Harappa - Curse of the Blood River

by Vineet Bajpai

  ‘Yes father, I am concentrating a lot on it, as it interests me deeply,’ replied Manu. ‘Although there are some scary elements of the spirit-world that I will need to learn directly from you,’ continued Manu with an element of jest in his tone. He very well knew that the dark-sciences were out of bounds for all young practitioners. He enjoyed teasing his father, the great Vivasvan Pujari, nevertheless.

  ‘You’ll get one tight slap from me one of these days. How many years has it been since I gave you one?’ enquired Vivasvan jovially. He knew his son was having fun. Both of them shared a hearty laugh, followed by a doting caress from Vivasvan on Manu’s shaven head. He loved Manu and Sanjna more than his life.

  Sanjna sat next to Manu, transferring some more kheer, potato curry and pooris onto her son’s banana leaf every couple of minutes. Her life’s greatest joy was to see Vivasvan and Manu bond like the sun and light. The family of Vivasvan Pujari was a model of love, trust, simplicity and togetherness. It was as if Sara Maa and the Gods themselves had fashioned this beautiful family. Sanjna spent several hours every day expressing her gratitude to the Gods and seeking their continued blessings.

  But the Gods were about to fail Sanjna. Terribly.

  A dark force had begun its ominous work against this powerful yet gentle, pious family. A distant forest-cave was witness to the commencement of a cruel black-magic ritual. The three Mesopotamian andh-maayaavi (blind magicians) cackled maniacally and bathed in human blood and wine, as they began the ghastly rites. Their growling chants resonated in the forest, killing every animal, bird, plant and insect in the vicinity. The three of them had to summon and combine their entire army of dark forces and violent, dissatisfied spirits in this one last do-or-die quest.

  It was not going to be easy to vanquish the devta himself.

  Banaras, 2017

  ROMI PEREIRA

  It was sweltering hot and humid in that sardine-can of a railway coach. The skinny, bespectacled young man was being pushed around in the unreserved second-class compartment of the train. He looked so vulnerable that almost everyone in that angry coach kicked him around. He had changed many trains in order to reach Banaras from his current living quarters in Pondicherry. Romi looked like a software geek straight from the hostels of India’s famous engineering colleges. He was scrawny, had thick black-rimmed glasses, unkempt hair, fair skin and an innocent, handsome face.

  Romi had a very insecure, very subdued personality. He could not stand up to anyone, especially since he could never confront his brutally punishing ex-Mumbai-police father. With a troubled childhood bruised regularly by a drunk and violent Dad, Romi grew up to be a very gentle yet complex character. He was afraid of everything and everyone. He stammered before every word that he spoke in his soft and endearing voice.

  His father had died in a bizarre domestic accident when Romi was just thirteen. Romi’s mother had anyway abandoned him and her half-mad husband just two years after Romi’s birth. Being from a landed family, Romi inherited a lot of estate after his father’s demise. He did not shed a single tear as he led the last rites of the drunk, fallen man. His distant relatives figured it was understandably deep shock.

  Romi topped his engineering batch. He had no friends in school or at his engineering college. He was the laughing stock of his entire class. Even Priya laughed at him along with them. Even Priya. Romi was a master at the English language and when Rahul, the most handsome and popular student of their class inexplicably committed suicide, they asked Romi to write his obituary. Romi left the beautifully written note under Priya’s girls’ hostel room. They loved his gesture, since Priya was Rahul’s girlfriend. They continued to laugh at him nevertheless.

  What they failed to notice was that Romi’s father and Priya’s boyfriend had both died mysteriously. Brutally.

  As the train made its brief halt at the massive Varanasi railway station, Romi struggled to make his way out of the train compartment. His slim and scared figure tried to squeeze out of the compartment door, apologizing to everyone on the way. As he was moving out he stepped on a large dark man’s toe. In the heat of the moment that burly figure turned, mouthed expletives and slapped Romi across his face. Romi’s thick black specs almost flew out of his childishly handsome face.

  ‘Sorry sir,’ said Romi to the dark man, almost crying and trying to get his glasses back to his face. The thick dark man in the purple shirt frowned, inebriated by the confidence he felt as a victorious warrior. Everyone around looked away as if nothing just happened.

