‘You know more than I expected, Vidyut. Now think hard and tell me the final bits of information you have about Harappa. What do you know about its culture and its people? And what do you know about its end?’
An hour had passed. Vidyut had emptied out every bit of gyaan that he had about the Indus Valley civilization. He had recollected pages from his beloved and fantastic NCERT books. He drew upon every chance newspaper or magazine article about the Harappan people, or Dravidians as some texts called their later generations, which he had bumped into over the years.
He described to the great Dwarka Shastri how Harappa had well-constructed buildings, sophisticated drainage systems and extensive use of red baked bricks. He could somewhat describe the seals and the pottery that had been excavated by the reputed Archaeological Survey of India (ASI). He could share how together with ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, Harappa represented the oldest recorded human settlements. And finally, amazed at his own reservoir of knowledge about this topic, he could tell Dwarka Shastri that while copper and bronze were prevalent in use, there was no evidence of iron.
‘That’s all I know, Baba. In fact, I didn’t know I knew so much!’ said Vidyut with a bright laugh. Dwarka Shastri laughed with him. Vidyut couldn’t believe he had made the dreaded matthadheesh laugh. Here at this moment, in this massive chamber in the heart of the Dev-Raakshasa matth, Vidyut was simply a little boy, playing with his grandfather.
Before Dwarka Shastri could clear his throat and begin his end of the narrative, Vidyut interrupted him.
‘And yes one more thing, Baba…they found a lot of figurines in the excavations. Among them the most popular ones are those of a dancing girl with arm-length bangles, and a seemingly one-eyed, bearded Priest-King. The latter is on display in a Museum in Karachi today.’
Vidyut was thrilled at himself. He almost rose for a high-five with his great grandfather. But before he could gloat in the vastness of his knowledge, he noticed that the mention of these figurines had disturbed the grandmaster. It seemed as if the brief moment of laughter had turned into vapor in an instant.
‘What happened, Baba?’ enquired Vidyut. ‘What did I say?’
Dwarka Shastri paused for a few moments. He was looking at Vidyut with a strangely tender and inquisitive expression on his wrinkled yet chiseled face.
‘These figurines were not unearthed by the chance stumbling of an archaeologist’s fossil brush, Vidyut,’ said the matthadheesh somberly. ‘They were destined for this discovery.’
Vidyut was unable to comprehend what his great grandfather had just said. But he kept quiet. He was not going to interrupt Dwarka Shastri. He could sense something uncanny was about to be revealed.
‘The statuettes you speak about belong to two profound characters who changed the course of mankind’s fate, Vidyut.’
Vidyut was now on the edge of his seat. He could hear his own heart pumping. He was listening with intense focus on every word spoken by the grand old man.
Dwarka Shastri took a deep breath. And uttered a name that Vidyut had never heard before. But the sound of it sent a shiver down Vidyut’s spine. He somehow seemed to know the woman behind this name - from another land, from another time.
‘Nayantara.’
There was complete silence in the room. Vidyut had broken into a cold sweat. All this was unreal.
‘Who is Nayantara? And…and…’ Vidyut could not hold himself from asking, ‘and who does the bearded Priest-King represent, Baba?’
Dwarka Shastri turned to Vidyut with a puzzled look. He gestured to him to come closer. Vidyut obeyed immediately and came to sit on the edge of his Baba’s bed. He was nearly moved to tears as his great grandfather took his hands into his own.
‘Tell me, Baba…who is the scarred, bearded man?’ enquired Vidyut insistently.
Dwarka Shastri continued to look at Vidyut inquisitively and asked, ‘You really don’t know, Vidyut?’
Vidyut looked blank.
The grandmaster then raised his left hand and put it on his great grandson’s shoulder. What he said next would change Vidyut’s life forever.
‘It is you, Vidyut. The bearded Priest-King with the scar across his left eye…is you.’
