Harappa - Curse of the Blood River

by Vineet Bajpai

  Vidyut was back from his short sojourn at the ghaats. He was about to enter the chambers of his great grandfather again, that his phone rang.

  ‘Yes, Rhea,’ said Vidyut. It was his executive assistant calling.

  ‘Vidyut where have you been yaa? Damini has been trying to get in touch with you. I believe she has tried your phone more than a dozen times.’

  ‘Shit,’ exclaimed Vidyut. ‘She’s gonna kill me.’

  Rhea waited patiently for Vidyut’s next set of instructions. She could wait for Vidyut till eternity. Even as she heard nothing, she could smell his strong cologne. She could count the hair-tips on his rugged stubble. She knew he liked his americano more than a cappuccino, and that Jiu Jitsu was his favourite martial-art form right after kalaripayattu. She knew what he liked to eat, what he liked to wear, how he liked his breakfast eggs and what made him laugh. Rhea knew everything about Vidyut. And she hated that Vidyut knew almost nothing about her. But she was mistaken. Vidyut knew a lot about her. But not everything.

  ‘Tell her I am with someone important right now and that I will call her back as soon as I can’. He added, ‘Tell her I am well and everything is okay.’

  ‘Who are you with, Vidyut?’ asked Rhea.

  Vidyut was a bit taken aback. It was not Rhea’s mandate to ask him for information he did not care to offer himself. And she knew that well.

  ‘No one you know Rhea, thanks,’ said Vidyut and disconnected the call. Why did she want to know who I am with?

  But Vidyut quickly lost the thought as he had a lot to deal with at this point.

  The Maschera Bianca was not used to listening to such words. He maintained his composure nevertheless.

  ‘How can you say that? He is after all just human,’ said the Maschera through the advanced satellite phone he was using, from one of his operational bases somewhere deep in the Swiss Alps.

  ‘That’s the…point…Maschera. He is not just…human,’ said the polite, stammering voice on the other side. It was Romi, calling his employer to give an update.

  ‘I sat next to him today. He is something…different. He cannot be killed. He radiates this unknown energy that will unnerve even the most capable adversary.’

  ‘Are you saying he has unnerved you, Romi?’

  ‘No, Maschera.’

  There was a brief pause from both ends.

  ‘Remember who you are, Romi,’ the Maschera broke the silence. ‘Remember your profound work in that speeding tunnel of Paris. It was 1997. You were what…only 16 then?’

  ‘Yes Maschera,’ replied Romi. His did not have fond memories of that project. That graceful lady had the most beautiful face in the world and she did not deserve to die. But there was no choice. The Order needed her dead.

  ‘Remember Istanbul, Paris, Delhi, Damascus…you are unstoppable Romi. You are the Order’s most valuable asset.’

  Romi grimaced. He did not like what the Maschera just said.

  ‘I have told you before I am not your Order’s asset, Maschera,’ said Romi with uncharacteristic coldness. ‘I am an independent specialist and I only undertake work that I truly believe in.’

  He continued, ‘it is only a matter of chance that the Order and I have many areas of overlap in our beliefs.’

  ‘Yes of course, Romi,’ replied the Maschera instantly. ‘All I meant was that the Order has found you very useful whenever the need arose.’

  ‘Yes, Maschera.’ Romi was back to his gentle tone. ‘And all I meant to say was that Vidyut is nothing like the other projects I have delivered. He is strong, fearless…and…’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘There is a profound force that I sense around him,’ said Romi. ‘You would agree that my years of successful work have been possible because I have this unique gift of foreknowing the impending death of my projects. I can see it.’

  ‘You do have a rare gift, Romi.’

  ‘Precisely. But I am unable to foresee Vidyut’s end Maschera. Something inexplicable is protecting him.’

  The silence was longer this time. The Maschera had never seen his prized hit man so unsure of himself. He also realized he had never spoken to Romi this long. For the first time the Maschera sensed something he had never witnessed before. Romi was losing his nerve.

  ‘Nothing can protect him from you, Romi,’ said the Maschera matter-of-factly into his sat-phone. ‘You are an artist. Vidyut is just another ordinary guy.’

