Reg was always afraid of the Maschera. Despite knowing that the Maschera was Europe’s most dreaded and mystical Mafia boss, Reg still found something amiss about the man. Something eerie.
Reg’s attention went to the crumpled note the Maschera had returned to him. He picked it up and saw the familiar handwriting of his powerful mentor.
He did not flinch as he read the five words written on that note – Kill that bloody Aryan-boy.
Banaras, 2017
KASHI: THE ANCIENT CITY
Varanasi’s Lal Bahadur Shastri International Airport at Babatpur is about 26 kilometers to the northwest of the main city. Vidyut got off the plane and walked straight to a waiting cab that had been arranged by his office. His team knew Vidyut treated his time as precious currency and was not one to waste even a minute searching for a taxi. He counted every minute and valued every moment. He expected a fast and classy cab to be parked for him. It was there. And he expected the driver to know where exactly he wanted to go. The driver did.
Vidyut’s Executive Assistant Rhea was well trained. More than that, she truly adored and respected Vidyut. And his time. And she was madly in love with him. Vidyut had that effect on any woman he spent time with. Just like one of his illustrious ancestors did about 3,700 years ago, in a different and distant land.
The white-colored BMW SUV moved swiftly out of the airport and covered the first few kilometers in no time. Vidyut sat in front next to the driver. He wore a black tee, blue jeans, reflecting sunglasses and a sparkling Rolex. The driver of the car was as excited as he was uneasy. He had never ferried a passenger like Vidyut. He could not fully understand it, but he could sense a powerful energy-wave emanating from his customer for the day. Paras could not hold himself back.
‘Sir, you are from Delhi?’
‘Hmm,’ mumbled Vidyut as he speedily responded to business emails on his smartphone.
‘Sir you come to Banaras for holiday?’
‘No.’
The driver of the cab could sense his customer was in no mood for a conversation. He persisted nevertheless. For some unknown reason he wanted this intense and handsome man to acknowledge his presence.
‘Sir myself Paras Pandey.’
Vidyut now turned and smiled generously at Paras Pandey. Much as he was busy and engulfed by the powers and demons of his own world and life, Vidyut was exceptionally kind to people. He could sense Paras’ effort to start a chat and the man Vidyut was, he would never let anyone down as far as he could help it. Paras was delighted by the show of civility by his clearly rich and mysteriously powerful customer. ‘Hello Paras. I am Vidyut,’ said Vidyut extending his hand out to Paras, who grabbed it with great enthusiasm and eagerness. He grinned widely at Vidyut as they shook hands, but something made him revere this hand he held. It was not the first time he had felt that nearly divine touch.
‘Sir, how long you stay in Banaras?’ enquired Paras in the typically broken but supremely effective English that expert tourism business-folk use in India.
‘Ek din. One day,’ replied Vidyut.
‘Arey no Sir…you will not be allowed to leave Banaras, the city of Lord Bholenath (another loving name for Lord Shiva), till the time He himself permits you to,’ said Paras jovially.
Little did Paras know that his casual words would turn out to be dangerously prophetic, for Vidyut was not supposed to leave Varanasi alive.
Banaras’ colonies and localities have the most tongue-twisting names – Naati-imli, Lahura-beer, Kabeer-chaura, Vishwanath-gali, Baans-phaatak, Dhoop-chandi, Assi, Gadauliya, Lanka and more. But very few people know that each name has a profound history and a story that is as old as humankind itself. For example, Kabeer-chaura is located where the followers of the legendary philosopher and ascetic-poet Kabeer built a hermitage in his memory (although quite contrary to the teachings of the great Kabeer himself, who spurned institutions that attempted to act as conduits between the Almighty and His subjects). Similarly Assi was named after the ancient Assi river and the associated sacrificial ghaat or pier. The name Varanasi itself was derived from the primordial river Varana. Nothing in Varanasi was frivolous or trivial. Nothing. The only frivolity was in the skeptical eyes of the uninformed observer.