  Romi was almost thrown out from the coach on to the Varanasi railway platform number 3. He could barely maintain his balance as his poor, weak figure managed to get hold of his backpack. Romi was in tears as he regained his composure, wiped his wet eyes and unsurely trudged along the railway platform. He was a pathetic sight. As everyone knew, Romi was a complete loser who had no strength or talent whatsoever.

  As the train moved along, the dark man in the purple shirt gurgled in his own blood. In the chaos of the crowd, an expert killer had slit his throat in just a centimeter long gash. But a gash that was sure to kill the man, slowly and painfully.

  Everyone knew Romi was a complete loser who had no strength or talent whatsoever.

  Except that he was among the world’s most sophisticated and ruthless assassins.

  And the Maschera Bianca, or the Italian White Mask, had taken notice.

  Banaras, 2017

  ‘NOBODY MISSED YOU…?’

  The piping hot kachoris and sweet orange colored jalebis piledup in front of Vidyut were irresistible. They had been supplied by the famous Basant Mahal halwaai (caterer). Vidyut’s last two hours had been a merry reminder of his childhood days at the matth.

  The young man’s screaming had resulted in Purohit ji’s hasty emergence at the gate of the matth. He had broken down as he had caught the first glimpse of Vidyut. He looked at Vidyut and burst into childlike sobs, like those of a long lost love. And why not? Vidyut was like a son to him. Purohit ji had been the first and only father-like figure Vidyut had ever felt the protection of, ever since he lost his father Kartikeya.

  After the intense exchange of affection and tight hugs; after the complains and counter-accusations of two people trying to prove who loves the other more were over, Purohit ji had welcomed Vidyut into the very sanctum sanctorum of the Dev-Raakshasa matth. While entry to this area was carefully restricted, Purohit ji had no doubt in his mind whatsoever. Vidyut was the ultimate master and commander of this clan anyway, and had been summoned by the spiritual force of the matth to come and take his rightful place.

  And so it began with the feeding. Just like a mother treats her beloved child returning from a distant land, Purohit ji and his henchmen spared no effort in pampering Vidyut with a mountain of goodies on his table. Varanasi is a food-lover’s paradise and Vidyut was served an assortment of the city’s most delectable vegetarian delicacies.

  It started with the kachoris – round, deep-fried puffs stuffed with minced and spiced lentils. These taste much better than it sounds. Followed by the ubiquitous samosa – a pyramidal shaped patty of refined flour stuffed with a spicy potato paste. Again deep-fried. Again simply delicious. Then came the signature tamaatar-chaap or the tomato-mince of Banaras – a thick batter of fried tomatoes, potatoes, peppercorn, onions and finest Indian spices. Shallow fried for a change. Delicious nevertheless. Vidyut was forced to consume two portions of each of the above delights. And then arrived the famous Banaras sweetmeats or mithai.

  A whole epic can be written about the dairy based sweets of Banaras. Perhaps Calcutta (now Kolkata) is the only other Asian city that can match Banaras’ variety and finesse when it comes to sweets. The experienced and discerning culinary expert can identify a Banaras mithai by only its appearance or even fragrance. For Vidyut there was the unique launglataa…the clove-flavored delight with a spiced stuffing of extra-condensed milk. Then the jalebis and the kheel-kadam - cottage cheese in fragrant sugar syrup wrapped inside a dumpling of powd
ered khoya.

  Vidyut was a supremely fit man who swam miles every day during summers and ran near-marathons on his treadmill in winters. He also practiced advanced pranayama (yogic con-trolled-breathing exercises) every morning. His fitness level was so high that no amount of Banaras oil or mithai could beat him. And yet Vidyut was unable to move after this calorie tempest! He enjoyed every moment of it, especially the love that came along with the food.

  He was living Banaras like he did nearly three decades ago.

  Vidyut was reintroduced to a lot of his childhood friends. The young man with the ominous trident was none other than Sonu, Purohit ji’s son. By now he was totally in awe of Vidyut and threw himself repeatedly into the latter’s hugs many times. All Vidyut could do was to laugh out loud every time Sonu innocently did that. Then there was Balvanta, the ‘humanoid’ as Vidyut used to call him playfully as a child. He was the beastly looking, forever-frowning Kshatriya fighter. He would never smile. He didn’t know what a laugh was. He was alien to the concept of human happiness. But he was a protector. And a master artist of Kalaripayattu, the ancient Indian martial art said to have been founded by none other than the mighty ascetic-warrior Parashuram himself.

