The Indus.

Bhitshah, India.

The golden sands of the Indus, the golden camels and pots of gold – Sind still lay at helm of the world trade – only that the trade did not involve land or sea routes; or even the air routes any longer. It just involved Sonar signals and communication signals. The other important thing it involved was liaison. The merchants of Sind had an edge on both. Sindwanis and Latifs had become the largest communication giants in the world – both centered in Sind. Bank of Sind and Sind Financers had become the largest finance companies in the world. Sindcom and Indus had similarly become the largest retail houses in the world – both from Sind.

Bhitshah – the city of Shah Abdul Latif – the ancient ascetic had no longer remained famous just for the yearly urs, but also for its vibrant and rich upper middle class and its beautiful nightlife. The urs of the dervish was beyond any doubt still the most magnificent event in the city. Lately, Bhitshah had caught attention for a plane crash. A hijacked plane carrying a suspect and a priest from England had crashed in the outskirts of the city on the sandy bed of the Indus. Mortal remains of the dead lay scattered over an area of four kilometers. All the people on board were suspected to be dead. None of the survivors was found.

However, just in time when the plane was about to crash – one of the police guards had approached Thomas and Deborah and given them life jackets.

“Whatever the government has done with us all isn’t right” He had said slowly, handing the life jackets to them. “We all think that it would be a defeat of their purpose if you remain alive. The hijacker was promised a landing at Cairo by the government. They never told that we were doomed to die. We were backstabbed by our own people.” He had a look of grief in his eyes. “We will try to make a safe landing if possible in a few minutes, but we can’t be sure of that. So we have decided that you take these life jackets and be the first ones to drop – just in case we are not able to make a safe landing, you will remain alive.”

Thomas looked in his eyes. There was a tint of sincerity and compassion. He grabbed the life jackets and handed one over to Deborah. Just as their parachutes opened in air and they descended safely on the sands beneath, they heard a loud thud and saw smoke on the horizon. They knew that the plane had crashed.

They walked down the sands to a highway. Thomas had decided to take a lift to a known place. They didn’t know where in the world they were. As the trucks speeded by, Thomas raised a thumb. A trucker halted at some distance and shouted – “Tourist?”

Thomas nodded.

The trucker asked again: “Bhitshah?”

Thomas could not understand what he meant.

Trucker came again – “Sukkur?”

“I don’t understand.” Thomas shouted back.

The truck driver pointed a finger forward and shouted once again – “Multan?”

Deborah had heard of the city. She immediately nodded and shouted back in desperation “Multan Multan.”

Thomas looked toward her in bewilderment. They boarded the truck and started their Indian journey. Deborah looked ahead. The dry sands they had crossed had now become a blue river. She saw a huge direction board on the highway. Something was written in a strange language. Devanagari. Deborah thought to herself, but underneath – she could clearly understand the name of places written in English – BHITSHAH     SUKKUR     MULTAN     LAHORE.

She had read all this in her history. The civilization started here thousands of years back She looked to the wide blue river on their right. Then she looked toward Thomas wither wide blue eyes and said – “We are more east than we ever intended to go. That river is the Indus.” She pointed.

Thomas looked at the wide serpentine water body that oddly lay in the desert. The truck driver smiled in affirmation and said “Indus.”

They were on their new road.

The Million Years Old Kids!

Dakshineshwar

Biswada approached the door and switched the biometric lock on active mode. His body was scanned and his retinal code was matched. The door opened. Biswada spoke on the door. 

“Guest. Name RajatBabu. “

There were clicks from the cameras on the door. The lock device showed that Rajat was cleared to enter. Rajat entered into a tastefully decorated lobby.

“How is it so clean, Biswada?” Rajat was amused that it was spotless though there was no servant in the house.

“Oh! That’s because of the robotic cleaners. They are timed.” Biswada answered.