Harappa, 1700 BCE
MURDER
Vivasvan Pujari turned towards Sanjna, only to find his fair and gracious wife nearly shivering with angst. Immediately upon his return from the disturbing visit to Nayantara’s mansion, Vivasvan had decided to calm his nerves and composure by retiring to deep meditation. At this very moment of losing his meditative concentration, he heard the heavy clanking of a thousand bronze and copper armors and the rumble of several hundred horses circumambulating his house. Vivasvan was not accustomed to such belligerence. Least of all could he bear the look of fear on his beloved wife’s face. He knew something was ominously wrong. But no matter what, he was not going to pardon the audacity of anyone who had disturbed his pious household and his loving family like this.
Stunned and burning with rage at this indignation, Vivasvan Pujari walked out of his meditation chamber towards the entrance of his austere but massive cottage. Anger was not a very familiar state for the great devta. His Vedic penance had long conquered this destructive emotion so well known to the ordinary human. But the events of the last twenty-four hours had been extraordinary and had shaken up even the mighty Vivasvan Pujari.
Even as he paced to meet the unfortunate aggressor, his private guard took vantage positions with bows and arrows at the windows, doors, courtyards and roofs of the devta’s villa. The nine of them were handpicked and raised by the Pujari family like their very own children. None other than Vivasvan Pujari himself had trained them along with Manu, on his signature warfare art of sword, shield, twirl and leap – an intense craft that had been propagated as a major martial art by a worshipped warrior-ascetic called Parashuram a few hundred years ago. These nine were enough to defend this household against even a massive army. They held their weapons on stand-by, waiting only for the command of their master.
A few paces away from the door, his strikingly handsome and formidable son politely stopped Vivasvan Pujari. Manu was smiling, with a gentle bow greeting his great father. Two of the house’s fiercest warriors were by his side.
Vivasvan noticed that his son, who normally led the life of nothing more than a humble and accomplished Brahmin ascetic, had a gleaming long-sword strapped to his back. His companions had equally ominous weapons at the ready. But what marveled the devta most was the speed at which the young adopt newest produces of technology and craftsmanship. He spotted that Manu’s finger-tips were capped with baagh-nakh or tiger-claw hooks, that were invented by the principal alchemists of Mohenjo-daro and Rakhigarhi. The tiger-claw was a masterful blend of molten copper on the long extinct saber-tooth’s preserved talons. Baagh-nakh was the deadliest weapon for close combat.
‘Maa is such a nervous darling…she never should have disturbed you in your prayers father,’ said Manu. ‘I would have taken care of it.’ The father and son were now footsteps away from the garrison commander waiting at their door. The clanking of armor, swords and spears combined with the cantor of hundreds of horses was now nearly a deafening din. The father son duo could sense that by now soldiers had surrounded their entire residential compound.
Manu’s presence gave Vivasvan Pujari a strange and unparalleled sense of confidence. Whether all fathers felt the same in the presence of their growing children, Vivasvan knew not. What he was sure of was that Manu was an extraordinary boy. Something deep within Vivasvan Pujari told him that his beloved and magnificent son was fated for very big things.
‘Let me talk to them father,’ said Manu as they reached the door.
The mere glimpse of Vivasvan Pujari sent shivers down the spines of the soldiers that had congregated in front of the entrance to the massive cottage. Not one of them had the courage to look at the Surya of Harappa in the eye. Vivasvan Pujari’s stature was like the shining Sun and he represented everything good i
n Harappa. These soldiers, who worshipped the devta like a God, were in a state of complete confusion at what they had been ordered to do. Who can dare capture a God?
Coming straight from his meditation chambers, Vivasvan Pujari stood towering at the raised verandah outside his home’s entrance. The majestic built of the bare-bodied Brahmin was awe inspiring, as he held his head high and examined the troops with a sweeping glance. Manu and his two companions were by the devta’s side. Despite being in the hundreds, the soldiers were convinced they could never overpower this small but daunting combat unit. Manu and his brotherhood were themselves known for their valiance and skill. But the real danger was the devta himself. In even the most nightmarish of odds, Vivasvan Pujari had never been beaten in battle.
