Kashi: Secret of the Black Temple (Harappa Series)

by Vineet Bajpai

  Vidyut gestured to Sonu to take the psychopath Professor Tripathi or Brahmanand into captivity. He nodded at Balvanta to do the same with Trijat Kapaalik. He then turned all his attention back to his Baba.

  What Vidyut had failed to notice was the barbaric rage convulsing in Balvanta’s bloodshot eyes.

  Dwarka Shastri could not hold his tears back and let them flow freely. Vidyut also wept, his head resting on his tall great grandfather’s still powerful shoulders. They had been through a lot, physically, emotionally and spiritually. However, in a few moments, the devta realized that his Baba was now sobbing inconsolably. That was odd. Even after the trauma they had been through, it was not like the towering Dwarka Shastri to break down like this. Vidyut lifted his head and looked at the matthadheesh’s face, his hands still clasping his Baba’s arms.

  ‘Kya hua, Baba…?’ he asked gently. ‘What happened, Baba?’

  Dwarka Shastri looked up with his moist eyes and put both his palms on his great grandson’s cheeks.

  ‘Tum vaastav mein devta ho, Vidyut…!’ responded the old man. ‘You are indeed a devta, Vidyut!’

  Vidyut gave a tired grin.

  ‘Of course not, Baba. I know I have used the half-human, half-God phrase for myself twice in the last few days, but those were more like battle-cries of sorts. I cannot explain…but it made me feel stronger, more intense. Like I have said these words before…’ said Vidyut, a little lost in trying to recollect where and when in the past he had uttered these haunting, perennial words.

  He had spoken these words at a Great Bath turned into a bleeding, torture arena. Back in 1700 BCE. Back in the last days of the ancient metropolis, Harappa.

  But not as Vidyut.

  ‘Listen, you who are already dead. Listen, you congregation of corpses. Listen, you fools.

  I am half-human, half-God!’

  ‘I have no such illusions, Baba. I am no devta, no half-God. I am just your Vidyut. Just a man.’

  The matthadheesh shook his head, heaved a big sigh and spoke. Only this time, to Vidyut’s shock, his trembling hands were folded in reverence towards his own great grandson.

  ‘Only a true devta can overpower Kaalchakra, the incessant wheel of time. My death was written, Vidyut! Nothing in this universe could have changed it. My time had come. But that time has come and gone!’

  Vidyut stood there listening, unable to really comprehend what his Baba was saying.

  ‘Don’t you see, Vidyut? It is your presence that has changed everything. It is your will that has altered space-time. When outside this evil priory you told me that you will come back for me – the cosmos was listening, Vidyut.

  And obeying you!’

  Vidyut was in no frame of mind to believe such an audacious theory, even if it came from his beloved Baba.

  ‘We need to leave now, Baba. We can have this discussion once we are back in…’

  Even before Vidyut could complete his sentence, a loud scream tore through the underground cave.

  ‘Vidyut dadaaaaa….!!!’

  Vidyut turned to see Sonu yelling out to him. The young lad was petrified, pointing towards the Masaan-raja’s ritual pit.

  As his gaze darted to where Sonu was pointing, the devta broke into a cold sweat.

  ‘NO BALVANTA DADA…STOP!’ screamed Vidyut, as he rushed to cover what felt like a thousand miles.

  Balvanta, the war chief of the Dev-Raakshasa matth, had Trijat Kapaalik pinned against the boundary of the mahataantric’s own ritual pit, originally meant for the dreaded Raktbeej Anushtthann. Balvanta’s mighty foot was on Trijat’s chest, with the fallen aghori’s head dangling just above the burning coal and flesh.

  He was pleading for mercy.

  Vidyut knew he could not run faster than Balvanta’s axe was going to fall.

  ‘He has defiled our matth, Vidyut! He tried to kill you, our prophesied savior! And then he dared touch a blade to our matthadheesh’s throat!’ shouted Balvanta, as he said a feverish prayer to Mahakaal, the God of Death, and raised his gleaming axe.

  Balvanta then stared straight into the wide eyes of the stupefied Masaan-raja, and screamed out words that were only a little different from what Trijat had himself announced some time back.

  ‘Aaj issi anushtthann agni mein…raakshasa-bali chadhegi!’