  ‘Thank you for the confidence you have in me, Maschera. It is very kind of you.’

  ‘Now do what you have to, Romi. I’m sending some of my elite unit, just to be sure. I know you don’t need them, but only as a back up. Vidyut must not leave that wicked city alive.’

  ‘He won’t, Maschera.’

  Both Romi and the Maschera Bianca knew Vidyut was not just another ordinary guy.

  Vidyut entered his Baba’s chamber and stood waiting for the grand old man’s signal. Dwarka Shastri was back on his bed, surrounded by the massive pillows. His eyes were shut, as if in deep trance. Vidyut waited patiently even as he stared lovingly at his great grandfather. It was after decades that he had got the chance to be with his Baba. The initial phase of fear and tension was now giving way to an affectionate comfort that Vidyut felt in Dwarka Shastri’s towering presence.

  A few minutes later the matthadheesh opened his eyes and signaled Vidyut to come and sit beside him. Vidyut was keenly waiting for Dwarka Shastri to narrate the next part of the gripping and portentous tale of his ancestors, even though he was still a bit shell-shocked at everything he had heard so far.

  Vidyut stepped forward to touch his great grandfather’s feet, as is customary even today in millions of Hindu families. Touching of the elders’ feet is symbolic of deep respect and absolute submission. In return one wins showers of blessings.

  Vidyut bent forward and pressed his fingertips on Dwarka Shastri’s left foot. As soon as his fingers touched Dwarka Shastri’s wrinkled skin, the old man turned to look at Vidyut with a sudden expression of alarm. Even before Vidyut could ask what had happened, the expression on the great Dwarka Shastri’s face transformed from alarm to one of horror!

  The old man grabbed Vidyut’s wrist in a tight grip and shot several questions in one shaken burst.

  ‘Where did you go just now, Vidyut? Tell me exactly! Who did you meet? Did a stranger touch you? Did anyone give you anything? Who did you meet boy? Answer me!’ By now Dwarka Shastri was shivering with fear and anger.

  ‘Sorry if I did something wrong, Baba,’ replied Vidyut in an uncertain tone. ‘I…I just went to the Dashashwamedh Ghaat, Baba. Just…for some fresh air. I did not meet anyone.’

  ‘Yes you did, you fool. There is something you are carrying on your person that is alien to the secure precincts of the matth.’

  Dwarka Shastri’s laser-like eyes were now looking straight into Vidyut’s, but it seemed they were looking beyond them. As if Dwarka Shastri was reading Vidyut’s space-time continuum.

  Vidyut was baffled with what was happening. And then he suddenly remembered the flip-top lighter that handsome fellow from the ghaat had given him. Hesitating momentarily since revealing the lighter would have meant a confession of his smoking in front of his great grandfather, Vidyut quickly concluded that there were things far more serious at play. He took out the lighter slowly from his pocket.

  ‘A stranger gave me this at the ghaat, Baba.’

  Dwarka Shastri froze for a few seconds. And then all hell broke loose.

  The grandmaster tugged violently at a thick chord that hung right next to his bed. The pull activated a lever and hammer that struck a massive tower-bell atop the dome of his cottage. It was a SOS call from the matthadheesh to his fellowship. Within moments the door of Dwarka Shastri’s cottage flung open, with Balvanta storming in. He held a pair of ominous short-swords one in each hand, and had a double-barreled shotgun slung behind his back. To his belt were strapped several rounds of ammunition. Also came running Pujari ji and his son Sonu, the latter’
s trident at the ready. Through the windows Vidyut could see the cottage being surrounded by warrior-monks of the Hindu monastery. Each one of them was armed with blades and modern weapons. The Dev-Raakshasa Matth was indeed ready to scramble for war at a moment’s notice.

  ‘What happened, Gurudev?’ enquired Purohit ji, referring to the matthadheesh as his gurudev, or God-master. Balvanta looked like a panther ready to pounce on its prey even as he inspected every corner of the cottage with his darting eyes.

  By now Dwarka Shastri was panting with anxiety, but his face had firmed-up into a hard cast. His eyes were bloodshot.

  ‘They are here, Purohit,’ said the grandmaster. ‘It has begun’.

