Ganesha's Temple: Book 1 of the Temple Wars

by Rohit Gaur

  “Now you hold everything else in the world that is dear to me. If you return my wife, Parvati, and my son, Tarun, I can promise you mercy before the law.”

  Vishal shot him a look of alarm.

  “In addition, I pledge to disown the plan to build the wall.”

  Vishal now began to wave his arms and mouth silent words, but Arjun ignored him and pressed on.

  “And I will commit the remainder of my time in office to repairing the relationship between your people and the State of Kashmir. Lay down your arms and let us broker peace.”

  Vishal fumed, pacing furiously back and forth. “How could you promise that?” he spat out in a low voice as Arjun let the megaphone drop to his side. “We have worked for months on the plans for the wall. And you’re giving in to their demands? To the people who murdered your son?”

  “You don’t understand, Vishal. I want justice to be served too—and it will. But this must end somehow. I want my wife returned.”

  “But sir—” Vishal trailed off as the soldiers began to murmur in hushed tones. A militant in a bandana had stepped out from the opposing line and was walking directly toward Parvati. Arjun watched nervously as the man knelt behind her, untied her restraints, and then helped her to her feet. Then with a jerk he pulled her in close to him and raised from his side a shiny black pistol.

  Parvati!

  Arjun, as if in a trance, ran toward the clearing, brushing past the outstretched arms of his bodyguards and weaving in between the soldiers who were standing or crouching along the front line, eyes fixed forward. He heard behind him the protests: “Chief minister, no!” “Come back!” But it was too late. He stumbled out into the clearing, arms in the air, moving toward Parvati and the man who held the gun.

  The militant in the bandana spoke first: “We do not accept your offer. Your promises mean nothing. We are not here to surrender; we are here to make a statement to the world.” The militant tightened his grip on Parvati’s neck.

  “No, please!” Arjun shouted back, looking the militant in the eyes. “I beg of you. Not my wife too. Please let her go! And my son!” Tears streamed down Parvati’s terrified face.

  “Your son?” the militant sneered. “Your son escaped and fled days ago.”

  “He did?” Arjun asked incredulously. He hadn’t known that Tarun had escaped from the militants. Where was he?

  “Probably dead,” the militant spat out, anticipating Arjun’s thought. “And now, your wife will join your sons.”

  An icy chill passed over Arjun’s heart. No, no, no, no.

  “Then you, chief minister, will be deprived of your home, just as your government has deprived us of ours. Only then will you know our pain.”

  Time stopped.

  Or so it seemed in the instant that the militant in the bandana pressed the pistol to Parvati’s temple. The leaves in the trees halted their rustling; the soldiers and militants in two rows all collectively ceased their anxious breathing. Arjun met Parvati’s desperate eyes for a split second of absolute stillness and in that moment communicate a lifetime’s worth of love and heartbreak.

  And then the shot rang out.

  Parvati fell to the ground.

  “No!” Arjun yelled, holding out his hands.

  The world spun around him in a dizzy whirl. He felt sick, nauseated, like the ground had dropped beneath him and he was hurtling downward in a disorienting tumble.

  He had been so close to getting her back.

  How could this be happening?

  He looked at her blue sari fluttering in the breeze and was transported to a memory of her wearing the dress at a charity gala they had cohosted to raise money for the orphanage she ran. The whole day she had been running about, offering help and suggestions to the planners as they set up tents or arranged flowers. He had watched, admiring her selflessness in helping others, her beautiful long hair pinned back in a cascade down her back. And now, her beautiful hair was spread out over the grass in a broad semicircle around her head.

  Then the head lifted.

  She isn’t dead.

  At that moment, Arjun realized the militant in the bandana was swaying on his feet, a look of surprise painted across his face, his pistol arm now drooping limply at his side. As Arjun watched, a bloody rose bloomed upon the militant’s chest and then his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the ground. Behind him, a much younger militant stood, a curl of smoke rising from his raised gun and a look of determination in his eyes.