  ‘Today a demon shall be sacrificed in this very ritual fire!’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  ‘COME WITH ME TO LIVE ANOTHER DAY, O PRINCESS OF MOHENJO-DARO!’

  ‘Where are you headed, Manu?’ shouted Tara, as she saw Manu turn his neighing horse towards the citadel of the new king of Harappa.

  ‘I have to save them, Tara. I have to save Pundit Chandradhar and Priyamvada. It doesn’t matter anymore what they did to my family and to me. I have seen it in Matsya’s eyes. As we defy this great deluge, every soul deserves to be resurrected. Eventually, pralay will cleanse everyone in the manner it chooses!’

  ‘But the flood rises, Satyavrata! You may not have the time to return before the giant surfs swallow the city!’ screamed Tara, in a vain attempt to hold Manu back.

  The son of Surya turned once again, his horse circling like a whirlwind. Even in this turbulent night, Manu had a wickedly romantic smile on his face.

  ‘Don’t know why, but I love it when you call me Satyavrata!’

  Tara blushed.

  That was all he said, as he gave her a long, loving look and rode off into the stormy night.

  Tara was dumbfounded. Just a few days ago Manu had sworn vengeance. And here he was, galloping into the doomed city to protect the very two people who had together destroyed his world.

  What has brought about this profound change?

  She found her answer in an instant. She smiled.

  Matsya.

  She could sense it was the last night for Harappa.

  In the eeriness of this ominous night, she saw his lone horse galloping towards her palace, her home. She braced herself for death. While she knew her husband Chandradhar was an accomplished warrior himself, but the all-consuming choler of revenge would have made Manu twice the fighter he was.

  That blood would spill in her very own abode seemed certain now. Whether it was going to be the blood of Vivasvan Pujari’s son or that of her own husband, was yet to be seen.

  Manu rode his horse straight into the central atrium of the king’s palace, the hooves of the sweating beast pounding on the shining stone floor, echoing and roaring through the citadel palace’s lofty halls. When he found the ground level to be empty, Manu spurred his horse on and climbed up the massive staircase that led to the higher floor of the building. It was not to show aggression or disrespect that Manu chose to ride into the king’s luxurious residence. It was urgency.

  The flood was coming.

  The menacing tip of Chandradhar’s heavy sword scratched the polished floor creating sparks, as the wise king of Harappa dragged it along as he walked to face Manu.

  He knew it was going to be the greatest battle of his life.

  He was wrong.

  As Manu saw his once beloved uncle standing in the hallway of the higher floor, he dismounted. The massive room was lit with flickering torches and the fine, translucent curtains on the large windows fluttered violently, as squealing wind swept through the entire building.

  Manu folded his hands in a greeting to his uncle. Despite all his noble intentions, his young heart was on fire. For one moment, he felt the urge to draw his scimitar and avenge his parents that very instant. Scenes of his dying mother and his tortured father were haunting him. But then somehow the smiling face of Matsya kept dancing in his eyes, slowly chiseling him into the splendid man he was destined to become.

  ‘Vijayi-bhava, Manu,’ responded Chandradhar. ‘May you be victorious, Manu.’

  Only a man as magnanimous as Pundit Chandradhar could bless even his adversary with victory. He had not forgotten his beloved sister Sanjna. His remorse was deeper than the darkest crevice of the mighty Himalayas. His soul wept for h
is late friend. If he were alone, he would have given up his mortal body long ago. But he was not alone. He had Priyamvada.

  As the two men stood face to face, the stunning Priyamvada appeared from nowhere and walked quietly into the hallway. She was barefoot. Her long white dress flowed like a cloud behind her on the floor. Her beautiful hair was open and the kohl of her eyes had smeared onto her fair cheeks, mixed with her tears. She had a haunted look about her. And yet she looked striking.

  Manu clenched his fists and ground his teeth to swallow his rage as he saw this woman. He knew Pundit Chandradhar was merely a pawn, an emotionally manipulated husband. The real evil that had destroyed not just his own family but all of Aryavarta – lay curled like a venomous snake in the heart of this wretched lady.

  But he once again reminded himself of why he was here, and looked at Priyamvada as he spoke firmly and loudly.