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  HOW CAN A MOTHER LET THIS HAPPEN?

  ‘Five villages have been inundated overnight, my Lords,’ said the chief civil engineer of Harappa.

  The shaking of the Earth had deeply unnerved the entire populace of the mighty city, including its leaders. Such bloodcurdling rumble and rippling of the ground had never been experienced or heard of before. No ancient scriptures or texts of science had any reference to something so terrifying. And even the Saptarishi were in their most intense month of penance and were unreachable. Their presence was being particularly missed, because along with the quake of the Earth there had been an unexpected occurrence. Eyewitnesses claimed that they saw the ever tender and reliable Saraswati throw mountainous waves towards the shore, which had instantly flooded several villages in the nearest vicinity. Such a violent tumult of the Saraswati waters was again unheard of. The mother river was a giver of life for the Harappan people. She would never harm her flock.

  A late night meeting had been summoned. Every important person of the metropolis was present at it. The meeting was being presided over by Vivasvan Pujari, with Pundit Chandradhar seated on his immediate right. This duo of Vivasvan and Chandradhar was the most capable, potent and trusted leadership Harappa had ever found. They were also brothers-in-law. Vivasvan’s wife Sanjna was Chandradhar’s younger sister. But most importantly, the two were dearest of friends. Together they had pulled Harappa out of innumerable grave dangers, and had propelled the city to its present glory. And in less than thirty-six hours, Vivasvan Pujari was going to be appointed as the Chief Priest, officially making him the most powerful man of the metropolis.

  ‘How many people witnessed this upsurge of the waves?’ enquired Vivasvan Pujari.

  ‘My lord, since it happened in almost a flash and that too several hours after sunset, there were only a few trade travellers returning from their long journey from the land of the pyramid tombs. Their caravan was a few miles away from the riverside when they saw the monstrous waves in the light of the half-moon.’

  ‘A few miles away did you say…?’ asked Chandradhar in a tone of disbelief.

  ‘Yes my lord. Traders from the caravan say the waves were higher than a mountain and darkened the skies in their vast shadow. Over two hundred men, women and children have perished. They didn’t know what struck them.’

  There was deathly silence in the room as the engineer paused for a few moments.

  ‘My lords, the villages were swept away like they were made not of baked brick, but of dry straw,’ he continued. ‘The locals of the area have now started calling the mother river with a different name. They are calling her the Rakt-Dhaara (River of Blood).’

  The last statement from the chief engineer sent a chill down everyone’s spine. Blank looks were exchanged. Every priest-leader sitting in the gathering knew that the Saraswati carried enormous volumes of water in its flow, more than any other river in the known world. While the mother river had taken care of them for centuries, none of the wise men in the room underestimated the raw strength of her holy flow. If that river had thrown up waves as high as mountains, like the traders had described, it was very bad news.

  Four hours had passed since the engineer had broken the news of the tsunami. While a couple of the priests opined that the whole episode be treated as a rogue and one-time occurrence, the majority voted otherwise. There were strange signs presenting themselves. Across the vast plains and valleys, the wind was blowing with unnatural strength and in unexpected directions. Migratory birds had flown away hours before the quake, months before their annual season of flight. Domestic pets and beasts of burden were visibly uneasy and afraid, tears flowing from their terrified eyes. The skies were covered with thick clouds of red and purple, something the Harappans had never seen before. These ominous signs were enough to convince the wise priests that the worst was not over. That they needed to prepare for an eventuality far more perilous.

  The large walls of the meeting room were now pinned with vast charts of both geographic as well as astrological drawings. After giving directions for the last rites of the demised and for relief teams to reach the five flooded villages immediately, Vivasvan Pujari had immersed himself in a rigorous discussion with the engineers and town-planners. He wanted to explore all the possibilities they had at hand to take protective measures. On the other hand Pundit Chandradhar was working on the panchanng and other astrological frameworks to understand why such dark clouds of misfortune had engulfed them all of a sudden. In Harappa human endeavor was the paramount philosophy of survival and growth. But divine intervention was never undermined.