Rajat heard the voice of a child from one of the rooms upstairs. It was a soft voice:

“five ones are five….five twos are ten…five threes are fifteen….” It went on.

They moved upstairs. There was a soft yellow glow coming from one of the rooms – from which the voice seemed to be coming. Biswada rushed toward the room.

A child was sitting on the chair with back toward the door – studying from the book kept on the table.. Biswada ran toward him – “Son!” He cried.

The boy jumped from the chair – “Father!” He said

Biswada took the kids hands and pressed them lovingly. The child jumped suddenly with a loud shriek – “ohhh! It hurts father.”

The palms were bleeding right in the middle. It suddenly reminded Rajat of something.

The boy turned around. Rajat froze for a moment.

“Vibhu!” He cried in horror. He immediately turned to Biswada. “Biswada come and run. At once! He is no son of yours. He is a demon. He haunts the crematoria as a crying boy. Let’s go Biswada.”

Biswada seemed both shocked and angry. He was about to say something when Vibhu stopped him. He said to Rajat:

“Pankaj. You may be right in your way about me. But I am no demon. I have just come on the insistence of my gurus. Your friend is my friend. He is with me all the time, and as mother said –he is at peace. He is happy. I am the one who feels his agony all the time.”

Rajat looked at him. Suddenly there was a sound from the entrance.

All of them rushed toward the main enterance. There were four young boys – hardly six years of age and stark naked. – the Sanat Kumars.

“Rajat.” , spoke one of them. “Learn it that Vibhu is not wrong. As for you, go with him. He’ll take you where things would be clearer.”

“Go with him.” They said in unison, and vanished. 

There was nothing, but a blurred echo -  “Harisharanam”.

It was about time in which a cow could be milked. The Kumars never stay at a place longer than that, lest they might develop an attachment with the world! They are not of this world.

The Road to East

Mecca, Arabia

Wazir Khan had heard this somewhere else. Sitting with him on the coach to Medina was a gentlemen of apparently Middle Eastern descent, but what he spoke reminded him of some place else.

“Where do you belong to, Sir?” He asked the gentleman politely.

“I don’t know?” The answer came back, short and crisp.

“Oh. I am sorry.” Wazir realized that it’s best to be courteous, even to the rudest, when at Mecca.

The gentleman continued his chant. He kept repeating the same sentence again and again. He seemed to be in trance. Wazir Khan could not resist and asked him again.

“Sir, as you are in Mecca – I believe that you have to be a Muslim.”

“Yes, I am. Why do you ask this?” The man replied - a bit puzzled.

“Because of your chants.” Khan replied.

“It might be a verse in a heavenly language! God konws!” The gentleman replied.

Wazir Khan smiled and then enquired. “Oh, is it? Are you from India, sir?”

The gentleman looked frustrated. “India? Is it east or west?”

“Oh I see, you don’t know where India is?” Wazir was clearly being sarcastic now. “Where are you from, then sir?”

The gentleman opened a folder lying on his side and took a notebook out. He read. “This piece of paper tells me that I belong to Turkey, but I haven’t been there since years. I went to Armenia, Azerbaijan, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Jordan, Cyprus, Israel, Egypt and Arabia. It does not mention about India. I don’t understand why my chants amuse you so much.”

“Wazir Khan looked at the document, rather surprised. It clearly showed that he was a Muslim. Further it testified that he never even visited India. His name was clearly spelt. BURAK ASKER.

“What does your chant mean?” He asked.

“I do not know. I heard them in a dream. I got hooked since then!” Burak answered.

By now Wazir Khan was sure that he wan’t dealing with a normal phenomena. The man was either mad, or too clever; either he was the devil or he was a sage.

“Sir, do you have any idea what your chants mean and what they are?” Wazir Khan asked.

“I truly don’t know, brother.” Burak answered rather simply.

“The chants are religious, yes, but not in Islam. They are religious chants of the archaic Sanskrit – their holy tongue of India.” Wazir Khan disclosed. He had heard them often at Somapuri.