  ‘Come with me to live another day, O Princess of Mohenjo-daro!’

  Alibaug, Off the Coast of Mumbai, 2017

  EMPIRE OF CRIME & BLOOD

  Aslam Biker was sweating.

  He awaited the arrival of the man whose voice was all that he had heard over the years - the unimaginably powerful and dangerous man who made Aslam’s blood curdle with just his hissing, monarchical speech from the other end of the phone line.

  And it was not every day that Aslam Biker’s blood curdled.

  Given that he was one of Mumbai’s most daring and feared underworld dons.

  His real name was Aslam Razi. But now everyone from the street urchins of Colaba to the Chief Minister of Maharashtra knew of him by the name Aslam Biker.

  When he started his career in petty crime, there were two Aslams in his jhopar patti or slum colony. Aslam Razi’s father was an honest textile mill worker, who had saved money and bought a sparkling new 100 cc motorcycle. What the old man did not know was that his swift motorcycle was rolled out nearly every night by his criminal son, and used as an escape vehicle after the supari or contract killings that he executed.

  As time passed and Aslam’s legend spread, it was his motorcycle that became the identity by which he was differentiated from the other, more docile Aslam in the colony.

  In a matter of a few years, his surname Razi was forgotten. From the dance bar circles to police records, he was known by only one name.

  Aslam Biker.

  The super luxury Sikorsky S-76C helicopter, more commonly known as the Black Hawk, slowly kissed the greens of the massive beach house that Aslam owned. The primary passenger of the chopper was the one who had kept Aslam alive in the midst of brutal Mumbai gang wars over the years. He was the one who had opened doors of the banks in Zurich for Aslam Biker. He supplied the latest automatic weapons used by Aslam’s ‘punters’. It was his phone calls that had kept the claws of the justice system away from Aslam.

  As the door of the shining silver helicopter flung open, Aslam and his men noticed that while this metallic bird looked like a luxurious flying machine, it was nearly military grade. The owner of this fleet of choppers took his own security very seriously.

  When the glossy wood and beige leather interiors of the Black Hawk were visible, they saw him. Surrounded by a posse of men who could have easily been mistaken for the US President’s security detail, he sat. Just as Aslam swallowed a nervous lump, the blonde, handsome man turned slowly to look at the Mumbai don. Aslam was no more than a foot soldier in the blonde man’s mammoth global empire of crime and blood.

  As he walked down the steel and mahogany step-ladder of the Sikorsky S-76C, he looked like a force of nature. Features so handsome that he appeared almost feminine, were matched by the athletic built of this undisputed kingpin of international organized crime.

  His hair was neatly pulled back from over his forehead and a pair of Maybach The Diplomat 1 sunglasses accentuated his extraordinarily flamboyant, boyish appearance. It was a separate matter that all his boyish charm vanished into thin air when the ivory handle of his custom Colt Python revolver could be seen staring nonchalantly from under his belt.

  His black jacket fluttered in the sea breeze as he stepped on to the turf tarmac. It was now that Aslam Biker decided to gather the courage and greet his Italian overlord. As he moved forward, one of the blonde don’s men stretched out his left arm, gesturing the Mumbai gangster to stand back. The man held a ready semi-automatic MAC-10 machine gun in his right hand.

  The powerful guest relented. He nodded to his human Rottweiler to make way.

  As Aslam Biker stepped forward, his heart froze. The don had slowly taken off his Maybach glasses. His deep green eyes tore deep into Aslam’s soul, reminding him what the meaning of real fear was.

  He could only mumble out a couple of words…

  ‘Welcome to Mumbai…Maschera.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  KARMIC DEBT

  ‘Draw your sword, my son,’ said Chandradhar. ‘You are entitled to quench your grueling thirst for vengeance. And I am duty-bound to protect the only woman I have ever truly loved. We are both only doing what we ought to do as honorable men.’

  Priyamvada stood like a statue, listening to the two brilliant men. Her breathing was heavy, labored…as if her breaths carried the enormous weight of her burdened conscience.

  ‘I am not here for revenge, Pundit Chandradhar. As you might have noticed, we face certain doomsday. The city is going to fall. You need to come with me…now!’