‘Who leads this impudent operation? Present yourself!’ announced Manu, beckoning the leader of the troops to identify himself.
There was no response, as the soldiers only exchanged glances with each other. Manu asked again, this time raising his voice for all to hear.
‘Who leads this audacious procession? Who has the nerve to march soldiers into the devta’s house?’
A moment later, a gigantic and monstrous looking commander in the red hooded uniform of the Harappan cavalry, slowly made his way through the soldiers towards Vivasvan Pujari and Manu. He stared straight at them as he arrogantly advanced to the head of the troops. The father and son were alarmed and enraged as they saw one of Harappa’s most notorious, corrupt and ruthless army commanders walking towards them.
It was the dubious commander that Vivasvan Pujari had sentenced to rigorous imprisonment a year ago on charges of rape and treason, but had let go upon the direct request of Pundit Chandradhar’s wife Priyamvada. It was hard to refuse the princess of Mohenjo-daro. Since then the commander was attached to her as the leader of her personal bodyguard.
The scoundrel was Ranga.
How can this be? How can the priestly council issue an arrest warrant against me? Vivasvan Pujari was baffled. Each one of them was handpicked by the devta himself, and they swore allegiance to him at every opportunity. But then Vivasvan Pujari was wise enough to be fully aware of the ways of the world. He knew that fortune and friends visited and left together.
Ranga had served a written notice to Vivasvan Pujari, asking him to present himself in front of the priestly council the next morning. The council was entrusted with both executive as well as judicial powers in running the affairs of Harappa. This made them the most powerful body across the vast metropolis and its surrounding towns and villages. They were answerable only to the Chief Priest, a position that Vivasvan Pujari had already been chosen for. The morning that was earmarked for the formal seating of the devta as the Chief Priest was now going to see him standing like a felon in front of a bench of judges! Destiny changes its course faster than dunes in a desert.
On the one hand, Vivasvan could not believe something like this could happen and was convinced it had to be a big mistake. On the other he felt deeply alarmed as he observed the garrison surrounding his house in a tight formation, putting him, his family and his household staff under siege. They were following a clear plan.
Manu was seething with anger at the humiliation his father was going through. He charged forward towards Ranga, with an intent to tear-up the council summon and, if needed, the commander along with it. As soon as he lunged forward a raised arm of Vivasvan Pujari stopped him. Vivasvan turned towards his son, and gestured at him to calm down.
‘I will come with you, Ranga. But before I do that, please let me know the charges pressed against me,’ said Vivasvan Pujari.
‘Murder’, replied Ranga.
Banaras, 2017
MANKIND’S GREATEST UNTRUTH – PART III
‘As expected, you have given me the standard, institutionalized and well documented information about Harappa,’ said Dwarka Shastri, as he muttered a short prayer to Annapoorna, the Goddess of nourishment. The old man continued, ‘You have simply told me what you and billions of others have been made to believe and accept over the years.’
After several hours of intense discussion, they now sat down for a meal together. It was a rare privilege for anyone to break bread with the mighty Dwarka Shastri. Just like everything else in his life, the matthadheesh took his meals like an elaborate spiritual ceremony. He followed every recommendation recorded in ancient Ayurvedic scriptures, and ate with his fingers.
Vidyut was in a state of daze. On one end he treasured this opportunity of sharing lunch with his great grandfather, and on the other he was still grappling with all the bizarre tales Dwarka Shastri had just told him. Who was Nayantara? How can a mythical legend survive over thousands of years? What did the grandmaster mean when he said the Priest-King in the Harappan statuette was Vidyut himself? For all his greatness, stature and achievements, had the old man finally lost it?
‘I am not mad, Vidyut,’ said Dwarka Shastri, as if he were reading Vidyut’s mind. He probably was.
‘I know you must be thinking I am an old fool, conjuring up make-believe stories. But you know what, I thought the same when I was your age and heard of the ancient curse for the first time.’
