Kashi: Secret of the Black Temple (Harappa Series)

by Vineet Bajpai

  Even before Aslam could move a muscle, the Mask turned to look at him.

  From what he saw, Aslam could swear they were not human eyes.

  The Mask’s green eyes had completely vanished. The open eyes that stared at Aslam through the window – were as white as a grave shroud.

  They were the cold eyes of death.

  The White Mask looked every bit like the devil.

  The Marshes of Aryavarta, 1699 BCE

  THE PUJARI BLOODLINE

  ‘I have a message for you from your father, Satyavrata,’ said Prachanda.

  Upon the asura king’s request, Manu was now giving a guided tour of the great Ark to Prachanda.

  He had forgiven Tara. He understood why she did what she had done. He loved her too much to be angry with her for long anyway. He had also pardoned Somdutt for hiding the truth about his father from him. He was much too indebted to Somdutt. He could find a glimpse of his great father in the chief architect’s face.

  But he had not forgiven Matsya. He knew Tara and Somdutt were, after all, ordinary mortals. They could not have disobeyed the word of Matsya. They could not have outdebated him. But Matsya was God. He could have done things differently.

  If he wanted, he could have let me meet my father one last time. He could have let us say goodbye.

  Satyavrata Manu’s bitterness towards Matsya was nothing but an outcome of his boundless love for the magnificent fish-man. It was just the kind of irritable yearning a child feels for a merchant-father who is away at sea for months.

  Only in this case, Matsya was the sea.

  ‘What message, O mighty Prachanda…what did my father say?’ asked Manu eagerly. Any word from his beloved father was a precious gift for this young priest-king.

  Prachanda stopped and turned to Manu.

  ‘The only solace your great father had in his last moments, was that he knew you will live to see the other side of pralay. The last Saptarishi had assured him. He had also pronounced that you will be the savior of mankind in this final hour.’

  Manu sighed and shook his head. He did not know what to say, what to believe. For now, pralay seemed undefeatable.

  ‘We will see what happens, O king of asuras. Please do share my father’s message,’ urged Manu.

  ‘The Surya was confident that besides taking tens of thousands of fellow humans on the Ark, you will also save several species of plants and animals. He had no doubt that you will carry the essential herbs, the yarns, the seeds and the alloys. But he specifically asked me to convey to you that your greatest duty is to carry the wisdom, the knowledge of our world to the new dawn of humanity.’

  Satyavrata Manu was not very clear what his father meant. But he was determined to go to any length to fulfil his late father’s last wish. His final commandment.

  ‘I am very aware of the critical role our ancient and present knowledge will play in the coming era, O king of asuras. Which is why our cargo includes the most essential of books, maps and scriptures. We are also taking with us the most learned among scholars, alchemists, physicians and architects. The Saptarishi are with us and so are the…’

  ‘This is not what your father meant, Manu,’ interrupted Prachanda, his hand up in the air, indicating that Manu should stop talking.

  After a moment’s pause, he continued.

  ‘Will the current scriptures that you carry, narrate the saga of the Great Flood, of pralay, to future generations?’

  ‘No, they would not,’ replied Manu thoughtfully.

  ‘Will they elucidate the story of Matsya?’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Let alone the others. Will the books you carry even have the story of Satyavrata Manu, of Satrupa and of the Great Ark?’

  Manu was silent.

  Prachanda now spelled out what Vivasvan Pujari had asked him to convey to his son Manu...word by word.

  ‘You must write the scriptures anew, O Satyavrata.

  Write about the ancients.

  Write about the present.

  Write what is good and what is bad.

  Pen down what is righteous and what is depraved.

  Write the stories of the Gods and the tales of the demons.

  Write about Vishnu and write about Pashupati.

  Write about the Surya and write about the Saraswati.

  What you write today shall remain immortal, O Satyavrata.

  What you write will be the sacred Shastras…

  …to be studied and worshipped by mankind till the end of time!’

  Manu’s eyes were brimming with tears. He could almost hear his father say these words. With folded hands, he bowed to Prachanda, who for now seemed to embody his beloved father.