“Are you from the East?” Burak suddenly shouted.

 “Wazir Khan turned his eyes in a partial disgust. “Where do you intend to go?”

“East.” Burak answered

“East where, sir!” Wazir Khan asked.

“On the high mountains” Burak answered.

Wazir looked towards him; even more amused. It was meaningless to explain him that how ‘big’ east was. He just said. “I go to east as well. Be my guest.”

Burak smiled. “Inshallah. God is great!”. This was all he said.

The Clash and The Crash

Saint Paul’s, London: Same day in the evening

A group of Christians gathered for a silent protest in front of the Saint Paul’s Cathedral. The protest demanded justice for Deborah and the word of the God. About two hundred people gathered – mainly Christians and most of them ethnic British or Europeans. The protest ended late in the night with a resolution of massive demonstration next day at the Hyde Park, and a silent march to the Buckingham Palace. A group of Catholics, Protestants, Anglicans and other Christians by the name – ‘The Children of Our Lady’ resolved to present a request to the monarch to look into the matter personally.

Hyde Park, however, was to be the venue for a popular concert by a Turkish orchestra on the same evening. The request for allowing protests at Hyde Park were denied, keeping in view that all the arrangements for the show had already been made. The venue for protests was shifted to the gardens beside the Mall.

The word couldn’t spread fast enough, though; and by the evening, the protesters started to gather around the Hyde Park. They were naturally asked to stop. There was utter confusion as the crowds saw ethnic Arabs and Turks being allowed to enter the Hyde Park and whites and Christians being stopped. Resentment grew among the protesters.

Soon, a group of protesting youth tried to stop the entry of an Arab couple to the park. A brawl ensued and the lady sustained some significant injuries. A group of Arab guys who had come to watch the show got involved in the brawl and a white guy was beaten up rather badly.

Rest was all rumors, but they spread like wildfire. Soon there were riots in Wembley, Kingston, Wimbledon, Hillingdon, Luton, Ilford, Surrey….. From London, the riots spread to Southampton, Dover, Bristol, Birmingham, Coventry, Manchester, York, Edinburgh, Glasgow, Inverness….Soon, whole of Britain was burning. There were rounds of protests and rounds of riots. A newly formed organization called ‘The Brothers of Rationale’ comprising mainly of ethnic minorities now launched a series of counter protest with the slogan : ‘Deborah the Fake!”

Very soon, keeping Deborah home had become a greater headache for both the government and the Scotland Yard. The government finally asked the King to grant a personal permission to Deborah and Thomas to fly to Portugal under an arrest. The Scotland Yard had, however, hatched a deeper conspiracy. They had inducted an ethnic Arab into the cabin crew, who was trained in hijacking. The plane would be hijacked and flown to a neutral territory. Deborah and Thomas would be killed, and the Yard and the government would bury this whole episode, and as a side effect, tackle some more Arabs in Britain.

Everything went as planned. The plane got hijacked over Spain and then crossed Europe; but then – problems started. The plane needed refueling. The Middle East denied the use of its air strips. The plane moved ahead and finally crashed on the sandy plains of the Indus

Chapter 3: The Turbulence

Special Courts

Shepherd’s Bush, Greater London

William McGregor was one of the greatest names in criminal law in England. His law firm Malcolm Associates based out of Edinburgh had become one of the largest law firms west of Bosporus. He himself was an advocate in many major courts in Britain, Europe and America.

The rumor had it, that the Scotland Yard paid him a huge sum for taking up the Dawson case. Both the Scotland Yard and Malcolm Associates declined this. However, the media kept getting regular ‘inputs from confidential sources’ that some people placed at high levels in the Scotland Yard, mentored by people in the government, were wielding both influence, and the people’s money for this case. Even though the denial game continued, it was clear to all that what initially seemed to be an ‘open and shut’ case had kept on lingering unduly and had lately begun complicating.

