over at the Serpentine soldiers still huddled on the ground. “I shot my mouth off to the wrong people.”

  Tarun smiled, pulling Galerest toward him and tucking one arm under his knees and the other under his shoulders. Once again, he surprised himself with his newfound physical strength. Galerest, who stood almost his same height but broader, now appeared lighter than a feather. Pushing himself up from a crouch, Tarun used his wings of fire to launch himself into the sky.

  With his arms around Galerest, Tarun could no longer keep Raavana on the defensive. He heard him yelling at the Serpentine guards to do something. As they rose through the volcanic plumes of smoke, a blue orb whizzed by with an electric smell, but within a few more seconds they were far out of range, soaring over the island of Phracta and the clear blue sea toward the horizon.

  Ganesha sat very still in the dimness of his cave, the enchanted floating orbs offering only sparse light. The air was dry and still, though a few dust motes swirled in the air and settled on the elephant god where he sat. The temple was silent, but not for long.

  In the murky distance, Ganesha eyed the arch that led into the Veiled Lands, its thin veil shimmering like rippling water. Then with a burst of light that filled every recess of the cavern, Tarun abruptly flew through the arch, his flaming wings spread out behind him. Landing gracefully at Ganesha’s feet, Tarun placed a wounded Galerest carefully on the floor.

  Ganesha watched as the wings folded, dampened, and then went out. The bright red feathers receded into Tarun’s skin and the birdlike features gradually melted away to reveal the form he had when he first entered Ganesha’s temple, though perhaps a bit taller and broader than before.

  “They grow up so fast, eh, Ganesha?” Galerest growled from the soft grass, lifting his head and opening his eyes.

  Ganesha smiled, the soft flesh around his eyes wrinkling with delight.

  “I brought you something,” Tarun said to him, placing a leather bag into his open lap.

  “I thought you just might,” Ganesha said, using all four of his arms to pull Tarun into a hard embrace, shaking centuries of dust off of his creaking limbs.

  Chapter 18

  THE WALL

  A sharp crack rang through the woods: the discharge of a rifle. Parvati immediately knew what that meant. A brief hush fell over the militants lying upon the ground or leaning against trees, smoking final cigarettes or polishing their weapons. Then, as if on cue, the men were rushing swiftly to their places, crouching into trenches or taking up positions behind makeshift fortifications, ordnance at the ready. In the rush of movement, Hassan quickly sprang over to Parvati and bent down to speak or possibly unloose her binds, but before he could utter a word, he had been hustled aside.

  “Get in place, soldier,” the cruel militant in the bandana commanded brusquely. “You have no business with her.”

  With a reluctant look in Parvati’s direction, Hassan straightened back up. Nodding curtly at his commander, he turned and disappeared into the forest.

  With a grim look, the militant commander forced Parvati up from her prone position on the ground and with an iron grip began to drag her through the trees. She tripped and stumbled over a tree root, but the militant continued to propel her forward. They were moving in the same direction as the other militants were and she watched as they took up their positions in a long line that spread out across the terrain. The front line, she thought. I’m being taking to the front of the battle.

  “No!” she screamed, trying to pull away from his arms, but he only tightened his grip and impassively continued to drag her onward.

  On the other side of the small clearing, Kashmiri soldiers took up improvised positions directly across from the militants’ defensive line. Parallel lines of fighters, weapons pointed at one another, stared across the grassy void between them, waiting for a signal.

  The rifle shot that Parvati heard actually had been a rearguard action fired by a rebel lookout as he caught a glimpse of the swiftly approaching uniformed soldiers. For their part, the Kashmiri soldiers had been caught off guard by the suddenness with which they discovered the militant encampment. Hastily, they dug in to battle positions and waited for their commander to arrive.

  Arjun, bringing up the rear of the military caravan, arrived only a few minutes later to find his soldiers already lying in wait, weapons poised and at the ready. He began to move toward the front, but was intercepted by Vishal, who had arrived with the first group of soldiers.

  “No, sir, stay back. The militants are just on the other side of this clearing. Take these binoculars and have a look.” He handed Arjun the binoculars.

  It was odd, Arjun thought as he eyed the rebels across the small stretch of open ground. The two sides of the clearing were so straight and even. It looked almost manmade. Almost like . . .

  With a start he lowered the binoculars and turned to Vishal.

  “We’re at the border. They’ve led us to the Indian-Pakistani border.”

  “Yes, they did,” Vishal answered with a small smile. “They’ve led us to the exact spot where we will build the wall that will keep them out of our country forever. Fitting, isn’t it?”

  Vishal’s evident pleasure at this development was unnerving to Arjun, but now was not the time to dwell on his subordinate’s strange reactions. Arjun raised the binoculars again to examine the fortifications and trenches that the militants had hastily constructed.

  They knew we were coming, Arjun thought to himself. They planned this.

  His mouth went dry with realization: They aren’t planning to leave this place alive.

  As he scanned the line, suddenly Arjun caught a glimpse of bright color, a smudge of teal just like the color of a sari that his wife owned.

  Parvati!

  She had been pushed out into the clearing, in full view of the Kashmiri soldiers, a shield against their advance or attack, kneeling upon the ground in her light blue dress, head bowed as if in prayer. She wept, frightened by the row of guns all pointed at the men behind her, wishing she could summon the will to run but sure that if she did the man in the bandana would kill her.

  Arjun stared and stared through the binoculars: his wife, there, alive! His wife, his wife. He called out in a voice suddenly hoarse: “Vishal! Tell the men to drop their weapons immediately! All weapons down!”

  “Sir, we are in a stand off! We cannot lower our weapons. We’d be defenseless!” Vishal called back.

  “I refuse to let my wife be harmed by friendly fire,” Arjun commanded. “Do it. Now.”

  Vishal turned off reluctantly to convey the orders while Arjun raised the binoculars again. His wife! He could barely believe
that she was so close, almost within reach, barely a hundred yards away from recovery. But where was his son, where was Tarun? Arjun scanned the line of militants again, but Parvati was the only captive they had put out in front.

  The bright late-afternoon sun streamed down on the tense but quiet clearing. In any other circumstance, it might have been a beautiful setting, the golden light filtering through the trees to dapple the grassy forest floor. A light breeze brought the chilliness down from the mountains onto the forested foothills below. Arjun knew that he needed to be careful in this situation, to move cautiously and deliberately to bring his wife home.

  He called for a lieutenant to bring him a megaphone as he pondered what to say. What could he offer to the militants? Certainly not complete amnesty, but perhaps leniency in the eyes of the law? He thought again about the fact that the militants had stopped here knowing that they would be found. Switching on the megaphone, he raised it to his lips.

  “Fellow citizens of Kashmir. This is Arjun Sharma.”

  Arjun noticed that the hand that held the megaphone was shaking and he willed himself to stop. Get a hold of yourself, he ordered.

  “I understand that you have many grievances with my government. I sympathize with your criticism of my administration’s plan to construct a wall along our border. But violence and intimidation are not the answer to this problem. Only a few days ago, you murdered my son.”

  Arjun’s voice broke as he felt himself choke up with emotion. He thought of Parvati, kneeling out there in the clearing, listening to him speak. Steadying himself, he went on.