  Thereafter Vidyut met Govardhan dada - the semi-blind ayurvedic master-pharmacologist. He had not changed a bit, except for his hair turning snow white. Then Vidyut met his nursery school friend Biji, who had now become a schoolmaster. They all met him with great affection and awe.

  And then he saw the stunning Naina.

  Vidyut was momentarily smitten as he saw Naina’s almond brown eyes and her arrogant yet soulful submission. She walked right into him boldly and bowed deeply in a namaste without taking her eyes away from his even for a second. Under normal circumstances Vidyut would have embraced her in a warm hug. But this was the matth. And Vidyut was here after decades. He wanted to be sure of what was the accepted norm here nowadays, even if Naina was his childhood friend.

  Naina looked nothing like what Vidyut would have expected. For a girl from a comparatively upcoming city like Banaras, especially when she grew up in the most conservative Brahminical upbringing, Naina was enchantingly attractive. She had glowing tanned skin and the features of a celestial goddess. Her eyes were large and piercing. She had a full mouth, a small but sharp nose and dark brown hair that curled naturally at the ends. Her clothing was simple, full…and yet conveyed something deeply sensual. But most of all, it was Naina’s unusual confidence that struck Vidyut. She carried herself as if she was the empress of everything and everyone around.

  ‘Namaste Vidyut’, said Naina with her palms folded and her eyes sparkling.

  ‘Namaste Naina’, replied Vidyut with a broad grin.

  ‘So how come the star of Delhi’s corporate world finally found time for us lesser mortals?’

  Vidyut laughed out loud and said, ‘Well, looks like nobody missed me here.’

  Naina tilted her head to one side and said with a naughty yet enquiring smirk, ‘so sure haan Vidyut? Nobody missed you?’

  Suddenly Purohit ji called out for Vidyut.

  Naina turned away slowly, stopping her gaze at Vidyut a moment longer than needed.

  Purohit ji had a hearty laugh as Vidyut described the culinary onslaught he had just been subjected to.

  ‘I will need a really potent digestive, Purohit ji,’ said Vidyut while merrily rubbing his bloated yet strong abdomen.

  ‘Don’t worry. Govardhan will have something for you,’ replied Purohit ji still laughing.

  Then slowly Purohit ji turned serious. Wiping his face with his angavastram, as if to erase his own grin, he said, ‘Vidyut, you need to prepare yourself.’

  ‘For what, Purohit ji?’

  Purohit ji stared at Vidyut, with a mildly admonishing expression.

  ‘For your meeting, Vidyut.’

  ‘Which meeting, Purohit ji?’ enquired Vidyut plainly.

  Purohit ji paused for a moment to compose himself. He was evidently concerned. After a short breather he said, ‘Your meeting with the mighty Dwarka Shastri ji, Vidyut. Your meeting with your great grandfather.’

  Vidyut always knew there was more to meeting the dreaded Dwarka Shastri than a great grandson meeting an elder. But he asked nevertheless, ‘What preparation do I need to do, Purohit ji?’

  ‘You need to perform a yajna (a holy ritual around a sacrificial fire) and chant the divine mantra 1008 times through the night.’

  Vidyut winced. ‘But Purohit ji, I am a regular meditator, an advanced taantric, a practitioner of pranayama and I have mastered all the eight siddhis (divine proficiencies) you began teaching me as a child. What yajna do I need to perform?’ exclaimed Vidyut with a bit of exasperation and a bit of conceit, something he almost never came near to.

  Purohit ji anchored his fiery gaze at Vidyut’s eyes, unable to control his temper. In a sudden and uncharacteristic outburst he flared up, ‘Do you know who you are going to meet, you arrogant fool?! Dwarka Shastri is the most powerful spirit on planet Earth today. Even if he is on his deathbed now, you will not be able to handle the intensity of our master’s persona, Vidyut!’ By now Purohit ji was screaming at the top of his voice.

  There was silence for a few moments. Vidyut knew he had overstepped. The calm and supremely wise Purohit ji would never lose his cool like this, unless the situation truly demanded it.