  There was a moment of silence in the sprawling hall, as the vicious breeze blew Priyamvada’s hair over her pretty face and thunder turned the room white for a few seconds. Chandradhar could not believe what he had just heard. He stood frozen for a while before turning to look at his distraught wife. The relief on his face was palpable.

  ‘But why, Manu? I heard everything from the city walls when you spoke. The people follow you! The army follows you! And they do nothing wrong. But why us? Why are you here to save the two of us…the two of us who have snatched everything away from you?’ exclaimed a shattered Chandradhar, his eyes welling up and his voice breaking.

  There were a million things Manu wanted to say. A million things he wanted to ask. But this was not the hour. He simply responded with what his heart was brimming over with. With what he felt was his true identity.

  ‘I do this because I am the son of the great Vivasvan Pujari…the glorious Surya of Harappa.’

  Manu paused to get a grip on his choking voice, before completing what he wanted to say.

  ‘I know he would have done the same.’

  Pundit Chandradhar wept disconsolately as he crumbled to his knees.

  He wanted Manu to attack him. He wanted this young man to extract his vengeance. He had been preparing himself for a final battle. But nothing could have prepared him for this act of nobility from this strapping young lad. For Pundit Chandradhar, Manu’s forgiveness and generosity were infinitely more painful than the tip of his arrow would have been.

  In a moment of insanity, the last king of Harappa picked up his sword, rushed to Manu and pointed it at him in an offence stance.

  ‘Pick up your sword and fight me, you young scoundrel!’ he yelled at Manu. ‘I know this is what you are here for! Draw your scimitar and show me what you are made of! You think Pundit Chandradhar is some Ranga who you will defeat with ease? No one can beat me, lad! The only man or devta who could…is not in Harappa anymore. So, fight me!’

  Manu did not flinch. For the first time, he felt pity for the poor man in front of him.

  And then he noticed Priyamvada. Her expression had changed, softened. She was weeping, with nothing but love and repentance written all over her face.

  What a sight it was! There was no need for retribution anymore. Chandradhar and his unfortunate wife Priyamvada were already burning in the furnace of pain, suffering in far more agony than what a sword, spear or an arrow would have inflicted.

  It was now that Manu learnt how the ceaseless cycles of karmic debt worked. The cosmos had already triggered the destined punishm
ent for the sins committed by Priyamvada and her husband. It did not involve blood and gore. No human intervention was required. No personal vendetta was needed.

  The universe was going to settle all debts. In its own way.

  ‘This is where our journey ends, Manu…’ said Priyamvada, keeping her soft, shivering hand on Manu’s cheek.

  The distant rumble of the approaching deluge was now nerve-wracking. Manu knew that if they did not ride out this very instant, all three of them would be engulfed by the water-mountains that galloped towards this ill-fated metropolis.

  ‘Why don’t you understand, we must leave now, O wise Pundit Chandradhar!’ said Manu, nearly screaming. The urgency of the moment was beyond all niceties.

  ‘Leave us here and go, Manu. Let this golden city, that today faces devastation as a result of our depravities, be our final resting ground. You are now beyond doubt a true reflection of your great father. And this could mean only one thing – that the Creator has chosen you for a very big task. You must ride out now, Satyavrata, and go fulfill your divine destiny.’

  Manu ignored what Chandradhar said, turned towards Priyamvada and stretched out his hand.

  ‘Climb on to my horse, my lady. This beast is strong enough to carry all three of us away from this cursed city…’

  Priyamvada’s eyes were unable to hold back her tears, which she kept wiping from the fine cotton sleeve over her wrist. She now looked at Manu with deepest admiration and kindness.

  ‘I have no divinity in me, O valiant Satyavrata. Perhaps no trace of humanity left either. But if I have a heart that still beats, eyes that still weep and hands that can still rise to bless, my spiritual bond with the universe is not all lost.’

  Manu was listening intently to this beautiful witch of a woman, who in her present avatar could have enchanted the entire world with her charm and goodness.

  ‘I bless you, Manu…’ the princess of Mohenjo-daro continued, with a beatific, tender smile. ‘May you succeed in whatever sacred mandate the cosmos has entrusted you with. May you find the kindle of inner peace and the gift of everlasting love.’