Harappa - Curse of the Blood River

by Vineet Bajpai

  Balwanta’s words hit home. Vidyut suddenly felt a biting pang of guilt as he let go of Naina’s beautiful brown hair. She did not move. Something was lost forever.

  Vidyut realized he had made a big mistake. ‘I’m so sorry, Naina…’ he began, but he was interrupted by a deafening bang.

  Almost instantly Vidyut felt a tearing sensation in his left shoulder. He turned around to find the smoking barrel of a Webley Scott revolver a few feet away.

  His most trusted friend Bala had shot Vidyut from point blank range.

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  THE SCION OF THE DEVTA

  Manu stiffened as he saw what Tara was trying to draw his attention to. His mouth opened, struggling with asphyxiation and cold sweat broke all over him. He forgot all about the pain he was enduring because of the sword wound across his back. This was the day he had dreaded most ever since he was born.

  Sanjna lay in front of him, her chest pierced deeply with a copper arrow. Despite her robes and her skin drenched fully in blood, she looked calm and peaceful. Devta Vivasvan Pujari’s wife was half the force behind his divinity. Her shivering fingers were gesturing to Manu. Her eyes were crying but full of love. Even now, she had a soft smile on her face.

  ‘Maaaaa…..!’ shouted Manu as he crashed into the sludgy ground and grabbed hold of his dying mother.

  ‘Maa I’m sorry…I’m sorry…Maa I’m sorry…’ sobbed Manu, clutching his mother like his embrace would hold back her soul from departing.

  Sanjna caressed her son’s cheek with her nearly limp hand. ‘My time has come my son. But I leave this life with the satisfaction of being the wife of this planet’s greatest man and the mother of this world’s noblest son. History will never forget me.’ She coughed blood even as she completed this sentence.

  ‘No Maa…we will leave this place soon and get you to an ayurvedacharya. You will be fine Maa. You cannot leave me, Maa!’ By now the wounded and bleeding Manu was crying profusely. ‘How will I face father, Maa? What will I tell him?? I cannot live without you Maaaa….’ Manu was devastated. Most sons love their mothers deeply. But Manu believed his love for Sanjna was boundless. His mother was his very existence. His mother was his God.

  ‘Remember this, my son…you are the bloodline of the last devta on Earth. You have been sent for a larger purpose. Fulfill it. No matter what…find your destiny.’ Sanjna’s world was going dark as she uttered her last words.

  ‘Tell your father, tell my Vivasvan…that I will meet him on the other side’.

  She slumped into her son’s arms.

  The light of Manu’s world went dark forever.

  ‘You must leave now, Manu!’ shouted Tara. She and two of the magnificent nine were sheltering Manu and Sanjna from the barrage of arrows that were again showering on the campsite, using three massive shields. But it was clear now. They were going to be overrun by the inebriated garrisons of Harappa in no time.

  Manu was refusing to move. He was sitting like a statue of stone, with his departed mother’s head in his lap.

  Tara could not wait any longer. She knew that the only hope of keeping the devta’s bloodline alive lay in Manu’s escape from this nightmare. She ducked under the shields and grabbed hold of Manu.

  ‘Wake up, O son of the devta! Today is not when you die!’

  Manu turned to her slowly. He was in deep shock. He had promised her he would come back for her. His mother must have waited. He had promised her! Manu was never going to forgive himself. In fact he was okay if they just beheaded him tonight. This world was not worth living without his mother.

  Tara tried to shake Manu into his senses. Just as she bent forward, an arrow made its way through the shields and tore into Tara’s shoulder. She cried with pain and fell on the ground next to Manu. The sight of Tara falling and writhing in pain was just what was needed to pull the grieving son back from his trance.

  ‘Run, Manu…escape while you can…’ insisted Tara as she tried to get up and draw her sword. ‘You are the devta’s only son Manu. Your survival is critical for all of mankind.’

  Before Manu could respond, Somdutt came running to this makeshift shelter. He was panting with exhaustion and panic.

  ‘You must leave NOW, Manu!’ he ordered the devta’s son like his own. ‘We will not be able to hold them much longer.’