  “Hassan!” Parvati gasped, rolling over to look back at him from her position on the ground. The young man looked at her intently and then dropped his gun. The realization of what he had done seemed to crash over him. The arena was silent, stunned by this abrupt betrayal of loyalties.

  A second gunshot blasted across the clearing and Hassan, in turn, fell backward, clutching at the hole that had opened in his throat. All eyes turned to the new shooter: Vishal, face twisted in contempt, had stepped out from the Kashmiri line, raised his rifle, and aimed to kill.

  Crawling over to him, Parvati looked into Hassan’s eyes as he choked and writhed on the ground.

  “Hassan,” she gasped. “You saved me!”

  She examined his wound: the bullet had done its job. Finding her hand, he squeezed her palm tightly and looked her in the eyes. He mouthed a word that she could not hear but immediately understood. “Thank you,” she whispered, as she watched the light in his gaze fading to stillness and then quiet.

  Meanwhile, the clearing instantly had become a scene of chaos. A Kashmiri soldier leaped out of the brush to tackle Arjun to the ground as the remaining soldiers and militants began to fire at one another. The clearing became thickly choked with the haze of gun smoke, whizzing bullets, and cracks of light and noise. Chunks of bark and leaves rained down from the stray bullets that lodged themselves in the tree trunks or dense foliage. Arjun tried to pull away in order to crawl over to where Parvati huddled on the ground, but the soldier held him firmly in place. “Stay still, sir!” the soldier yelled. “It’s too dangerous!” Arjun heard a soldier behind him cry out in agony as a bullet found him.

  As the battle raged above him, Arjun dipped his head down and prayed for the conflict to end, for a solution to their political problems, for the safe return of his family, for all of the people of Kashmir. In that moment, his soul wept for the pointless violence, the constant fighting, the destruction of peace.

  Whoooooooom!

  A deafening sound blanketed the battlefield. It reminded Arjun of a muted trumpet, but he instantly recognized its source: a shankha, the call of the conch shell, a traditional way to initiate as well as conclude a round of combat. But this was no ordinary blowing of the conch shell. The blast of noise shook the trees and the earth, causing the soldiers to pause in their firing and look at one another in confusion. The call seemed to have come from nowhere.

  Except there, in the middle of the border clearing, as if it had just been set down by a weary traveler, stood a bright white clay murti in the shape of Lord Ganesha, a glistening shankha in one of its four upheld hands.

  Arjun stared in amazement at the statue, so out of place in this remote location. Just beyond where it stood, Parvati looked up from her prone position and met Arjun’s eyes with her own. Their faces both registered the same question: Where on earth—or not on earth—had it come from?

  As the sound of the conch shell faded out, the clay of the Ganesha murti began to crack down the middle like a hatching egg. Then with a burst of hot air, the murti shattered into pieces and a plume of roaring fire burst from its interior. The fireburst swirled up into a towering column of flames before dwindling back down to a short crackling pillar. From its core, a radiant figure emerged to perch upon the fiery piling, his features cloaked in light. Before the two armies could react, the light-filled figure spoke in a booming voice that echoed through the woodlands.

  “Rebels and soldiers, Kashmiris all, the fight is over. There will be no victor today, but there will also be no van
quished.”

  Arjun’s mind reeled at this commandment. It felt like a crazy hallucination or bizarre dream, but, then again, the last few days had already been surreal. He had prayed for an intervention. Perhaps this was how the gods chose to grant his wish.

  “Rebels,” the figure bellowed, “leave this place and return to your homes in the Kashmiri backlands. No one will follow you from this place and you shall not return. Your days of marauding, kidnapping, and killing are over. Return to your lives and forget this unlawful enterprise.”

  The figure turned upon its flaming pedestal.

  “And you, citizens and soldiers of the Kashmiri state. Go back to your cities and towns, and leave this place be. Cease your meddling with the people of the north and forswear this attempt to divide that which will not be divided, or partition that which cannot be contained. A wall will not make you safer or more secure.”