The latest complication was the petition that Deborah be allowed to visit Portugal as the ‘God’ commanded this by scribbling words ‘clues are in Fatima’ on her back during the episode of ‘stigmata’.

“Milord! The video could be edited.” McGregor said.

“Kiddish.” A voice came from the jury. “It was sent real time.”

“William, what do you want to prove? Has the standard of legal practice has declined so much that a lawyer of your standing gives us these senseless statements?” One of the judges said furiously.

“I’m sorry milord!” McGregor said, rather ashamed.

“Anything else you want to say or ask, William?” The judge asked.

“Sir! My only point is, that I want to confirm that this was a stigma. I have the doctor’s reports of her normal mental status immediately after the episode and a testimony that her wounds miraculously healed on application of the holy water, however, I want to confirm that it is a word of the God. Ms. Dawson is a catholic. I want the Catholic Church to confirm that this was an episode of stigmata. How can we otherwise rely on what is just a supposition and give the verdict.” McGregor came out, rather triumphantly.

The jury nodded in affirmation. McGregor had started doing his job well.

“Further, milords! The ‘message’ does not in any way make it compulsive for Ms. Dawson to travel to Portugal. It just says that the clues are Fatima. Why does the defense want Ms. Dawson to leave the country?” McGregor added.

The jury nodded once again in affirmation.

“Does the defense have anything to say?” The judge asked.

Thomas got up.

“Milords! The persecution should note that the bench itself represents the Anglican Church.”

“Objection Milord!” McGregor jumped up at once” Offensive, coercive.”

“Sustained.” The judge said. “Mr. Thomas, please make relevant statements.”

“Sir! I want to plead that the certificate of the Anglican Church be accepted for this.” Thomas said.

“…so that the defense may influence the decision of the church?” 

McGregor jumped up again.

“Please stop Mr. William; you would be given enough time to speak.” The judge said.  

McGregor apologized and sat down.

“Defense.” One of the judges said. “You may proceed.”

“Milord! I also want to state that the clues in the message were for Ms. Dawson, so she is the one who is expected to find them in Portugal.” Thomas submitted. “That’s all I want to say Milord’s!”

“Does the persecution have anything to say?” The judge asked.

McGregor stood up and said, “Milord I just want my concern about the possibility of the defense influencing the Anglican Church in its decision be kept in record.”

He sat down.

The judges discussed for a while and then pronounced.

“The petition was to allow Ms. Dawson to travel to Portugal as the message directs her to travel. However there is no such direction in the message. If the defense wants to plead on some other grounds they can put up another petition. The persecution can also put up a petition of request of certificate from the Catholic Church. 

The present petition stands rejected.”   

Visit to the temple

1

Dakshineshwar, Kolkata

Rajat and Biswda had boarded the ferry to Dakshineshwar at Fairlie Ghat. They had been sailing over the Hooghly for about ten minutes now. This was the route which carried passengers across the city since medieval times. Rajat saw a huge three storied structure on the eastern banks of the river – designed majestically in old Bengali architecture, with nine massive navratna spires dominating the horizon.

“That is the temple of Dakshineshwari.” Biswada pointed toward the building.

“Old!” Rajat exclaimed, “Breathtaking.”

They alighted on the bank and took the flight of stairs up the ghat.

The temple of Kali at Dakshineshwar was built by a queen on a land bought from the British on the east bank of the Hooghly. The site partially covered a Muslim burial ground. The presiding deity was Bhavatarini – the one who rescued from the turbulent ocean of life.

“Beautiful!” Rajat said, “But it cannot match how the goddess looks in real.”

“What?” Biswada exclaimed. “Real?”

Rajat realized what he had spoken. “Oh. I mean how she might look in real. She might be beautiful.” He cleverly covered up his mistake.

“Yes, Rajat Babu.” Biswada replied. “She would be the most beautiful one in the whole world. I wish I could see her.”