  Manu was not going to leave his friends behind on this battleground that was almost certain to be their graveyard. He lovingly shifted his mother and placed her gently on the soil. With tears rolling down his eyes incessantly, he bent down to kiss her cheek. He then slowly stood up and picked up his sword.

  ‘I will not leave you all here, uncle,’ he said, ‘we will fight and die together.’

  ‘But what about your father, Manu? Will you just let him rot in that ghastly prison?’ enquired Somdutt angrily. ‘And don’t you see, if you perish here tonight, these monsters will not even give your mother her last rites. You owe it to her, Manu…you owe it to your parents!’

  Manu was unsure of what to do, but his duty towards his living father and his departed mother was above all else.

  The Harappan soldiers were now fighting through the remaining of Somdutt’s men, being slowed down only by the hail of arrows being unleashed by Manu’s fighters. But it was not going to be enough. Within minutes Somdutt, Manu, Tara and the rest of their comrades would be confronted by an ocean of brutal Harappan troops.

  ‘Leave now, Manu! Take your mother with you. Head east and look for the Black Temple. You will find help there,’ said Somdutt as he repelled a dagger attack by a manic Harappan soldier.

  Tara readied a horse for Manu, even as two of his comrades lifted Sanjna’s body with gentleness and reverence.

  Manu looked around at his devoted fellowship and said his last words before mounting the horse, ‘I will come back for you, my beloved ones. And this time I will not break a promise. But before I leave, may I give you one last commandment as your friend and as the mighty devta’s son?’

  The fellowship nodded in unison. ‘What would that command be, O valiant Manu?’ asked Somdutt.

  Manu braced himself to hold back his tears. He then shouted like a military commander addressing his platoon, in a hoarse voice, heavy with emotion, ‘I order each one of you to get out of this fight alive. Tonight, I order each one of you to SURVIVE!’

  His fighters broke into tears, gritted their teeth and nodded again. They then darted off to their respective positions. Manu’s words had given them renewed resolve to live through this trial by the sword.

  As Manu mounted the horse and lovingly laid Sanjna’s body on his lap, Somdutt gave parting instructions, ‘If there is any place across the known world that can protect you, it is one of the Black Temples Manu. If we survive this night and tomorrow’s rescue raid, we will meet you at the Mountain of the Saptarishi a fortnight from now…hopefully with the devta by our side!’

  ‘Yes uncle, and thank you for everything,’ said Manu, before spurring his horse towards the opposite direction as the enemy.

  But nothing that night was favoring the noble family of the devta. Manu’s horse had not even broken into a gallop when one of the hysterical Harappan commanders spotted him.

  ‘There goes the son of Vivasvan Pujari!’ he yelled. Pointing towards Manu he barked orders to his troops, ‘Archers… take him down!’

  Somdutt, Tara and the rest of their fighters charged towards the battery of Harappan archers. They had to stop them from releasing their arrows. But the archers were far away. Even as Tara charged upon them like an angry serpent, she was late. The massive volley of arrows had been shot.

  And three of them had found their mark.

  The last view that the wounded Tara and Somdutt got was of Manu riding into the rainy mist, the dead body of his beloved mother in his lap. Three arrows were pierced through his back and neck, and the machete wound bled profusely. Tara’s eyes welled up. No man could survive such fatal wounds. Somdutt shut his eyes in grief as he bid farewell to the scion
of the last devta.

  ‘This is the end of Vivasvan Pujari’s bloodline. Never again will a devta walk on planet Earth,’ whispered Somdutt to himself.

  He was wrong.

  Banaras, 2017

  THE TAANTRIC FUNERAL

  Before he could squeeze the trigger for the second time, Naina pounced on Bala and threw him off balance. The gleaming Webley Scott revolver fell from Bala’s hand. It was now a duel between the man who had betrayed the devta, and the woman who had loved him all her life. And this time, the duel would not be stopped. It was going to be to the end.

  Balwanta held Vidyut in his arms, shocked at the turn of events. The devta was bleeding copiously, the bullet lodged deep into his shoulder. The warrior-chief of the Dev-Raakshasa matth now had to save both Sonu as well as the great grandson of Dwarka Shastri. He had to rescue the last devta at any cost. He had to get them to a hospital as fast as he could. He was not worried about Naina. He had trained her. He knew it was the end of Bala, the man who thought he could get away with betraying the devta himself.

