Istanbul

Bamiyan, Afghanistan.

Burak sat comfortably on a bench in the Central Park at the Republic Arcade. He liked being here on the weekend mornings. The place was full of life with young people, families, and loners like him spending their free time; either with themselves or with each other.

The guy in front of him lay with his face in the shade of a tree, his arms hoisted in air, uncomfortably; trying to position the book he read, close to his eyes. Burak tried to figure out what the guy was reading, however, despite his proximity to the guy, all his attempts at understanding about the contents of the book were futile.

He had faced this problem since the day he stepped into Bamiyan. People here spoke Persian or Pashto, languages that he knew nothing about. The little amount of English that he had learnt at Jerusalem came to his rescue at the times of dire need. But despite this cripple, he enjoyed the east thoroughly. His host introduced him to the who’s who of Bamiyan, some of whom, he enjoyed interacting with. Of those who had come in his close circle were the present convener, Hakim Baksh; Yasar Yazdi, the chief librarian of the central library of the Farsi University; and Mr.Vinay Kumar, a senior secretary at the India office.

However, his best time was still with himself. He would usually stroll on the bylanes by Khanzada street, where Wazir Khan lived, or move out to the neighboring Republic Arcade, the central and most popular commercial area of the city. He would sit on a bench in the central park and look at the lovely and peaceful life of the city dwellers. He would often thank the almighty for such a delightful place.

As he sat today, looking at the Sultanate Towers from his bench in the central park, this young guy came in his line of vision. He had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. As he lay down, reading an unknown book, it interested Burak to know what he was reading about. As Burak uncomfortably maneuvered to get a glimpse of the book’s title, the boy noticed his impatience. He understood that Burak was interested in knowing what he read.

“Istanbul.” The boy said with a smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes. “I wanna be able to travel there one day! A great city in the west!”

“Like travel?” Burak asked in broken English.

“Say: "travel through the earth and see how Allah did originate creation.”” The boy repeated the verse of Koran and smiled. It felt that the whole life had flashed in front of Burak in moment. These were the very verses that had set him out!

Before he could say any further, Burak’s eyes caught the commotion at the Sultanate Towers at the horizon in front of him. There was a cloud of smoke emerging from one of the buildings. Suddenly, he heard a thud. The arcade on the other side of the road across the park had collapsed among another cloud of smoke. There were shrieks, people ran toward the park. In the meanwhile, there was another blast behind Burak. He turned back and saw the gates of the Samarkand House crumble to ground. People poured in to the park from all directions. Burak soon removed himself to a nearby shed in the park, looking for safety. The guy he was talking to was nowhere in sight. As people poured in, there was another blast. It was in the park this time. There were splatters of blood around him. A dismembered arm came flying and landed right in front of Burak. It held a book in its hand. As the cover flew open, Burak could read the title written in Arabic: ISTANBUL.

The Crematorium

Patiala, India

As they got down at the Baradari Cable-car station, Rajat and Vibhu saw a formidable temple spire across the road.

“That is the Kali temple.” Vibhu pointed out to the white and red color spire.

They descended down to the ground level quickly as Vibhu continued, “We are already a bit late. The temple lamps would be lit by now. If they start the fire ritual, we won’t be able to enter for an hour. They stop the entry.” He continued moving fast as he talked. “ We need to reach there soon.”

As Vibhu descended the lift, he transformed into his true self, a tall and handsome young man. He pulled Rajat by his arms, “Hey, don’t worry, the magic doesn’t work here. I can’t hide myself from the Goddess. Just come fast, we need to go!”

Rajat had a bewildered look on his face. He had never seen a human being transform this way. He wore a puzzled look on his face as both of them rushed to the temple gates.

They had barely managed to enter the sanctum sanctorum when the gates closed behind them. They would’ve missed it by seconds, had they been a bit late!

Just moments after they entered the temple, all the lights went off. It was pitch dark in the temple. In that moment of silence, it felt that the whole universe was closing in on them, entering into an infinitesimally small nothingness. The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of five conches blown together. As the sound faded away into an echo, there was a moment of silence once again. The silence and darkness were both broken by the kettledrums and nine lamps as the fire ritual started. The lamps would be rotated in front of the Goddess as the first prayer of the day. The kettledrums were joined with trumpets, plates and conches to form a mix of greatest tumult and trance that Rajat had ever heard. As the gongs and temple bells added up, the sound became a sound of unison of diverse vibrations. The ritual continued and culminated in closure of the curtains before the deity. Moments before the lights were to be switched on, Rajat felt someone pulling his arm. Before he realized what was happening, Rajat was being led into darkness through a descent. The sounds kept getting farther and farther, till it became pitch dark and silent again. It was warm, and a bit suffocating. He touched the warm hand that held him.