  ‘If you think I am capable of such an arduous undertaking, if you believe I can document the holy Shastras, then I shall do as you command, father…’ he said.

  ‘I shall write the Shastras. Yoga-shastra, Nyaya-shastra, Dharma-shastra, Vastu-shastra, Moksha-shastra, Rasayana-shastra, Kavya-shastra and numerous others. My descendants will add on to these scriptures, generation after generation.

  And so that none of us ever forget this sacred promise I make to you, from today we shall be known not by the bloodline name of Pujari, but by the title of Shastri!

  My children and their children will forever be known as the authors of the Shastras.

  They shall forever be called Shastri.’

  Banaras, 2017

  NAINA & VIDYUT

  It was nearly 2 am.

  Vidyut was physically and mentally exhausted.

  Yet, sleep was hard to come by.

  He had discovered a lot during that day about the Illuminati, about the New World Order and their ghastly grip on the planet and its people.

  But he still did not know exactly who killed his father. Why they killed his father.

  After a long shower and a light meal that had followed his workout, Vidyut had retired for the day.

  He was tossing and turning in his bed when he heard a faint knock on his door.

  Vidyut got up and opened the old, loud, iron latch.

  It was Naina.

  Despite all that stood between them, despite all the right and all the wrong, Vidyut and Naina could not pull away from each other’s heart and mind. Naina knew Vidyut was spoken for. But her beating heart overpowered her logic, numbing all her senses. Vidyut knew he belonged to Damini. But something about Naina made him forget all reason, all propriety…even all divinity.

  And yet, barring a moment or two of human weakness, it never made him forget Damini.

  Naina wore a loose black shirt, that was buttoned down more than usual. Her eyes sparkled and her skin glowed like pearls. She was delighted to find Vidyut without his vest. She stepped forward and pressed her lips on his chest, keeping them there for a while. She then started kissing him repeatedly all over his shoulders, chest and neck.

  Vidyut was on the verge of picking her up in his arms and taking her to bed. She was simply irresistible. A woman of her beauty, deeply in love and burning with passion – it would have taken a devta to refuse her.

  Vidyut was a devta.

  After a few brief moments of giving in, Vidyut gently pulled away.

  Naina did not seem to notice. She stepped forward, shut the door behind her and flung her arms around her devta.

  ‘Make love to me, Vidyut…’ she whispered into his ear, as she bit into his earlobe softly.

  Vidyut slowly held her wrists and broke her grip around him. Even before she could react, he looked into her eyes and pulled her into a warm embrace.

  That was the most the devta could give Naina this night. She needed a lot more. So did he.

  But Vidyut had made a promise to Damini, 3,700 years ago.

  Vivasvan had made a promise to Sanjna.

  They were going to crossover to the other side – together.

  Naina was not an ordinary woman.

  She knew how to handle adversity. She could combat villains head-on. She had known loss when her parents
had left her forever. She knew how to tackle hate and fight demons.

  But she did not know how to handle rejection.

  Not from Vidyut.

  She sat huddled into a chair, embarrassed and broken at being turned down by the only man she had ever really wanted.

  ‘I should go!’ she exclaimed and got up, wiping the tears flowing on to her cheeks with her beautiful fingers.

  ‘Don’t go, Naina…’ said Vidyut, as he held her by the hand. ‘We need to speak, don’t we?’

  Naina nodded. She knew there was too much that bound them together. Too much that could not be left unsaid, unheard.

  ‘You do know if Damini was not the love of my life, nothing could have kept me away from you, Naina? You do know that, right?’

  ‘What do you want from me, Vidyut?’ retorted Naina. She was not prepared to rank second. This was not some contest for her.

  Vidyut sat at Naina’s feet, caressing her hand lovingly.

  ‘I want you to be my best friend forever, Naina. With Bala gone, I am left alone. I need a friend I can trust. I need a friend I can love…’

  Naina smiled, tears still rolling down her stunning face.