  Regaining his composure Purohit ji continued in a soft tone, ‘I know who you are, Vidyut. I know you are destined to be a devta like your great ancestor Vivasvan Pujari. But don’t forget for a moment, my son – Dwarka Shastri is an ethereal combination of a man, a yogi, a devta and a raakshasa. No one can match his power.’

  Purohit ji kept a loving hand on Vidyut’s shoulder and continued, ‘No one can withstand his wrath, Vidyut. Not even you.’

  There was silence for a few moments. Vidyut looked at Purohit ji and nodded respectfully, finally showing full understanding and agreement. Choosing to retire for the day and to prepare for the big meeting, he folded his hands and bid farewell to Purohit ji. He decided to abide by every instruction given to him by the great hermit. Irrespective of his confidence and conviction about his own abilities, Vidyut knew he would need to be in prime spiritual strength when he faces the dying matthadheesh.

  There was something causing butterflies in Vidyut’s stomach even as he walked towards his living quarters in the matth. All this while, even during the intense and heated exchange with Purohit ji, even with the looming pressure of meeting the mighty Dwarka Shastri…there was something that was distracting him continuously.

  Not something in fact. Someone.

  Naina.

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  SAPTARISHI

  Vivasvan Pujari dismounted from his massive white steed. His trusted bodyguard and he had galloped for six straight hours to reach the beautiful abode of the mighty Saptarishi or the Seven Sages. Despite being the devta himself, Vivasvan Pujari was nervous at the prospect of being face to face with the Saptarishi themselves. It was the last day before they went into their divine retreat for the lunar year.

  The mighty Saptarishi were no ordinary sages. No one knew from where or when they arrived on the planet. No one knew what the purpose of their existence was. No one had an idea from where they drew their boundless power. Everyone knew they controlled everything – the forests, the beasts, the skies, the rivers and even the Gods. The only thing that at times seemed inexplicably out-of-bounds for the Saptarishi…was free human will.

  Yet despite the boundless power the Sages wielded, they were the gentlest and the most loving benefactors of Harappa and its people. It was said that even the sight of one of them was enough to cleanse the karmic-debt of a thousand rebirths. A divine glance from them could heal the most dreadful of ailments. Their incessant penance protected the crop of Harappa, the livestock of the metropolis and the well being of its inhabitants. But most of all, they were the loving sons of the mighty Saraswati river. She adored them. She listened to them. They were eve
rything to her.

  The stunning snow-capped mountains towards the far east of Harappa were where the Saptarishi resided. Vivasvan Pujari could sense their dominating presence in everything around him. They were present in the trees, in the gushing rivulet, in the pebbles under his feet, in the breeze and in the mighty peaks. The Saptarishi were believed to be the guardians left behind on planet Earth by the primordial Rishis, after they completed the initiation of creation itself. The Saptarishi were not everyday humans. They were not even devtas. They were extraordinary mortals reinforced with the fiery strength of ultimate penance. With a streak of the Gods in them, they were the last real presence of the Creator on planet Earth.

  Vivasvan Pujari folded his hands and fell on his knees. He loved the Saptarishi and vice versa. With smiling tenderness and deep reverence, he summoned the divine Seven, ‘O great Sages; O protectors of Harappa; O defenders of the Vedas; O older brothers of this servant; O Saptarishi…show yourself to this humble being.’

  The chilly breeze of the beautiful riverbed surrounded by enormous peaks blew itself cheerily on Vivasvan Pujari’s face. Someone was responding to his call and the elements of nature were carrying the message. And then Vivasvan heard what he did every single time he paid a visit to the Sages. He heard the forest, the mountains, the stream, the birds and the breeze come in unison, resonating the most powerful sound of the Universe – Oum.

  The Sages were about to present themselves.

  Vivasvan Pujari sat on one knee, head bowed and hands folded in profound respect as one after the other the Saptarishi emerged from their Earthly dwelling. They did not walk up to him. They did not suddenly appear out of nowhere. They seemed to be one with the mountains and the forest. They seemed to rise up seamlessly from the pebbles under the flowing stream. They branched out in human shape from the barks of mighty conifers. They took shape from the mouths of hidden caves in the greyish-blue mountains. Whether the Saptarishi were truly Gods or master-illusionists, no one could say.