As both of them exited the sanctum sanctorum, Biswada led her into residential area of Dakshineshwar.

“Isn’t it amazing Rajat Babu. Dakshineshwar used to be north Kolkata.” Biswada looked at Rajat. He giggled. Rajat gave him a stare of disgust. “Biswada, it wasn’t amazing at all.”

“Anyhow.” Biswada continued. All this was irritating Rajat. Biswada had been talking continuously since past hour and most of it was crap. It was getting on his nerves now, but Biswada continued uninhibited. “The important thing is that why we came here in the first place.”

I think I was mad. I could have come here alone. Rajat thought to himself, however, there was no end to Biswada’s talks.

“Do you see that building Rajat Babu.” Biswada pointed towards a large thousand square yards mansion among the apartments.

“Yes.” Rajat answered absent mindedly. He was more mindful of own head that had started to ache by now.

“That belongs to the millionaire Krishna Das Choudhari.” Biswada said.

Why is he telling me all this. Rajat was really annoyed.

“I used to live there.” Biswada said rather coolly.

“What?” It was getting out of hands now. “Biswada. Did you get me here to tell me all this? Now don’t tell me that you are Krishna Das Choudhuri’s son – Biswaroop Das Choudhuri. I’m having a headache, so please remain silent now.”

“Ok.” Biswada said and marched toward the mansion. He opened the gate. Rajat ran after him.

“Biswada, we aren’t going there. What the hell? What are you doing Biswada? I don’t know them” Rajat barked.

“Rajat babu. I’m going in. They don’t live here anymore.” Biswada said coldly and proceeded.

Rajat blocked his way now. “Biswada. Ok! Whats going on? Tell me first.”

Biswda sighed, “After Krishna Das and family shifted to Lahore, I was the chief caretaker of this property. I lived here with my family. After my family left, I felt lonely in this place, therefore I left the service, but Krishna Das had trust on me, therefore he let me have the possession of the property. I keep visiting here frequently to see that everything is alright.”

“…and you have got me here to tell me this…?” Rajat felt even more annoyed.

“Definitely not. Rajat babu, please don’t grow impatient. I am telling you everything.” Biswada led Rajat to the verandah. “After my family went away, I felt really lonely for some time. I feel even now, so we made a pact. Whenever my family needs to meet me, I get indications to meet them. On Friday night, I got a dream – I saw my son in this house. Rajat babu, maybe I am chasing a dream, but I believe in it.

The immortal sage

6.

The Himalayas,India

Lord Parashuram called for Gorakshak early. He normally met Gorakshak after his routine chores, and after having discussed spiritual matters with the other sages. Today, however, he was called in the sage’s hut for the first time.

Gorakshak always found Parashurama’s hut a bit larger than the others. He always tried to reason out, but he couldn’t find a satisfactory answer. As he entered the hut today- he got the answers. The sage was taller than all of them – a bigger hut was his need.

He saw the sage standing by the window on the other end of the hut. All he had in his hut was a sleeping mat, some utensils, a pot of water and his battle axe.

“Do I look old, Gorakshak?” Parashuram spoke suddenly.

“Milord?” Gorakshak didn’t know how to answer.

“Do you know my age, Gorakshak?”He repeated in a polite but firm tone.

“ My Lord.” Gorakshak hesitated.

“Don’t worry Gorakshak, tell me.” Parashuram comforted him.

Gorakshak still answered hesitantly, “Sir…. You are immortal!”

Parsashuram laughed mildly.

“That’s what everyone thinks. I will tell you the truth today.” He said.

“I die every two months.” He added.

Lines of  confusion crossed Gorakshak’s face.

“Touch me.” Parashurama said, removing his angavastram.

As Gorakshak  touched him, he felt a different kind of touch. It wasn’t skin. All he could feel was the pressure. It felt as if he had touched water.