  ‘You know what, Vidyut…Damini is really lucky. Not everyone finds someone who loves them so passionately, so uncompromisingly…’

  She was looking straight into his eyes, pain brimming over with every teardrop that fell.

  Vidyut bent forward and kissed her on her cheek.

  ‘No, I am really lucky. Not everyone has someone as gorgeous as you falling for them!’

  Naina shut her eyes, clearly in more longing, more emotional suffering than she could bear.

  She then opened her eyes, got her usual naughty tinge back into them, and spoke with an air of disdain.

  ‘Falling for you? Whatever made you believe that Mr. Half-human, half…’

  She could not complete her sentence. Naina fell into Vidyut’s arms and cried till her tears went dry.

  The Marshes of Aryavarta, 1699 BCE

  GUPTACHAR

  Prachanda and his prime commanders were in a daze.

  They had been walking for seven hours now, and had still not covered even a small fraction of the Ark’s expanse. The giant vessel looked clumsy, creaky and ready to disintegrate at the assault of even a minor wave of the great deluge.

  And yet somehow it looked majestic, impregnable and the only boat that could withstand the doomsday flood that was engulfing all of known prithvi.

  ‘The bottom most section or the bilge is where we store all the heavy material that would normally sustain comparatively less damage because of the dankness and the humidity. This underwater section holds ballast cargo such as copper weapons and the big serpents and reptiles! Our largest reservoirs for fish and ocean-creatures are also placed in this lower section.’

  Manu was describing various parts of the Ark in a matter-of-fact manner. For the listeners who were absolutely new to this wonder of engineering, it was all like a fantasy story! Copper weapons with reptiles! Ocean-creatures on a boat?

  Satyavrata had been speaking for hours. He now gestured to his friend Dhruv to take over the guided tour.

  ‘The hinged rudder in the front of the Great Ark is made from ten thousand oaks. Each rudder of the boat has inset handles and rope levers for one thousand and five hundred men to pull on either side. We have not been able to test this, but all mathematics suggests that the weight of the rudders below water would get lowered significantly - enough to be maneuvered by this unit of men.’

  Dhruv was visibly proud of what they had built.

  Even someone as brave as Prachanda was afraid.

  The rope ladders that Tara, Somdutt and scores of their soldiers were so simply using to climb up and down the steep hull of the Ark, seemed nothing less than death-traps to the asura-king and his men. One slip meant not just death. It meant falling freely for so long that every thought around the resulting impact could be contemplated with ease. The dark clouds and incessant rain made the ascent and descent even trickier. It was like climbing down into a smoky, freezing hell.

  And then Prachanda saw Manu and Dhruv. They were simply using ropes to glide up and down the immeasurably steep hull. Both of them grabbed two separate ropes. Using their legs, they pushed themselves into the air and, like skilled mountaineers, slid down in long, expert moves. In a matter of moments, they had vanished far below into the mist.

  Prachanda and his men had no choice but to begin climbing down the rope ladder that, when compared to Manu and Dhruv’s mode of transportation, now looked like a luxury.

  As they reached one of the lower decks, relieved at not having lost any man to the ordeal, the asuras continued their wide-eyed discovery of this architectural marvel.

  ‘The seventeen levels below the main deck are all meant to accommodate the living quarters of our people. There are twelve hundred cabins on each level. Four people to one cabin gives enough room for everyone to stretch their legs and get sleep. Women and children will be rotated in two shifts. The able-bodied men will be scheduled into three shifts, so each man gets at least eight hours of rest in a day. In this manner, we hope to be able to accommodate close to two hundred thousand souls. Just that the cabins will be nothing more than a box of sorts with one small window. The trouble is, we do not know how long it is going to take for the great flood to subside. It could be months…years…,’ Dhruv continued.

  Prachanda was listening carefully. He was wondering if kings were going to be offered independent cabins. He quickly rubbished the thought. Every cabin meant four lives. Four human lives!

  Prachanda poured himself a generous helping of the wine he had brought with him. He offered a glass to Manu, who politely declined. Dhruv decided to give the asura king company and happily accepted the goblet. And then several of them.