  Every eye in the clearing remained riveted to the flame-enveloped form.

  “To both sides of this conflict, I say to you: make peace with the world as it is, not as you fantasize it to be. Let go of the illusion that you can control what others do and reconcile yourself to living in a realm not of your choosing. Meet those who wish to harm you with the conciliating power of forgiveness. Though you have both been injured in this war, you will leave here today knowing that the debt has been cleared. Be gone!”

  The pillar of fire collapsed into itself, radiating out its heat and light into the surrounding air, pushing each rebel and soldier back on his heels. With a collective grunt, the rebels and the soldiers turned and began a headlong dash in opposite directions. Within a minute, the clearing was still and silent. In the center, where the flame had imploded, Tarun crouched close to the ground, smiling broadly.

  Parvati reached him first, but Arjun was only a moment behind. They clung to each other with joy and grief and confusion.

  “How did you—?” “Where have you—?” “Who was the—?” The questions came rapidly, but Tarun just grinned through them all.

  “I’ll explain later,” he said.

  He trailed off as he noticed Vishal lurking at the edge of the clearing. With swift strides, he crossed the short distance to the trio.

  “You,” he sneered with evident menace, glaring daggers at Tarun. “You ruined it. We were going to finally start this war.”

  “Vishal!” Arjun interjected. “What are you talking about, war?”

  He ignored Arjun’s question and continued to stare into Tarun’s face with open hostility. “And I know how you did it,” he whispered loudly, pointing in his direction. His mouth curved down into a sneer. “I know!”

  Tarun looked back at Vishal, noticing for the first time that his pupils were not entirely round, but in that moment appeared sharpened into slits. Like a reptile.

  “And now I know you,” Tarun retorted, pushing his parents behind him. “You’ve been to the Veiled Lands, as I have. But something tells me you came back under different circumstances.”

  Vishal was shaking with fury now.

  “How long have you been doing Raavana’s work?” Tarun shouted. “How long have you been trying to start a war in Kashmir? How long, Vishal?”

  With a quick movement, Vishal drew from his side pocket a handgun, aimed it directly at Tarun’s forehead, and fired.

  Parvati screamed and Arjun yelled.

  But in the split second that they reacted, Tarun had raised his hands and formed a fireball that he thrust back into Vishal’s chest, toppling him backward to the ground with a sizzling thud. He watched as a tendril of smoke curled up from Vishal’s singed shirt, but the unconscious man lay still and did not move again.

  Turning, Tarun looked at his parents, but they simply gaped at him incredulously.

  “Let’s go home,” he finally said to break the silence, then dove back in for another embrace.

  Chapter 19

  A NEW MISSION

  Tarun lay in bed, examining the ceiling. The same bed where, only two months before, he had angrily resigned himself to a day at the Ganesh Chaturthi festival. He couldn’t have known that morning how the events of that day would change his life, how nothing would be the same again afterward.

  All through the shock of the kidnapping, the escape into the woods, and then the surreal journey through the Veiled Lands, Tarun had not really had time to process Kumar’s death. But now that he had been home a few weeks, he sensed Kumar’s absence all the time. It was strange to sit alone at the breakfast table or not see his face in the halls at school or do homework on the living room floor without his brother coming to bother him. They hadn’t always gotten along, it was true, but Tarun had never wished to be an only child. Even when they had fought, it was still always like a fight among fast friends. It was hard to believe Kumar could be gone forever.

  It was even harder on his parents. More than once Tarun had noticed his mother’s eyes were red, though she never cried openly in front of him. When he told his father about it, Arjun had simply said, “Only time can heal our wounds.” Tarun didn’t know what to do to make her feel better, so he simply hugged her just a little bit harder each night before bed.