Paras knew Vidyut’s destination in the city was the most powerful and secretive Hindu monastery in all of Varanasi – the Dev-Raakshasa Matth – or the God-Demon Monastery. He was petrified because the host involved was none other than the mystical, the worshipped and the dreaded Brahmin priest – Dwarka Shastri, who led this powerful matth. While most of Varanasi’s monasteries or matths, training-grounds or akhadas and educational hostels or gurukuls had a strange mystique or secrecy about them, the matth that was led by Dwarka Shastri was exceptionally feared. And this modern, boyish, city-bred man Vidyut wanted to get dropped in the very heart of the hell-fire. Paras felt the urge to warn this seemingly naïve gentleman.
‘Vidyut Sir, why you go to this place please? It is very… you know…daraavna (scary),’ advised Paras, though it sounded more like a frightened warning. He continued, ‘Dwarka Shastri ji is a saint…but very short-tempered. He curses frequently now, you see? And his curse never go wrong.’
Paras was perplexed because his customer seemed unmoved by this subtle yet dark caution. Vidyut’s gaze on the road ahead did not flicker for even a split-second. Paras wondered if the man next to him was fearless or foolish. Or something else.
Varanasi is not everyone’s cup of tea. A lot of it is stinky, ugly, dusty, crowded, jammed, poor and repulsive. It represents everything that is not right with humankind. And yet it is undoubtedly the most beautiful city in the whole world. Just an inch below its horrendous outer skin, lie the most profound and the most spiritually powerful mysteries and philosophies man has ever known. In that sense, it is quite like the universe in which we live - dark and cruel on its outside material crust, yet calm and immortal in its inner realm. The ancient city of Kashi was meant to represent this duality since the beginning of time. But only the gifted seeker could spot this fine Godly construct.
Paras stopped his car when it could go no further into the typical narrow lanes of the city. He dropped Vidyut very close to Dwarka Shastri’s matth, which itself was in close vicinity of the city’s greatest Shiva temple – the majestic Kashi-Vishwanath Mandir. Despite the unstoppable rush of people and the screaming of bicycle-rickshaw horns, the place had universally accepted holiness. Even as Paras pulled out his car from the drop-point, he touched his forehead with his fingers and submitted a small prayer to the very air of the place, a common Hindu gesture in reverence of the Almighty. Even as he drove out of the narrow alley, Paras leaned his head out of the window and called out to Vidyut, ‘Vidyut babu, my number is 98456738917…please call me if you need anything.’ Vidyut smiled and nodded in response. He had a near photographic memory…or phonographic at that.
With the small rucksack on his back, Vidyut walked steadily into the really narrow and wet alleys leading towards the secretive and feared monastery. Vidyut was here after two and a half decades, but he remembered every path like the back of his hand. Nothing had changed. The same constricted lanes between residential buildings built hundreds of years ago. Almost every wall painted with sceneries and portraits of Hindu Gods and Goddesses, each painting expressing boundless love and devotion in the form of bright colors. The same fragrance of marigold flowers mixed with temple incense. Almost every home in Varanasi had a small temple, and it was cleaned and anointed every day. The same kind of people walked past him, visibly poor but strangely content. Every third person who passed by was a priest or a holy-man. Vidyut knew where his destination was, and vice versa! Aware of every step he took and after a few minutes of walking, Vidyut knew he was very close. He felt his pulse racing faster as he advanced closer and closer to his goal. It was not the pulse of a man nervous or afraid. It was the happy heart-thumping one feels when coming to family after a long time. And Vidyut knew he was coming home – his real home.
&n
bsp; Vidyut reached the massive stone-carved dwaar or archway that marked the entrance to the Dev-Raakshasa Matth. The archway was beautifully and intricately chiseled into fine designs, patterns and figures. It looked awe-inspiring at once, but the real narrative lay in the small stone figures and figurines carved into it. A close inspection would uncover the powerful, haunting and immortal legends those figures told. However, for Vidyut there was no fear or power associated to this archway. There was only love, only a warm embrace. He stepped close to one of the ends of the archway and caressed it gently with his fingers, like an infant touches the cheek of a beloved grandparent. Even as Vidyut immersed himself in the memories and affection this gate held for him, a rough and loud voice barked, ‘How dare you lay your hands on the dwaar?’
