A shelter in the snow

At Himavant

The unknown effort, as well as the time lapse between their dive into the Ganges, and their arrival at Himavant had left both Shankara and Burak exhausted. The fruit of the skies invigorated them, and at the same time, made them drowsy as well. They had just rested their backs on the rock by the side of the blue Ganges, that they dozed off to the realms of sleep, to be woken-up only in the evening, by the distant tinkling of bells, as if from the small tinklets tied on the neck of the cows.

Cows? There would be no cows here; maybe just the yaks. They would use the Yaks as the cows, maybe.

The sun was setting over the mountains behind the Ganges. It was just these folds of the earth everywhere around them. Visible in layers over layers, towering over one another. Burak turned around to Shankara.

‘There must be some humans there as well.’

‘Yes, let us see. We need to move and find a shelter soon, or the night would kill us of its cold even if the wild animals don’t hunt us.’ Shankara answered.

Both got up and turned around to the sounds. The tinkling was not from the vicinity, but from a far off place. As they moved on, the sounds got a tad louder each moment. These were not the tinklets on the necks of the cows, but actually the bells. They kept moving to the direction of the sound, until, in the midway, the sound just stopped all of a sudden. Among the mountains, they weren’t even sure, from which direction the sound came, now they were left entirely clueless.

‘ Let us just walk straight. Let us hope we reach somewhere.’ Shankara said with a sigh.

They walked ahead on the snowy track as it started getting darker. It would be night in another hour. As they walked, they hit a summit and saw a valley down the peak. Burak turned around to look at the expanse around him. The sky was crisp and the air was fresh. A sight suddenly caught Burak’s eyes. A little down the peak, there was a wooden structure. He quickly turned to Shankara, who faced onto the other direction, and patted his back. As Shankara turned around, Burak pointed his finger towards the building. Shankara’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he spontaneously fell on his knees in prostration towards the structure. As Burak looked ahead, he saw a man appear on the way to the structure, and as Shankara went down in prostration, the man faced the building and went into a sajdah. Shankara, got up and pulled Burak’s arm to take him ahead, as Burak watched the man in green robes go down into sajdah again. By all means he was into the namaz, except that he faced opposite to the quiblah.

Becoming Immortal!

5

The Himalayas

All the mortals had deserted the hermitage by the afternoon. The only ones left were Parashurama and Gorakshak. It was a long afternoon, and Gorakshak lay in his hut; thinking of all that had passed.

His birth in Nepal as a scion of a rich family was the only aberration in his otherwise perfect life. As a child, all the love, attention, and comforts that he got, made him feel suffocated. He always felt as if he was living someone else’s life. It wasn’t until he first met the wandering ascetic Matsyendrak at a Shiva temple that he felt at peace. Gorakshak immediately ran to him and asked him.

“Why does it feel that someone has relieved my pain all at once?” The words were fresh in his mind to this day.

Matsyendrak had laughed and pronounced a syllable in Gorakshak’s ear: “Hroum…..”

Within a second, the whole universe seemed to dissolve for Gorakshak. It felt as if the whole world around him had spun into nullity. The next thing that he remembers was waking up in his mother’s lap. She just asked him to visit her twice every year, which he did religiously till she lived. For rest of the time, he was with Matsyendrak; wandering around the world, and learning hatha yoga from him. By the age of 18, Gorakshak had attained the level of Yoga that Matsyendrak could attain in 40 years. One day, Matyendrak asked him to take care of the hermitage, and went away, never to return.

Gorakshak always knew that there was an important purpose for him, but today seemed to be an anticlimax to his life. For the first time in his life, Gorakshak felt scared. Not of his death, but a life of unfulfilled purpose. He tried to repose his faith in Lord Parashurama, but the last yogic hurdle that he had to cross, posed a huge problem for him.

Late in the afternoon, he heard Lord Parashurama sing the Kathopanishad conversation between Nachiketa, and Yama – the lord of death. The primal human conversation about death made Gorakshak anxious. As he came out of his hut, Lord Parashurama was completing the wick for the large lamp that he used daily for the lamp ritual. He asked Gorakshak to fill the lamp with clarified butter. The slanting rays from the sun, as it appeared dipping over the Asta Mountains of the west casted long shadows amidst rusted reflections in water. It was the time for lighting the lamp.

Lord Parashurama indicated Gorakshak to pick up the big Damaru drums as he himself held the big bell in his left hand and the lighted lamp in the right. He started waving the lamp, as he rang the bell and Gorakshak played the drum by vigorously turning them up and down. The hymn today was different; it was for Kali than for Shiva like in the usual days.

He entered his hut, and among chants and pandemonium of the bell and drums, he held the lightened lamp high, and let the fire touch the straw roof. The straw caught fire immediately. He then moved to the next hut and repeated the actions till all the huts were on fire. He asked Gorakshak to dip the ends of his angavastram cloth into the lamp. After Gorakshak did that, he did the same with his angavastram. As Gorakshak’s clothes caught fire, he tried to throw the burning cloth away, but Lord Parashurama held it and tied a knot of the cloth around his waist. Gorakshak was wincing in pain now! Parashurama held Gorakshak’s arm tight and took him into his burning hut. Gorakshak screamed, and tried to escape, but Parashuram’s grip was too strong. Gorakshak felt his body burning. It was the pain of a thousand cuts, all at once. If there was a hell in this universe, it was this! As Gorakshak cried in pain, he sensed his skin melting like candle wax. It had become difficult to breathe, As he choked on smoke and fire, he saw Matsyendrak come to him and pronounce a syllable in his ears: “Hroum…”

Everything reverberated into that sound, and for a moment, everything froze in time. The next moment Gorakshak could sense was that Lord Parashurama was sitting in front of him in a meditative lotus position. He was blue color of the flame! He his arms, and legs. They were the same blue color as lord Parashurama.