  In the meantime, the Sharmas had tried to put their life back together as best they could and return to as much normalcy as possible. Tarun tried too, though he couldn’t help it if his algebra class or history reading could no longer hold his interest for very long. Too often he felt his mind drift off to the snowy peaks of Candeuil or the narrow streets of the Market Sway or the tense few moments he had squared off against Raavana on the volcanic peak of Phracta. He found himself instinctively checking his bags for Ganesha’s sacred objects or inspecting his arms for signs of red feathers. There was no way he could just return to his normal routine after everything he had experienced, not even if he had wanted to.

  The trouble was, his normal daily routine was all Tarun seemed to have. Since the showdown at the Kashmiri border with the militants, Tarun had not seen or heard from Ganesha at all. He was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

  Maybe it’s for the best, he told himself. After all, Ganesha delivered on what he promised: he helped me free my mother. What could he still want with me?

  Tarun sat up and swung his legs to the floor. He ran his tongue along his chipped tooth—the tooth that Raavana had broken in his anger. It was Tarun’s one souvenir of his journey through the Veiled Lands. That and his ability to wield prana. Standing up, he stretched his arms to the ceiling, letting the energy flow through his arms to his fingertips.

  Well, at least one thing is different now, Tarun thought. In secret, Tarun had been practicing wielding prana in the woods behind his home, perfecting his fireball technique. Luckily, his parents seemed to understand. Even after the day at the Kashmiri border, they had not asked too many questions about where Tarun had been, why he had appeared in a column of fire, or how he disarmed Vishal. It was strange: his parents had always taken an intense interest in Tarun’s schoolwork, but in this, they seemed unconcerned, respectful of his privacy. Tarun could only assume Ganesha had somehow taken care of that too.

  Downstairs, Tarun found his mother brewing coffee and warming harissa at the stove, the delicious smells permeating the kitchen. His father was already at the table, looking over the day’s headlines in the newspapers, his glasses perched at the end of his nose. They both looked up and greeted him with smiles. Tarun sat down and took a bite from a piece of fresh bread that had been laid out for him. The morning sun filled the kitchen with a warm light.

  Maybe normal could be okay, Tarun thought.

  A few hours later, Arjun sat in his office gazing out the window at the streets and buildings of Srinagar. Though it was late November, the sun was shining, making the light dusting of early snow glisten against the red and brown rooftops. On the sidewalks below, people bustled to work or do the shopping, their coats open and scarves loose in the unseasonably warm weather. Winter would come soon, but not yet. He made a mental note to ask his assistant to p
urchase some firewood. When the blizzards finally came, he wanted to be ready.

  He turned back to his desk and inspected its contents: a brief on the fishing industry on Lake Dal, an internal memo about staff hirings and departures, reports about various measures before the local legislature, a few sympathy cards that were still trickling in. To one side of his desk he had pushed a stack of papers authorizing medals to several members of the Kashmiri military for acts of valor and combat bravery—those he needed to sign soon. But his attention was distracted by the stack of papers that he had shoved to the other side of the desk. There, carefully bound in red string, lay a copy of the deposition he had filed against Vishal in his trial for treason, scheduled to begin the following week.

  Arjun followed back the line of events that had brought them to this point. After Kashmiri air force helicopters had arrived at the border to airlift out his family and the remaining soldiers, Arjun had instructed Vishal to be retained and charged with assault against his son Tarun. A subsequent investigation into Vishal’s activities revealed several facts that shocked the Kashmiri public, including the fact that he had been in regular communication with the militant leaders throughout the entire ordeal, even providing the information that had been used to bomb the festival and kidnap Parvati. Vishal had then arranged the final confrontation between the soldiers and militants in the mountains.

  Arjun felt chagrined at how long he had been duped by his main adviser—how could he not have seen this coming? Then again, he had not been the only one blindsided. The newspapers followed the revelations about Vishal with intense scrutiny, but none of them could yet provide a plausible explanation for how and why he might have been radicalized into assisting the militants. The mystery of his purpose or motivation in double-crossing Arjun remained a subject of great speculation. But needless to say, it was safe to assume that Vishal was the most hated man in Kashmir.