Harappa - Curse of the Blood River

by Vineet Bajpai

  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 advanced yogic 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.

  Delhi, 2017

  VIDYUT

  The mobile phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Both Vidyut and Damini were in deep sleep and neither of them had the energy to get up and take the call. It was 4.30 am. The phone continued to ring incessantly. Damini shook Vidyut slowly.

  ‘Vidyut…get up yaa. Its your phone.’

  ‘Hmm…’ mumbled Vidyut.

  ‘Arey get up na baby,’ Damini insisted with her eyes still closed.

  Vidyut reached out for his phone, his hand groping for it on the bedside table.

  ‘Who calls at such a God forsaken hour man?! Hello…!’ Vidyut nearly barked into the phone as he took the call.

  There was silence in the room. Vidyut sat up on the bed and was listening to whoever was on the other side of the call very intently. His muscular body appeared as tense as his brow.

  ‘All okay, baby?’ enquired Damini.

  Vidyut squeezed her wrist gently, indicating that he wanted complete silence. Damini knew Vidyut well. She opened her eyes and looked at Vidyut holding the phone tightly against his ear, teeth clenched, eyes shut in concentration.

  ‘But Purohit ji, why didn’t you tell me sooner?’ said Vidyut to the person on the phone. Damini had no idea who Purohit ji was and why Vidyut looked so anxious suddenly. She got up on her elbow as she listened carefully.

  ‘How much time does he have, Purohit ji?’ asked Vidyut pensively. After a few seconds pause he said, ‘I’ll be there by this evening.’

  Vidyut hung-up the phone and rested his head on the bed’s backrest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. His well built chest, arms and shoulders combined with the rare glow of his fair skin gave him the appearance of royalty, of an august lineage. His long, light-brown hair complimented his chiseled features and penetrating eyes well. Vidyut looked every bit his name – vidyut or electricity! But there was infinitely more to his persona than just his Greek-God looks.

  Damini knew she loved a strange and strong man, and while she never spoke about it to him, somewhere deep down she hoped to get married to him one day. She knew Vidyut was different from all the other boys and men she had met at the premier Hansraj College of the north campus of Delhi University, and the world in general. Apart from her deep and secret delight of owning this man who was pleasantly complexioned, well built, with deep-brown eyes like those of a Biblical conqueror and the intense facial expression of a man born to lead the world, she was convinced that Vidyut was uncommonly gifted. And he was. Vidyut was an inferno of talent, skill, spirituality and ambition. He was an entrepreneur par excellence at his young age of 34. He was a musician, a poet, a writer, a painter, a martial artist, a party-maker and a natural leader of men. His friends lovingly called him Video. What worried Damini sometimes was the kind of friends he had.

  ‘Baby you okay?’ she enquired gently after a minute. ‘Who is this Purohit ji and where do you have to be by this evening?’

  ‘Varanasi. Or Kashi or Banaras…as most people call it,’ replied Vidyut, still gazing at the ceiling.

  ‘Why Banaras, love? Out of the blue…?’

  ‘Not really out of the blue, Damini…but I wasn’t expecting to be called like this. I was supposed to never return to Kashi.’

  There was silence in the room. Damini listened with disbelief at the mysterious and disconnected statements Vidyut was speaking in. It wasn’t like him. And it wasn’t like her assertive journalist self to keep waiting till eternity for the answers she wanted quickly. She sat up fully attentive, tied her hair swiftly in a bun while holding a hairpin between her teeth like only beautiful and confident women do, and fired her questions, politely yet firmly.

  ‘Kashi? You mean Banaras…or Varanasi…or whatever! Why do you have to go there, baby? What were you not expecting? And for God’s sake…why were you to never return to that place? And what do you mean return? When were you there in the first place? And how on earth have we never spoken about all this? Can you please tell me everything?’ Damini was now as curious as she was edgy.

  Vidyut turned to look at her, as if noticing her presence for the first time since his phone rang.

  ‘We have not spoken about it because it was not important yaa. Kashi was a closed chapter for me. For years when I tried to claw my way back there, I was prohibited from doing so. And now when I have learnt to live without the phantoms of the past, they give me a call?!’ said Vidyut with a laugh of disbelief.

  Before Damini could organize her thoughts, Vidyut sprung up from the bed and walked to his wardrobe. He took out a cigarette box and lit a cigarette. Now Damini was really nervous. It was after nine months that Vidyut had put a cigarette to his lips. And it was now she knew something was really not right. Her eyes silently followed Vidyut as he walked out to the balcony of his sprawling penthouse in tony Gurgaon where she lived with him. She quietly followed and stood next to him leaning against the railing of the balcony. She wore a very light and short negligee that accentuated her slim and attractive figure. Damini was as beautiful physically as she was intelligent. She did not utter a word. Vidyut was in a trance. And for the first time since she knew him, Vidyut looked afraid. Of what, she knew not.