  Vidyut was in intense pain, almost dizzy with the loss of blood. More than his physical suffering, it was the shock of being shot at by the one person he had always trusted that was killing him. He now understood clearly. This very afternoon his great grandfather had warned Vidyut about the presence of a black spirit. How could it be Naina? Naina lived within the matth since the day she was born. If she were the traitor, the great Dwarka Shastri would have known it years ago. Why did he sense the black spirit only now? That black spirit was Bala’s!

  The evil that the great matthadheesh had felt had arrived at the matth residing deep in the malicious heart of Balakrishnan. Romi was not the only soldier sent by the Order.

  ‘I must take you and Sonu to Govardhan immediately, Vidyut,’ said Balwanta, as he and the fighters of the matth lifted Sonu. Vidyut gestured at him to tie up his wound. ‘No Vidyut,’ protested Balwanta, ‘you have to see a doctor. You have a bullet in you, for God’s sake!’

  Bala pulled out a knuckle-blade that was hidden in the left sock under his corduroy pants. He placed it between the index and middle fingers of his right fist. Every blow from this hand would now be a severe stab. Naina did not flinch and was the first to attack. She started circling Bala in a swift jog and pounced on him landing a powerful punch on his lower jaw. Bala slashed back wildly with the lethal blade in his fist, but missed Naina completely. By this time Naina had crashed an elbow into Bala’s spine, sending him crashing to the ground. It was a bad beginning for him, but the veteran fighter was not going down so easily.

  Bala spun around on his hands and in a lightning fast move ripped into Naina’s right leg just above her knee. It was a deep cut from the knuckle-knife, and it had wounded the gorgeous and deadly Naina’s favorite attack limb. Bala then rammed into Naina’s gut with his powerful head and sent her flying back before she fell hard on the concrete surface of the ghaat. Just when Bala felt he was going to go for the kill, Naina raised both her legs in the air and sprung back up like a gymnast. In the same flow she smashed a punch right below his throat. It was a deadly strike. Bala could not breath and grabbed his throat in pain. In the same instant Naina swung a lethal uppercut on Bala’s chin, which made his head drop backwards and he crashed on his knees. It was all over.

  But the warrior-princess of the Dev-Raakshasa matth was not done. She was furious like a wounded tigress. Naina moved to one side and flung her bleeding leg around Bala’s throat in a death-lock. She was going to break his neck.

  ‘Enough, Naina!’ shouted Vidyut.

  Naina did not listen. Her grip was tightening around Bala’s neck and his eyes appeared ready to pop-out of his squeezed skull.

  Vidyut rushed towards Naina and pulled her by the arm. ‘No Naina, we’re not murderers. Besides, once I am done with Romi I want to ask my trusted friend some questions,’ said Vidyut, looking at the traitor who was once his greatest ally.

  Naina loosened her grip slightly.

  ‘Take him to the matth, Balwanta dada,’ instructed Vidyut. Naina unlocked her leg and kicked Bala on the shoulder, making him slump to the ground. Vidyut went down on one knee and looked at Bala’s battered face. He shook his head with disbelief and asked the question that was eating him from within, ‘Why Bala?’ asked Vidyut. ‘We were like brothers. Why?’

  ‘Because all is fair in love and war, Vidyut,’ replied Bala, his mouth sputtering blood but his eyes gleaming with hate. ‘You have no idea…the war has only just begun. The New World Order is here, O devta, and even you cannot stop it!’

  Vidyut was now alone on the ghaat, where the crowd was gradually thinning. Reporters and investigators had reached the spot where the black squad lay struggling, although Vidyut and his fellowship had slipped away from the scene by this time. The police and city ambulances had carried away the wounded and Vidyut was relieved to hear that Sonu was stable. The devta had insisted that everyone from the matth leaves for the safety of the monastery. Bala was taken for questioning. It was important to keep him in the matth’s custody. For now he was the only link they had to whoever was unleashing such ominous attacks against them, both open and covert.