  But the conversation was not going to be as merry as Dhruv had expected.

  ‘There is a reason I have travelled all the way across the mountains with so many of my men, Satyavrata. As you know, the guptachar or spy network of the asuras is very strong. We have penetrated every tribe and every village across the badlands where the bandit warlords rule with their savage militia. They have always been cruel brigands who attack, loot and murder whoever they find. I have heard they have made several attempts to overpower even your supply caravans. But recently, a far more worrying phenomenon has been reported by my spies.’

  ‘And what is that, O mighty king?’ asked Somdutt, who was also present on the table.

  ‘In the last few months the spies have been seeing something they had never witnessed before. The villages and encampments of the bandit warlords are being visited by unexpected emissaries,’ said Prachanda, as he gulped down his glass of wine.

  ‘Whose emissaries, king Prachanda?’

  This time it was Manu who asked the question. He was dreading the answer. In a moment, he realized that his fear was not misplaced.

  ‘Emissaries of the daityas, Manu. The barbarian Nara-Munda is sending messengers to all the bandit tribes. This is extremely disturbing because this has never happened before. The daityas and the bandits have always been at loggerheads. But now things are changing…’

  ‘What purpose can this solve? What does that beast Nara-Munda want from the bandits?’ asked Dhruv, unable to comprehend what both Manu and Prachanda had well understood.

  Manu turned to his friend.

  ‘They are burying their hatchets just to fight against us. Nara-Munda wants to unite all bandit tribes under his banner, Dhruv.’

  ‘But why?’ scowled Dhruv, still not getting the danger that was looming.

  Manu responded simply, but his cold tone betrayed the deep disquiet his heart was going through.

  ‘They want to steal the Ark.’

  Banaras, 2017

  GODS & DEMONS

  Vidyut cherished every opportunity to have a meal with his Baba. It was around 9 am in the morning. They were sitting on straw mats that had been laid out on the f
loor of the verandah of the great Dwarka Shastri’s cottage.

  Some young students from the matth were serving breakfast to their revered matthadheesh, to their favorite Purohit ji and to their beloved Vidyut dada.

  While Dwarka Shastri and Purohit ji ate a simple breakfast of chuda-matar, they had insisted that Vidyut be served some delicious, piping hot kachori and jalebi from the most famous halwai of Banaras. For all his divinity and his valiance, they still treated Vidyut like a little boy.

  Once breakfast was done with and they were served some hot herbal tea, Dwarka Shastri resumed the grave discussion that was incomplete even now.

  ‘We are descendants of Satyavrata Manu, Vidyut. Do you know that name?’

  Vidyut went blank for a moment. Anyone who had a good idea of Hindu mythology had heard of Satyavrata Manu – the great sage, the great savior. He did not know how to react. Never in his life had one statement made his heart leap with both awe and pride in such an instant.

  ‘Whaaat?’ was all Vidyut could blurt out.

  ‘Yes, Vidyut. You remember I told you about Vivasvan Pujari, the devta who walked this earth 3,700 years ago. The very same devta who now resides in you, reborn to fulfil his divine destiny. You would recollect that as I narrated the haunting story of Harappa’s last days, I also mentioned the Surya’s son, Manu.’

  ‘Yes…yes you did, Baba…’

  ‘That son of Vivasvan Pujari was none other than the immortal Satyavrata Manu – the builder of the Great Ark, the one chosen by Matsya, the writer of the Shastras…we are his descendants, Vidyut.

  We are the bloodline of the magnificent priest-king who saved humanity from Pralay – The Great Deluge.’

  ‘The most mystical and frightening aspect of the secret brotherhood of the New World Order is their deep and intense understanding of the spiritual realm. Like I mentioned before, they consist of some of the most intelligent men in the world. Geniuses, you might say. Yet, unlike the common perception of geniuses who most people think would be logical atheists, the members of the brotherhood are deeply entrenched into the otherworldly forces, both good and evil, that impact our planet.’