Now this was new. As if it couldn’t get any more mysterious, Vidyut was baffled to hear the term curse. What the hell was going on?! Since childhood he knew he was a devta. His loving mother had told him so, beaming with pride as her son performed extraordinarily at anything and everything he attempted. His father, the great Kartikeya Shastri, had taught him advanced meditation, Vedic sciences, warfare and the profound siddhis. He was also made aware that a dark secret lurked in Kashi. But a curse?
Everyone at the matth, especially Purohit ji, was stunned at the visible recovery in the health of the grandmaster. Only three days ago he was in a state of near coma, barely able to speak and totally unable to get up from his bed. And here he was, sitting over a meal, having an animated discussion with his great grandson. It was hard to believe that someone could regain health and vitality at such pace simply due to the presence of a loved one. Even a spiritual force like the great Dwarka Shastri was no match to the power of love.
The meal was both delicious and healthy. The disposable plates made of dried leaves were called pattals. As per Ayurveda, the primordial science of life, these were the most suitable utensils to be used for a meal. Rust-brown earthen cups accompanied these green platters. These kiln-baked mud cups were called purvas. They smelled of sweet Kashi mud when moist with the water they held.
Every dish on Vidyut’s plate was freshly cooked. The basmati rice was fragrant and fluffy. The tomato based vegetable curry was mouth-watering. There was a spinach and cottage cheese mash, accompanied by the ubiquitous north-Indian daal or yellow pulses. One corner of the plate had fresh curd with chopped onions and coriander. A separate bowl, again made of dried leaves, held a serving of delicious peppercorn gravy. It was a vegetarian meal fit for the Gods.
Rice was meant to be the main, yet second course. It was the staple diet of the great Aryans. The first course comprised hot pooris, or fried flatbread made of wheat flour. It tasted divine. For all their discipline and austerity, the Brahmin priests and monks were known to have a weakness for these puffs of pleasure. Dwarka Shastri and Vidyut were no exception.
The matthadheesh made a morsel of a portion of his poori dipped in a generous dollop of the cottage cheese and spinach mash. He fed Vidyut with his hands. The kitchen servers, Pujari ji, Govardhan, Naina and everyone present at the luncheon were stupefied to see this unprecedented show of affection by the feared clan-leader. Vidyut, on the other hand, was soaking in every moment. He had been deprived of this grandfatherly love ever since his memory had awakened.
Before Vidyut had arrived at the Dev-Raakshasa Matth, no one had even imagined Dwarka Shastri to be a man of sentiment. But here he was. The most dreaded taantric, the most ruthless clan-lord, the most powerful spirit in the solar system – crumbling with emotion while feeding a great grandson.
Clearly, even no
w…he was half-human.
They were back at the private chambers of Dwarka Shastri. The lunch break was a blessing in every way. The grandmaster had found some visible emotional relief in the youthful company of his long separated but prophesied great grandson. Vidyut, on the other hand, had been able to grab a few moments to deal with the outrageous myths and sagas he had heard over the last few hours. He didn’t really know what to believe and what to discard. It was all too over the top, too unscientific, too bizarre.
Dwarka Shastri could sense the confusion and disbelief in Vidyut’s mind. He decided to give his young and charming descendent some time. He waited for several minutes, flipping the beads in his fingers.
‘Tell me Vidyut, do you really think there were no horses in Harappa?’ began Dwarka Shastri. ‘Or that some superior race from Europe rode thousands of miles to the East to bring the beast to this land?’
Vidyut sat listening. Every new statement from his great grandfather was opening a whole new box of mysteries for him.
‘And that every Harappan was a dark-skinned, uncivilized aborigine, waiting for salvation in the form of a white-skinned army from the West?’ continued Dwarka Shastri.
There was silence in the room. The crazy thing was that Vidyut felt the urge to say yes to everything the old man had just asked. But he also knew that his great grandfather would not have posed these questions just for the heck of it. There was something deeper at the core.
‘Baba, what they say was that the Harappan people lived in the Indus Valley region till a wave of united, horse-mounted, white-skinned and blue-eyed invaders from the West swept these lands. This supposedly superior race had sharp noses and characters that resemble modern European features.’
Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Page 11
