Kashi: Secret of the Black Temple (Harappa Series)

by Vineet Bajpai

  Dwarka Shastri nodded. He was in deep thought. He knew the gravity of the topic and its implications.

  After a few moments of pause, he began cautiously.

  ‘The American people are highly educated and well exposed to the modern world, as compared to perhaps some of the lesser developed countries. And despite their deep belief in democracy, they are strangely susceptible to being brainwashed and manipulated. For centuries, they have debunked the Illuminati and the New World Order as nothing more than conspiracy theories. But they forget that in the year 1798 it was one of their own Founding Fathers, George Washington himself, who wrote a letter to his successors warning them of the growing influence of the Illuminati. Would someone as accomplished and responsible as George Washington, believe baseless theories unless he had hard evidence?’

  ‘He would not,’ responded Purohit ji, who was himself finding several revelations around the Order for the first time today. Dwarka Shastri had saved the most intricate details of the global conspiracy for the prophesied devta who was supposed to end it all.

  Or was he?

  ‘There are several conspiracy theories about the reality behind 9/11, and I see no merit in talking about all those. So, I will simply ask you a few questions, Vidyut, and you must answer those to the best of your ability.’

  ‘Of course, Baba,’ replied the devta.

  ‘Which is the richest institution in the whole world, Vidyut?’

  Vidyut did not expect this question, but responded nevertheless.

  ‘Cannot really say for sure, Baba…maybe the company Google? Or Microsoft? Or perhaps Walmart or Amazon?’

  ‘No. It is the government of the United States.’

  ‘Oh…of course…’ said Vidyut, scratching his head.

  ‘What do you think is one of the greatest investments or expenses of the US government outside its own soil?’ asked Dwarka Shastri.

  ‘Err…funding its military presence in regions where it is at war, like when in Iraq or Afghanistan. Or maybe in sponsoring its global military infrastructure under organizations like NATO?’

  ‘In short…for waging war, correct?’

  ‘Yes, Baba.’

  ‘Who approves these war-spends?’

  ‘The US senate, I should think…’

  ‘Excellent. Now tell me, my son…where does all this money go? I mean, do you know how much the battle-gear of a single US soldier costs? Let me tell you. It costs about 17,000 US dollars to equip one infantryman of the US military. Close to 2 million US soldiers fought in the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Do the mathematics, my son. Can you imagine the purchase size of such equipment when the US goes all out into war? Do you know that the American tax-payer spent around 4.5 billion dollars in just the air-conditioning of the US army barracks in Iraq? So, we are speaking about not billions, but trillions of dollars being spent on war.’

  Vidyut nodded thoughtfully. He was wondering how his great grandfather knew details of US military expenditure, sitting here in the Dev-Raakshasa matth!

  ‘You did not answer my question, Vidyut. Where does all this money go?’

  ‘Well, it probably all goes to the manufacturers and distributors of arms and ammunition, besides suppliers of other military equipment.’

  ‘Yes. Billions of dollars go into the bank accounts of the arms lobby. Billions to private security companies like Black Sky. Billions and billions more to manufacturers of everything from fighter jets to night-vision glasses to mosquito nets!

  Now tell me this, Vidyut - who elects the US senate?’

  This one was easy.

  ‘The voters of America,’ replied Vidyut with a confident shrug.

  Dwarka Shastri was happy at the speed with which this discussion was progressing.

  ‘Therefore, you would agree that the US senate would be answerable to the people of America about state spending, would you not?’

  ‘Yes, Baba…like the government of any democracy should be.’

  ‘Absolutely right. But have you ever thought about what cause can be so drastic, so heart-wrenching…that it gives an elected government the moral right and public support for unbridled drain of the state’s money into the treasure-chests of private defense contractors?’

  Vidyut could not fully understand what the matthadheesh was asking.

  Dwarka Shastri continued. His excitement as well as his fury were palpable.

  ‘The crumbling of the World Trade Center sent ripples into the American psyche. It carved a deep, permanent scar…of fear, of hate and of retribution. In one stroke, it rallied the entire country behind backing an indescribably expensive war against an enemy that no one really knew.’