  ‘Our towns are reasonably safe against the shifting of the Earth, my lord,’ said Somdutt, one of the most accomplished chief engineers of Harappa, and a close friend of the devta. He was responding to a barrage of questions from Vivasvan Pujari.

  ‘Our buildings are made with high-quality baked brick and are seldom more than three stories high. Even if the ground moves, none of the buildings will fall.’

  ‘I am relieved to hear that, Somdutt. Are you sure the large granaries and copper smelting workshops are also equipped to handle this unnatural phenomenon?’ asked the devta.

  ‘The granaries will be fine. The copper units should be advised to halt work till we know better what we are dealing with,’ replied Somdutt.

  ‘It will be done.’ Vivasvan Pujari nodded at one of the priests who were responsible for all copper and bronze works of the settlement. The priest bowed and left the room to execute what had just been advised.

  ‘Okay let’s move to Sara Maa now,’ said Vivasvan Pujari, looking at a different chart that laid out the trajectory of the river. He was still referring to her lovingly as Maa or mother. Deep down he was annoyed with her. The lives of two hundred innocent Harappans were lost as they slept. Why did she unleash such a curse? How can a mother let his happen??

  He was stunned to see that the engineers had nothing to say. They stood staring at their feet in complete silence as the devta looked up from the chart to inspect their faces one after the other.

  ‘What happened, Somdutt? You and your fine team are here to offer solutions so we can safeguard millions of our countrymen. Your silence is not appreciated!’ said the devta sternly.

  ‘Forgive us, my lord, but we really don’t know what can be done to counter the assault of a storm from the Saraswati. We calculated to the best of our abilities. If the traders who witnessed the tsunami are to be believed, there is nothing we can do against the might of the river. A wave as high and powerful as what has been described will deliver a blow so devastating that it cannot be measured in even advanced mathematics.’

  Vivasvan Pujari couldn’t believe his ears. He was relying on his engineers to offer a solution, no matter how daunting it was. But here they were, giving up at the very outset.

  ‘So what are you saying, Somdutt? Do we just wait and watch our homes and our people get washed away?!’ asked Vivasvan angrily, almost shouting.

  Even before Somdutt could reply, the room echoed with a loud metallic ring. Everyone turned in the direction of the sound, only to see that Pundit Chandradhar had dropped a large copper inkpot on the floor. He stood gazing at the astrological chart, as if frozen.

  ‘Chandradhar…’ called out Vivasvan without moving fr
om his position.

  There was no response from his friend.

  ‘What happened, my friend?’ called out the devta again. Chandradhar did not turn or speak. He was staring at the panchanng as if hypnotized by it.

  Vivasvan Pujari walked up to him, held his shoulders and turned his friend around to face him. He was taken aback at what he saw. Pundit Chandradhar was petrified. His face was contorted in horrifying terror and he was not blinking. The devta had never seen his formidable friend in this state, not even in the face of imminent death in battle. Pundit Chandradhar was as righteous and fearless as the devta himself.

  Vivasvan shook his friend gently and spoke in a very calm voice.

  ‘What happened, Chandra? What have you seen in the panchanng my friend?’

  Chandradhar turned slowly to look at the devta. His wide eyes were full of horror and angst. He raised one of his shaking hands to grab hold of Vivasvan’s shoulder and clasped it tightly. He looked straight into his friend’s eyes.

  ‘Vivasvan…the end is here.’

  Vivasvan Pujari tried to comfort his anxious friend with a feeble attempt at a smile. ‘Nothing is ending, Chandradhar. We will fight it together like we have many times in the past,’ he said reassuringly.

  Chandradhar now gave a painful smile. By now everyone in the room was looking at him and there was pin-drop silence. He was slowly gaining back some of his signature composure. After a moment or two he cleared his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes with his fingertips. He then turned to Vivasvan Pujari and spoke in a loud voice for everyone to hear.

  ‘The charts have never been wrong. The panchanng has never been so unforgiving. I am unable to believe what I am reading and deciphering.’

  Everyone was listening in rapt attention and growing concern. The panchanng and the astrological charts were of grave importance. And their study and interpretation by Pundit Chandradhar were legendary. Never once had his prediction gone wrong.