Vidyut turned to see a young man in his late twenties, well built and clad in the flowing traditional saffron attire of Hindu monks, charging towards him. He sported a big tilak or vermillion paste on his large forehead. Most ominously, he carried in his hands a short but battle-ready trishul or trident that had three spearheads made of shining steel at its attacking end, held by a thick, polished bamboo stick. Vidyut was unfazed.
‘Who the hell are you and how on Earth did you dare to touch this pious pillar?’ demanded the young fellow. Vidyut observed that he was a good-looking man with honest features and expression.
‘How much do you know about this pillar and this archway, brother?’ enquired Vidyut with a soft smile.
The young man was taken aback by the fearlessness and insolence of this stranger. But he also sensed something familiar about Vidyut. He couldn’t tell what it was.
‘This gate is over 800 years old,’ replied the young man with no letting-up in the anger in his voice.
‘And…?’ asked Vidyut.
‘What do you mean and?! It is made of a very rare kind of stone.’
‘And…?’
‘And I am going to break your big-city face if you don’t walk away right now!’ growled the young man.
Vidyut looked straight into the eyes of this fine young fellow, paused for a few moments and then spoke with supreme confidence.
‘This gateway was built in the year 1253 under the stewardship of the then matthadheesh Shri Bhairava Shastri. The stone-block used to carve this magnificent archway was a gift from the King of Kannauj, and weighed an incredible 1008 tonnes. The primary architect of the gateway was Pundit Ramakant Deekshit who employed 27 fine craftsmen from Mathura, and they worked continuously for 3 years to complete this masterpiece. It was erected and commissioned in the winter of year 1256 and was inaugurated by none other than the Kashi-naresh (King of Kashi) himself. ’
The young man stood dumbstruck. ‘Who are you?’ were the only words that escaped his mouth.
‘My name is Vidyut Shastri.’
The young man froze with disbelief. In a few quick moments Vidyut could see his eyes welling-up with tears. Before Vidyut could say anything, the young man crumbled and fell at his feet. Vidyut was bewildered as he could feel the man’s hands wrapped around his ankles in a show of complete submission and devotion. Even before Vidyut could bend down to lift the man up, he had sprung to his feet and run towards the inner sanctum of the monastery like a man possessed.
‘He has arrived! He has arrived! He has arrived!’ the young man kept yelling at the top of his voice as he vanished into one of the lanes leading to the matth.
They were waiting for Vidyut’s arrival. For centuries.
Harappa, 1700 BCE
THE LAST DEVTA
Vivasvan Pujari bathed himself in the pious and sparkling waters of the Sindhu, a small tributary of the mighty Saraswati River, that ran next to Harappa. Harappa worshipped the powerful river as the very giver of life and knowledge. Inhabitants of the massive metropolis loved the river as much as they revered it, and the most affectionate among them called her Sara Maa or Sara the Mother.
The very existence of Harappa and both its close and distant provinces like Mohenjo Daro and Lothal depended on the Saraswati. She provided them with drinking water, irrigation, transport, fish, medicine, protection against invading armies and sacred banks for advanced Vedic rituals. She was the very soul of the Harappan society.
The day after tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of Vivasvan Pujari’s life. A man of fifty-five years, he looked not a day older than thirty-five. His ivory skin radiated an unusual glow and he had the broad forehead of a powerful monarch. Hailed as the Surya (Sun) of Harappa for the brilliance of his triumphs, he had the eyes of a very kind man, who also enjoyed unquestioned authority. His built was as stone-cast as that of an expert athlete and his muscles glistened under his fine angavastram (upper body robe). Vivasvan Pujari was not only a grandmaster of ancient scriptures, mantras and hymns, he was also one of the authors of the profound and intense Vedas – the most contemporary work of literature, nature sciences and spirituality. He was said to be the recipient of divine blessings from the primordial Rishis who were the causal forces of creation itself, along with Shiva and Shakti. Vivasvan Pujari was not a man. He was a divine phenomenon. He was the last devta ever to be born on planet Earth.