  The grand old man was relieved to see an expression of sudden clarity on Vidyut’s face.

  ‘Why did I not see this before, Baba…? 9/11 was the greatest and most inhuman blood-sacrifice made by the Illuminati - to facilitate history’s greatest financial heist!’

  The Marshes of Aryavarta, 1699 BCE

  THE NIGHT OF THE BLUE FIRE

  They waited for their king.

  A king who had felt the arrow of betrayal pierce through him.

  Deceived not by a scheming courtier. Let down not by an ambitious second-in-line to the throne.

  He felt horribly betrayed by not one, not two…but three of the people he trusted the most in this world.

  His late father’s virtuous friend Pundit Somdutt.

  His very own Tara. His beloved Tara.

  And Matsya.

  Matsya lied to me!

  Leaving behind his recent guests, Prachanda and the asuras, leaving behind all his friends and counsels, Manu had held Tara by her arm and had walked away towards a relatively vacant section of the Ark. They had much to talk about.

  Tara sat on a stone stool, her face buried in her palms, and she wept.

  Manu stood at a distance, looking aimlessly into the horizon from a high deck of the Great Ark.

  ‘I lied because I wanted to save you from becoming a monster, Manu!’ screamed Tara, her voice still breaking in sobs.

  Manu did not flinch. As if he had forgotten about her presence altogether. He was in a miserable state. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he pictured his wounded, heartbroken father combatting Sura and his elite troops – all alone. His heart wept when he imagined the Rakt-Dhara, the Blood River devouring his beloved Baba. He wondered how he would face his mother Sanjna in the afterlife.

  There was more. The emotional wringing that Manu felt stabbing into his soul was being further tormented by the other horrifying details that Prachanda had shared. The new asura king had informed Manu about the dark prophecies of the great sages, as well as the haunting curses of the Saraswati, of Sara Maa.

  Manu could now almost hear the dark curses one after the other. He could imagine his father, broken, alone and crestfallen on that fateful night of the Blue Fire.

  First, the curses of the Blood River rang menacingly in his mind –

  “The Saptarishi loved you like one of their own. I loved you like a son. The Gods bestowed you with divinity and you bore it with grace and worthiness - until your hate became your undoing, O devta! And with your corruption comes the great culling! The Asuras have sinned beyond measure. The Harappans have sinned as a collective. Kings have sinned and priests have sinned. Demons have sinned and devtas have sinned. Humankind compels the universe to unleash the cosmic cleansing! I shall forever forsake this land of immeasurable immorality and return to the holy womb of Mother Prithvi. The Saraswati, the River of the Wise, will fade into legend. But not before She unleashes her final punishment on those who have wronged her.

  Bewaaaaare…PRALAY…ESHHYATI…!

  THE GREAT DELUGE…IS COMING…!”

  Satyavrata Manu could not help but recreate the next curse in his imagination. He remembered what Prachanda had told him in great detail by now. He remembered how the rakt-dhaara was not done with just one curse. Her powerful, echoing voice continued to lacerate Manu -

  “Humanity
holds in the heart of every individual the potential to become a God. Yet, instead of seeking spiritual salvation within and without, human kind uses its gifts to betray, murder, plunder and avenge. This is the fate your species has chosen! So be it! The Gods will never release you from your hateful destiny. The serpents of violence and bloodshed will never loosen their stranglehold on mankind, which shall kill and destroy each other in the name of the very Gods it has betrayed today! Never shall carnage and butchery leave your side. This is my curse, O fallen devta! Humankind shall hear the shrieks of boundless suffering till the end of time!

  I CURSE YOU! I CURSE YOU ALL!”

  Tara was now staring at Manu with red, teary eyes. She knew he was not just enraged. He never went quiet like this. Not with her. Not even on the rare occasions when he let anger cloud over him.

  By now, Satyavrata Manu was almost transported to the night of the Blue Fire, to the scene of the raging battle between his great father and the forces of the demon-king Sura. He could almost see that horrible night unfolding in front of his eyes…

  Just like the five sons of the Saraswati, the cindering sixth sage now spoke, from the heart of the blue embers.