“ Where are we going, Vibhu?” Rajat asked in confusion.

The sound came from behind. “Don’t worry Rajat. We are safe!” The sound wasn’t Vibhu’s. 

As they walked on for some time, Rajat saw a light at the end of the tunnel. As they ascended, the light became too bright for Rajat to bear. As he accommodated his eyes, Rajat found himself standing in front of  a classical red building. Right in front of the building was a red signboard with golden letters carved on it. The board read:

SHAHI SAMAADHAN: THE ROYAL CREMATORIUM

A Travel to the Goddess

Patiala, India

It was an hour to dawn break, but the women of this classical town had woken up already. Some of them had set off for Gurudwaras on foot. The Gurudwaras were alive with the recitation of the Japji. It was calm and solemn. It would remain so for next two hours before the Punjabi vibrancy takes over. The noise and traffic were minimal. A distant sound of chants of Gurudwaras and temple bells mixed with the sound of breeze in the trees. The peace was broken by a solitary vehicle here and there.

Rajat and Vibhu arrived at the Rajpura station on the Sutlej Express. As they crossed over for a helitaxi to the downtown, Rajat imbibed the atmosphere of the place in his mind.

“It feels so different.” He said to Vibhu as the taxi took off. The city was a mix of the traditional and the modern. It had grown as a hub of education, music and fashion. However, its residents actively worked to conserve its culture. People came from around the world and got modified to its culture – enriching its composite culture in that process. Rajat looked down at the urban sprawl. They would be at the Moti Bagh helipad in next ten minutes, whereon they would take a cable car to their destination – Baradari.

The city was founded by Baba Ala Singh – a chief of the Sikh clan of Phulkian who were Siddhu Jatts of the area around Barnala. He had defeated the Mughals and carved a principality that he wished to centre around a new city that he built on the fertile mound close to the Delhi-Lahore highway otherwise known as ‘Patti’. Around the rivultes dominted by what is now called ‘Patiala ki Rao’ or ‘Badi Nadi’, he built a fort that he called the ‘Mubarak’ – the blessed one.

More importantly, it was also the city of her Goddess, Kali…..

To The Mountain of White Flower

The Himalayas, India

Lord Parashurama called Gorakshak early. He usually met Gorakshak after having discussed religious and spiritual methods with the older sages. Parashurama would call him under the large banyan in the courtyard and ask him about his spiritual advancement. An elaborate discussion would ensue that the other sages would often gather to listen. Gorakshak often wondered if he was still in modern times!

Today as the news of an early invitation to Gorakshak spread, the sages started gathering around the Banyan. Today, however, Parashurama wasn’t at the Banyan. He had invited Gorakshak in his own hut.

Gorakshak was excited by the invitation. It was the first time that he would enter the sage’s hut. The hut had always looked a little bigger than the others’. It planted a doubt about the sage’s concept of equality that many secretly shared, but no one asked. Today, however, the doubts resolved as Gorkshak entered the hut. It was almost bare, except a mat, some clothes and his battle axe. It was built higher just to accommodate Parashurama. He was a huge man!

As Gorakshak entered, Parashurama asked him to sit. He was pacing along the small window on the other end of the hut. Gorakshak sat reluctantly.

“Gorakshak! What is my age?” Parashurama had a deep, grave voice.

‘What kind of question is this?’ Gorakshak thought in his mind. He contemplated for a while and answered. “My Lord! You are known to be an immortal”

“Touch me!” Parashuram said.

Gorakshak looked at him. He looked serious about what he said. Gorakshak touched his shoulder mildly. A chill spread through his body. He couldn’t touch Parahurama. He had no skin – all he could feel was a pressure, as if he had touched the surface of water. He withdrew his hands immediately.

Parashurama laughed loudly.

“It isn’t that I’m immortal.  I just don’t live as you do.” He said.

“I immolate myself every two months. This skin of mine is the material belongingness that gathers in these two months. I free myself of all the burdens and roam freely for a month before I build an Ashram – for the benefit of the sages, just to immolate it again.”

Gorakshak was too stunned to respond.

Parashurama continued. “Today is my last day. All the ascetics would leave by the afternoon. By the evening everything you see around you would be in flames. I will set myself free.”

Gorakshak looked around. He couldn’t believe what the sage was saying.

“Where should I go?” An involuntary question of his thought came loud on his lips.

There was a smile on Parashurama’s face. “I want your company Gorakshak! I won’t go alone this time.” He was looking straight into Goraakshak’s eyes.

“I want to purify you for a special journey together.”

Parashurama’s eyes were intense. Gorakshak closed his eyes. He didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t run. The sage was asking him for what the world would consider a suicide.

“Where is the journey to?” He said in a trembling voice.

Parashurama replied in a clear and loud voice.

 “To the mountain of white flower.”