Or so they believed then.
Chandradhar was pacing up and down his grand study. While he wasn’t too happy about the turn of events himself, his real worry was something else. Chandradhar was exceptionally wise and a master of all the spiritual and scientific learning of his time. He was the second most influential man across the vast plains of the mammoth Harappan settlements. He was the chief treasurer of the state. He was also the acting head of the priestly council. Most importantly, he was chief of the Gopaalaks or the raisers of Harappa’s greatest wealth, the divine milk-bearing livestock. Anyone who controlled this fortune, controlled all of Harappa. And yet the second most influential man in all of the state was envious. He was envious of the first most influential man in all of Harappa. He was envious of his best friend, his very own brother-in-law.
Chandradhar was envious of none other than the mighty Vivasvan Pujari.
But Chandradhar’s real worry was something else. His real worry was his wife - Priyamvada or the soft-spoken. Unfortunately his wife was anything but that. She was his life’s greatest choler. Unlike his own large-hearted self, Priyamvada hated everything and everyone. Chandradhar feared that the rub-off of her emotional venom was slowly transforming him into a monstrous soul, something Harappa had never known. He hated her. And yet, deep down he loved her madly. He couldn’t live without her.
Priyamvada entered the study where he was pacing frantically. He could see her profound hatred veiled well under her beautiful and smiling face.
‘Congratulations Pundit Chandradhar,’ she said cheerily, and then hissed like a witch - ‘You’ve lost again, you fool!’
Vivasvan climbed the steps of the sacred Sindhu-Saraswati ghaat (pier) towards the posse of state-guards waiting for him in utmost attention, holding his signature banner of the shining Sun high. It was their duty to protect Vivasvan Pujari under all circumstances. But more than considering this their duty, they felt blessed to be in this position of closeness to Vivasvan Pujari, the greatest treasure of the Harappan civilization.
Apart from being the man who brought the ten warring tribes of Aryavarta together into the historic peace accord, Vivasvan Pujari was credited with the most profound contribution to Harappa. He was the one who rode the first five thousand battle-beasts or ashvas (horses) into Harappa, making it the most powerful military in the world. This was immediately after he had defeated the mighty Sura, the powerful warlord from the far west, where they spoke the strange a-bhasha (un-language). Vivasvan Pujari was the most revered man across all of the vast plains and people knew he was not just another ordinary mortal. No mortal could achieve and deliver what Vivasvan Pujari had. He was indeed a devta – half-human, half-God.
Vivasvan was elated today. He was going to be declared the Chief Priest of Harappa the morning after next by the blessings of the highest council of the divi
ne-seven, or the Saptarishi, which would make him virtually the emperor of the nation-state. ‘Emperor’ was not really a welcome term in the powerful democracy that Vivasvan Pujari and Pundit Chandradhar had painstakingly carved Harappa into, but the Chief Priest practically controlled everything.
However, not everyone was taking this coronation of sorts lightly.
Definitely not Priyamvada.
Vivasvan Pujari entered his massive yet simple home. It was a gigantic structure in the heart of Harappa that stated in no unclear terms what stature Vivasvan Pujari commanded in the metropolis. And yet it appeared to be nothing more than a gentle hermitage – the abode of a family that lived its life in intense austerity, in the service of God and His people.
As soon as he entered his house, Vivasvan was greeted by Sanjna, his graceful and devoted wife. She was widely loved and revered both as Vivasvan Pujari’s better half, as well as for her own charisma, social service and profound Vedic learning.
Sanjna served Vivasvan’s morning repast in which his son Manu joined him. Manu was named after the first man in Vedic scriptures, and was a handsome, strapping young lad of twenty-two. He was immensely proud of his father, and vice versa.
‘So how is your learning of Atharva Veda progressing, Manu?’ asked Vivasvan gently while scooping up his kheer (rice-porridge) from the fresh banana-leaf plate using his fingers. ‘You know it is among the most important sciences you need to learn, as it deals with occult practices and knowledge of the ethereal world?’
Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Page 3