  “You make a feeble attempt to stop these butchers with mere words, O devta! And that when you are the possessor of the mighty cosmic weapon granted to you by the Gods! That when you bear the great Ratna-Maru! So be it.

  Just the manner in which you have watched the divine Sages burn one after the other on this fateful night, fate will watch your lineage perish violently, son after son, generation after generation. I curse you and your entire bloodline, O fallen devta…

  Every single son of your descent will die a death as violent and as horrible as the spectacle today!

  I CURSE YOU! AND YOUR ENTIRE BLOODLINE!

  THIS CURSE SHALL LAST TILL THE END OF TIME!”

  Before the sixth Saptarishi softly erupted into ashes, his voice spoke for the last time…and this time with more pity than fury.

  “You have turned truly blind, Vivasvan. A supreme human that could once gaze deep into the souls of men and into the sands of time, is today oblivious to his own child.

  Your son lives, O tarnished Surya! And it shall be he, who will see the first rays of morning after the Great Deluge subsides.

  Manu Pujari…will be the protector of all Creation!

  AND SHALL BE KNOWN AND IMMORTALISED AS SATYAVRATA MANU…THE GUARDIAN OF ETERNAL TRUTH!

  We pity you, you unfortunate father, you corrupted half-God!”

  Manu felt he heard Tara’s voice from afar, only to realize she was standing right next to him, her fingers clasped around his arm, begging him to forgive her. He had gone into a trance. A trance of guilt, of sorrow and of fear. The curses were all coming true, one after another. Aryavarta had burnt in the fire of bloodshed ever since. If these haunting prophesies had come true to the last word, the ones to follow would also not fail. His own bloodline, and the rest of humanity – were condemned to the merciless claws of the Blood River’s curse.

  As he slowly came back to the present and felt the chill of the cold, moist wind on his face, he felt Tara kissing him gently, repeatedly. She pecked him softly on his jaw and neck. She was whispering into his ears with love that could melt the cold heart of even the pitiless Gods that had unleashed pralay on mankind.

  ‘You are mine, Manu…forever! I could not have let you go. The furnace of vengeance would have burnt you and all of us to ashes. Matsya knew this to be true. What he did, what I did…was only to keep hope alive for all these hundreds of thousands who depend on you for everything, Manu.

  Please forgive me for saying this, O mighty Satyavrata…but I saw what the great Surya had become. I was there in the Rain of Blood. I could not let you walk on the same path.

  I could not let you become a demon.’

  Banaras, 2017

  THE COLD EYES OF DEATH

  Aslam Biker watched from a distance, through one of the large glass windows. It was nearly mid-night.

  The entire gymnasium of the sparkling Banaras hotel had been reserved for the Maschera Bianca.

  The entrance of the hotel health-club had been sealed and was guarded by the heavily armed fighters of the European crime lord.

  The White Mask liked to work on his icy mind, his indestructible body and his dark soul in complete solitude.

  It was only at this late hour that Vidyut found the time to catch up on his much-needed workout. After a long day with his Baba and Purohit ji, and an onslaught of nerve-wracking information, the devta sought refuge in the endorphins his body would release and relax him.

  He worked out alone on the terrace of his living quarters, being assisted only by Sonu once in a while. His devoted follower helped him with everything – right from bringing water bottles to helping his devta lift heavy weights in the absence of any support equipment.

  Vidyut’s magnificent body gleamed under a film of its own sweat against the silver moonlight.

  That one man could lift so much iron was an unbelievable sight for Aslam. While he was a regular at the gym himself given the demanding needs of his violent career, never had he seen such a sight.

  The Maschera lay on the sophisticated bench, wearing nothing but a black, Israeli Krav Maga lower. His torso looked like it was made of pale white steel. Grasping the chrome rod right above his chest he pumped weights that would otherwise need a heavy crane to lift. His veins appeared ready to burst as blood gathered in his head due to the inhuman strain. But the White Mask went on.