  The full-blooded, frontal assault of the mercenaries was menacing as it was, and yet it was no match for the undercover treachery of Bala. It showed how deep the enemy had infiltrated Vidyut’s work, home and life. He was deeply scarred with the ghastly betrayal and didn’t know whom to trust here on. Since when was Bala working against him? Was he a carefully crafted implant by those he was calling the Order? Were they watching and tracking him for years? And if they were, why didn’t they try to kill him sooner? It was clear to Vidyut that just like Dwarka Shastri had warned him, there was a very powerful force at play against them.

  Even in the state of mental blur and deep agony, Vidyut’s eyes were darting around, scanning every corner of the Dashashwamedh Ghaat as far as he could see. He knew Romi would be watching, and Vidyut was not going to leave the ghaat tonight without crushing the assassin once and for all.

  Their eyes met. It was as if the hunter and the hunted were both looking for each other, only now the roles were unclear. Who was the predator and who was the prey? Romi was watching the proceedings from the far corner of an old temple, standing coolly with his hands in his jeans pocket. Only this time he was not smiling.

  His childish eyes were ablaze with fear and rage.

  Vidyut ran towards the lonelier section of the ghaat, where Romi had stood behind the cover of an old temple pillar. Once again, the assassin had vanished. Vidyut ran around all four corners of the temple but could not see Romi anywhere. This section of the ghaat was comparatively darker than where the Ganga aarti took place. The Ganga was now just about twenty feet away. At a distance the funeral pyres of the Manikarnika ghaat flickered continuously, constant reminders of the transience of human life. Several groups of taantrics and aghoris (a darker cult of taantrics known for their questionable practices like corpse worship, cannibalism and even necrophilia) sat by the riverside beginning their occult rituals. Their low but haunting chants and intonations filled the air with a fearsome mystique.

  Vidyut decided to search the entire area. He knew Romi had eyes on him and he did not expect much honor and bravery from the assassin who believed in striking from behind. The devta’s wounds were weakening him with every passing second as he ran from one old temple to another on the ghaat, parallel to the holy river. He had now left the Dashashwamedh ghaat behind and was nearing an old fortress wall very close to the flowing Ganga, glowing orange under the dim sodium vapor lights illuminating it.

  ‘Hello, Vidyut,’ said a smart voice from behind a dark end of the fort wall.

  Vidyut took a second or two to figure where the voice had come from. It was Romi all right.

  Just as Vidyut spotted the silhouette of the killer and advanced towards him, two dull thuds and bright flashes greeted him.

  With the poise of an expert marksman, Romi had fired at Vidyut with
a Walther PPK handgun, the noise of the shots suppressed by a SilencerCo Spectre 22 attached to the muzzle.

  To Romi’s horror, the devta lunged forward nevertheless. Thanks to Vidyut’s swift movement, one of the bullets had missed him. But the other found its mark and hit Vidyut straight in the gut. This was his second bullet shot for the night, apart from the dagger gash on his chest. So many grievous wounds and such uncontrolled blood loss could turn fatal even for a devta, who was now struggling to keep going.

  Before Romi could fire another shot, Vidyut had smashed head-on into the skillful yet weak assassin. Without explosives, detonators, mercenaries, infiltrators and silenced pistols, Romi was nothing more than a scrawny and pathetic scoundrel. Vidyut struck his face with a punch so hard that it inflicted a deep cut across Romi’s cheekbone, sending his innocent spectacles flying into the dark night. The devta then crashed his powerful fist into the assassin’s upper belly, making him spit blood within moments. This was a one-sided punishment and Vidyut was not showing any mercy.

  ‘Wait!’ yelled Romi. ‘Wait, please Vidyut…please…’ he pleaded.

  Vidyut was worried he could pass out any moment. The last bullet fired by Romi had torn into his abdomen, and blood was oozing out generously. The devta stopped for a moment to hear what the crooked assassin had to say.

  ‘How will killing me help, O great devta?’ blurted out Romi, his hands folded in a plea for mercy. ‘I can tell you everything you want to know.’

  Vidyut was listening, his right hand grabbing Romi by the collar in an iron grip.

  ‘I am very weak, Vidyut. I have haemophilia…my…my blood…doesn’t clot. Please don’t hit me,’ begged Romi. Vidyut could not believe his ears. This hardened and ruthless murderer was shivering and begging like a wet puppy. Romi’s face was smeared with his own blood, and he was even coughing blood every now and then. Vidyut’s onslaught had been too much for the fragile expert.