  Kashi is the holiest city in Hinduism, perhaps the most ancient religion and way-of-life on Earth. Originally called both Kashi and Varanasi, as hundreds and thousands of years passed the name changed first to Baraansi and then to Banaras under the influence of Pali literature. Hindu mythological scriptures have it that when the great floods destroy the whole world in the final judgment-day deluge called pralay, Lord Shiva Himself will protect the city of Kashi by raising it on the tip of his mighty trident or trishul. A city that has seen over 10,000 winters, Varanasi is said to be home to some of the greatest occult practitioners and powers of this world, and all others. It is also the keeper of the planet’s most sinister secrets.

  It was a 90-minute flight from New Delhi to Varanasi. Vidyut was going to take the 3 pm flight so as to be with Purohit ji by 6 pm. He had a devoted set of friends and colleagues who took care of everything for him. And vice versa. Vidyut and his core team operated like one single organism that needed very little conversation among them. Most things got done with the exchange of a glance or two words on a phone text. Vidyut’s dear friend Bala, short for Balakrishnan, was his closest confidante and perhaps the only man Vidyut fully trusted. Bala was not only Vidyut’s next in command at the company, he was also Vidyut’s best friend. He was ex-military, a highly decorated army officer during his short service commission. Bala could crack complex financial models with t
he same ease with which he could bust the ribs of an opponent in unarmed combat. And he worshipped Vidyut. He loved Vidyut.

  Vidyut ran a corporate security company that protected its large multinational clients against technology-based competitive espionage. Vidyut launched his company as a small start-up, which was now among the leading industrial security companies in India. The success of his company made Vidyut a very sought-after man, and gave him access to the movers and shakers of corporate India. Powerful politicians, who perhaps needed more technology-based security than even business houses, swiftly noticed the use of his company’s products and services. Vidyut was soon a speed-dial for many of them. They took pride in having Vidyut at their social lunches and garden dinners. At a very young age Vidyut was a very influential man. But for people who knew his lineage, for people like Purohit ji, this came as no surprise. Vidyut was no ordinary man. He wasn’t supposed to be one.

  Wearing a casual grey t-shirt and blue jeans, Vidyut looked much younger than he actually was. He was packing light, just for a day or two. Damini was worried about all that was happening, but maintained a brave and smiling face. Vidyut looked at her every now and then, and flashed his disarming smile or winked at her playfully. He wanted to comfort her and show her that everything was normal. They both knew it wasn’t.

  After he was done with the quick packing, Vidyut paused for a while and stood staring out of the window. By this time Bala had entered the house and made himself comfortable with a carton of coconut water from the fridge. He sat on one of the dining chairs and sipped at his sweet coconut water silently. Both Vidyut and Damini were used to Bala’s presence in their home, and they loved it. He was family.

  Vidyut noticed Bala.

  ‘Hi Bala.’

  ‘Hey Video’.

  ‘Whassup man? Khaana khaaya? Had lunch?’ enquired Vidyut.

  ‘Yea yea…’ Bala responded without looking at his friend. This was enough show of affection for the day. But it meant the world to Vidyut.

  What happened next was something Damini dreaded and couldn’t imagine happening. Vidyut walked to the safe in his study and pulled out the maha-panchaanng – the Hindu or Sanatana calendar and planner. Damini froze with fear and her mouth went dry. The last time Vidyut had taken out this advanced panchaanng was his life’s worst day. It was the day he had lost his beloved mother! Despite his modern clothing and appearance, despite his flashy cars and his technology company - Vidyut was an expert practitioner of Vedic astrology. He could read the kundalis (horoscopes) of people with the same prowess with which he often scanned through software codes.

  Damini protested by covering her open mouth with both her hands and by allowing an expression of horror to envelope her face. Vidyut noticed it but made no effort to comfort her. He seemed to be in a trance again. He spread the panchaanng out on the dining table next to where Bala sat, chanted a silent Sanskrit mantra in his mouth and leaned over the large chart. His panchaanng was more detailed than the regular thing available in the market. Every year his dear friend Gopal from a Hindu monastery in the Himalayas sent him this authentic panchaanng. It was the real deal. It could be interpreted, studied and put to use only by the grandmasters of Vedic astrology. Vidyut was one of them. And Gopal was among the many friends of Vidyut that mystified Damini.

  Bala could see the panic on Damini’s face and the tears welling up in her eyes. He put his hand on Vidyut’s and asked softly yet firmly, ‘What are you doing man? Why do you need this now?’

  Vidyut did not respond. Damini could not take it any more. She ran to Vidyut’s side, held him tightly by his arm and pulled him to face her.

  ‘What are you doing, baby?’ she yelled at him, her voice ready to burst into a sob.

  There was momentary irritation in Vidyut at being disturbed like this, but he quickly regained his composure. He realized that an explanation was now overdue. He had been behaving strangely ever since he took Purohit ji’s call, and his love for Damini demanded that he shares everything with her. Or almost everything.

  ‘Come here baby,’ said Vidyut as he affectionately pulled Damini by her arm and made her sit on a couch close to the dining table. ‘I can tell you what is important in two minutes, or try and tell you everything in the greatest detail. But for that even two days will fall short,’ he continued.

  Damini just stared lovingly at Vidyut, her eyes wet and her beautiful face slightly contorted as she tried very hard to hold back a barrage of tears.