  For some reason Aslam Biker felt he would vomit. It was a strangely grotesque sight. This was all abnormal, all very repulsive. What started as an impressive workout schedule, was turning into a display of superhuman, unnatural physical might.

  Every new day brought with it something unique that dazzled Sonu about his devta.

  Sonu was no stranger to physical endurance and exertion. He was a fit young man himself who practiced hours in the matth vyayaam-shaala every morning. He was also a regular at the Banaras akhadaas where he observed pahalvaan or wrestlers that were strong as bulls.

  But something was different about his Vidyut dada. Something magnetic, something almost divine.

  And Sonu was not the only one watching the muscular grace of Vidyut. Someone else was too.

  From her own terrace a few paces away, Naina could not take her eyes away from this golden man. She remembered his masculine fragrance. She nearly felt his soft lips on hers once again.

  At that hour of the night, at that very moment - she needed him. She needed her man, her Vidyut!

  While fear was watching the White Mask, it was love that blanketed the last devta.

  EIt was as if Aslam Biker’s feet had been nailed to where he stood. He could not move. Despite the madness going on behind the window he stood staring at, something urged him to stay. To watch what unfolds.

  The Maschera was now pounding on a massive punching bag that hung in one corner of the gym area. His hands were taped and he began striking the heavy bag in a slow but practiced rhythm. By now he was drenched in sweat and his beautiful blonde hair was thrown back.

  And then he increased the pace. What followed was almost like a machine-gun fire of punches on the heavy, red-leather bag. The young, green-eyed, screw-driver murderer from Milan had grown up to become, among other things, an extraordinarily skilled fighter. He was firing his fists at a pace that made Aslam dizzy.

  In a matter of a couple of minutes, the gangster from Mumbai noticed another bizarre sight. Even through the thick plaster taped around the fists of the Maschera, his knuckles had turned pink with blood. As moments passed, the hands of the White Mask were red with his own bleeding, but he kept striking the leather bag – as if he felt no pain.

  As if he were not human at all.

  Vidyut was now in the second segment of his drill.

  What Naina, who was a little far away, and Sonu, who stood right there, could not believe was the prowess Vidyut had over Ashtaannga Yoga. Afte
r his rigorous freehand and weight training, the devta had now begun the softer yet equally demanding end of his regimen.

  But that was not all. Ashtaannga yoga, which is a system of yoga recorded by the Vamana Rishi in the ancient manuscript of the Yoga Korunta, was not the only form of healing and training that Vidyut was practicing. He was beautifully combining, as Naina could tell, Ashtaannga yoga with Qigong (chee-gong) – the Chinese science of mental and physical nurturing.

  Moving his hands in slow circles, it was as if Vidyut was performing a choreographed stage-show, his brute physical strength matched equally by the grace of his yogic movements.

  After a while, Vidyut sat down to meditate. His initial post-workout panting slowly transformed into peaceful, rhythmic breathing. The cool Kashi breeze emanating from the nearby Ganga, caused Vidyut’s long, beautiful hair to flutter.

  His expression slowly began to resemble that of an accomplished, young sage. He had almost an unnoticeable, a beautiful smile on his meditating face.

  To those who loved him, he looked every bit like a God.

  The Maschera Bianca now sat in the center of the massive, brightly-lit, luxurious gymnasium of the palace hotel.

  He sat on the floor, doing what seemed like some form of penance. Some evil, deranged form. Unlike what Aslam Biker would have expected from a man who was meditating, the Maschera had a terrifying scowl on his face. This form of concentration reminded Biker vaguely of Japanese Samurai meditation. But it was not as pious as what the Samurai practiced. It was something different. Ninja, maybe? - thought the Mumbai don. By now he could only see one side of the Maschera’s expression.

  Even as the White Mask mumbled some chants that Aslam could not hear from where he stood, the Mumbai bhai decided to leave. He had had enough. He was grateful that the Maschera had not seen him peeping into what was supposed to be his personal time.

  As he prepared to leave, Aslam’s heart froze. From the side angle that he could see, the White Mask had suddenly opened his eyes.