  ‘Even if I tell you everything Damini, you will not be able to believe it. You will probably think Vidyut has lost it. You will probably want me to meet a psychiatric consultant, if you don’t want me to contact one already!’ Vidyut laughed meekly as he tried to add some humor to the tense situation – in vain. Damini kept staring at him with the same disbelief and fear.

  ‘Baby just tell me what is going on. Your woman is a strong woman. She can handle it,’ said Damini as matter-of-factly as possible. ‘I didn’t want to push you till now, but I know you so well. You would never pull out the panchaanng if something was not seriously out of place.’

  Vidyut was silent for a moment. He then took Damini’s soft and artistic fingers in his hands and sat down on his knees on the floor in front of the sofa she sat on. He looked at her with a charming tilt of his head and a genuine smile, this time for real. He kissed her hands and said simply, ‘Damini, I am half-human, half-God.’

  Paris, 2017

  ‘KILL THAT BLOODY ARYAN-BOY.’

  Reg Mariani’s Lufthansa flight landed at the Charles De Gaulle Airport. He peered out of his first-class window at the rainy Paris evening. He did not really relish the inviting sight. He had work to do.

  A tall and handsome man in his mid-forties, Reg strode briskly through the airport exit, stepped out of gate number 6 and slipped into a waiting black Mercedes Benz S 500. He instructed the chauffeur to drive him to the lovely Hotel Regina at the Rue De Rivoli. After a fifty-minute drive and a courteous check-in, Reg was in the most luxurious suite of the posh Parisian hotel overlooking the Musee du Louvre. Money was the last thing Reg had to worry about. He was funded by the world’s richest institution. Ever.

  After a quick shower, the finest Italian suit and an anxious cigarette, Reg was on his way to his dinner rendezvous with a man known not by his name but by his title - the Maschera Bianca – someone Reg considered to be the most dangerous man in the world. Or second most dangerous maybe. The most dangerous man was the one who had sent Reg from Rome to Paris. With a hand-written note.

  The Maschera Bianca was a 40-year-old dashing man, with beautiful, almost feminine features, and penetrating eyes that could burn a hole into metal. He sat alone and relaxed in the expensive brasserie, sipping on his vodka and smoking an Indian brand of cigarettes. An acquaintance from India regularly sent him a supply of his favorite Indian tobacco. The brasserie was filled with fine people, though more men than women. The Maschera welcomed Reg with a warm smile and a wave as soon as the latter entered the restaurant. This was not the first time the two were meeting.

  Reg was greeted by a warm handshake and an order for double vodka, the finest on the menu. The Maschera offered Reg a cigarette from his Indian pack. Reg obliged with a smile and asked a bit hesitantly, ‘So you are still in touch with your Indian employee?’ The Maschera lit Reg’s cigarette and replied smiling, ‘Not an employee. A friend! I only work with friends, Reg. You should know that.’

  Reg nodded with a grin. He knew the Maschera had no friends.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ asked the Maschera.

  ‘You know who I work for. And you know what has been bothering my mentor and employer for so many years.’

  The Maschera nodded profusely as a sign of his complete understanding of the situation. While the Maschera looked very calm, Reg was uneasy about how a man of his stature and profession was sitting alone in a public brasserie. Reg expected the Maschera to be more guarded than the President of the United States. He continued nevertheless.
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  ‘Clearly the situation has now become serious. They have called him to the clan HQ’.

  The Maschera stopped nodding and his eyes became still. A man of his extreme intellect could sense that the prophesied hour had finally arrived.

  ‘So what does the big man want?’ asked the Maschera after a pause, referring to Reg’s employer as the ‘big man’.

  Reg quietly took out the hand-written note he had carried from Rome in a sealed envelope and handed it over to the Maschera. The latter opened the note, read its contents in less than a second and handed it back to Reg. Stopping for a moment to think, the Maschera picked-up his glass of vodka and emptied it in one gulp. He puffed the last drag from his Indian cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray.

  After a few seconds of pause the Maschera spoke referring again to Reg’s employer, ‘the big fellow knows this is not going to be easy right? This…this…man cannot be harmed without the greatest of effort.’

  ‘Yes he knows,’ replied Reg. ‘He knows because he tried to use his own craft first. It didn’t work. He would not ask me to meet you, of all people, to take care of someone ordinary.’

  The Maschera looked deep into Reg’s eyes with his cold and fearsome gaze. After a few seconds he smiled and said, ‘Consider this done, Reg. Tell the big man.’

  Saying this the Maschera got up from his chair and shook Reg’s hand like a regular old friend. As soon as he turned to walk away, Reg and four other guests were stunned to see the entire restaurant get up from their seats. It was only then Reg realized that 45 out of the 50 guests of the brasserie were the Maschera’s security detail. They all got up in unison and walked out of the brasserie, the Maschera lost somewhere amidst them. Reg knew now that there were more than one hundred concealed automatic guns in that brasserie all this while they were speaking. From past dealings he knew that each of the Maschera’s fighters carried a minimum of two deadly weapons on their person at any time.