Gorakshak couldn’t feel the heat anymore! The fire had probably purified him. He felt light and happy! All he could hear around was the sound of fire in the wood. It was a soothing music. He heard Lord Parashuram sing the first verse from Rigveda.

अग्निमीळे पुरोहितं यज्ञस्य देवमृत्विजम् । होतारं रत्नधातमम् ॥

I praise the fire, which completes and heads the divine ritual of life, and manifests the fulfillment of desires. (Rigveda 1.1.1)

He sat beside lord Parashurama, and among the burning fire and slipped into deep meditation. He was an immortal now!

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.

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.

Deborah's Pain

7

Deborah's Residence, London

“I hope I’ll get some time to prepare some notes before I leave for the supper.

Thomas said, breaking the silence.

“The supper is ready reverend. Have it here!” Deborah said with a mild smile.

“Thanks. That would be so kind of you.” Thomas answered.

“Great, I’ll be back.” Deborah replied with as she disappeared into the kitchen.

 She was back in a short while with the supper. “Its modest reverend - Shepherd’s Pie with bread and port wine from Portugal.”

“That’s excellent Deborah.” Thomas replied.

Both of them sat for the supper and talked about anything under the sun, or above it till Deborah mentioned:

“The last supper.”

Thomas stopped for a moment.

“Bread and wine.” Deborah mentioned.

“Shepherd’s pie.” Thomas said, and both laughed.

They finished the supper. Thomas sat on the sofa with his notebook to make some notes about the cases. Deborah went in the kitchen

There was a shriek.

“Deborah!”

“Deborah is it you?”

Thomas heard a swooshing as if it were a sound of a whip hitting the skin. There were more shrieks and moans. The sounds were clearly from the kitchen. He rushed there.

The skin of Deborah’s back was torn in tiny shreds – white fascia showing underneath it. Drops of blood were running down her back. Thomas ran towards her, shouting – “Deborah!”

There was a thud – he saw himself pushed away by an invisible force. There was a sound of an invisible whip and as the whip touched Deborah’s back. He saw a mark of nine lashes, and soon shreds of flesh came out of her back, and then there was more blood.

Thomas ran out towards the door calling the police. As the officer in-charge entered, he could hear a multitude of loud moans from the kitchen – in voices of both men and women. The lashes continued.

Thomas called the ambulance. He went to the kitchen again. He saw the officer lying unconscious and Deborah lying in a pool of blood. She tried to stand up, and again there was a lash and she fell down.

“Oh God! The Devil!” Thomas cried and ran to the living room where the cross was kept. He took the cross and holy water from this bag and ran towards Deborah.

Deborah was standing bent forward with her hands up like she was carrying some invisible load on her back. She started moving – tears of blood coming out of her eyes.

In the Name of the Father, 

and of the Son, 

and of the Holy Ghost. 

Amen. 

Thomas started praying.

Most glorious Prince of the Heavenly Armies, 

Saint Michael the Archangel, 

defend us in "our battle against principalities and powers, 

against the rulers of this world of darkness, 

against the spirits of wickedness in the high places"

Come to the assistance of men whom God has created to His likeness 

and whom He has redeemed at a great price from the tyranny of the devil. 

The Holy Church venerates you as her guardian and protector; 

to you, the Lord has entrusted the souls of the redeemed to be led into heaven. 

Pray therefore the God of Peace to crush Satan beneath our feet, 

that he may no longer retain men captive and do injury to the Church. 

Offer our prayers to the Most High, 

that without delay they may draw His mercy down upon us; 

take hold of "the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan," 

bind him and cast him into the bottomless pit 

"that he may no longer seduce the nations.

In the Name of Jesus Christ, 

our God and Lord, 

strengthened by the intercession of the Immaculate Virgin Mary, 

Mother of God, 

of Blessed Michael the Archangel, 

of the Blessed Apostles Peter and Paul and all the Saints. 

and powerful in the holy authority of our ministry,

we confidently undertake to repulse the attacks and deceits of the devil. 

He sprinkled holy water on Deborah.

Out of great astonishment, he saw that where the water touched the skin – the wounds healed immediately. It wasn’t the devil!

 As Deborah moved out of the kitchen – Thomas could well understand that Deborah was not possessed by the Devil, she was possessed by the God! She was carrying the cross on her back.

Thomas switched on his chip set on recording mode as she went to the living room. She fell down. Thomas knew that he couldn’t help her. He just sprinkled some holy water in the name of the god. 

Deborah fell down on the floor. She turned – as though picked up by someone. There was a sound of clinking of iron as if someone had stuck iron nail with a hammer – and then a loud cry and shivering in great pain. Blood flowed from Deborah’s right palm – as though someone nailed her palm.

The Ambulance was at the door.

End of an era

Bamiyan

It was the year of power transfer. The Bamiyan Assembly held an election every four years in which the general public elected its representatives. The assembly had two limbs – the residential corporation and the commercial corporation. The residential corporation was elected by the people based on the geographical locations. Each location had a member who took care of the interests of the residents. The commercial corporation was elected by the trade guilds based on various registered professions. The trade guilds were elected by the professionals. The main work of the commercial corporation was regulation of the professions. Elected members of the residential corporation were simply called corporators, who were headed by a mayor, while those of the commercial corporation were called ministers. The ministers were headed by the chancellor. The mayor and the chancellor were integrated by the Convener of the assembly. The mayor, chancellor and the convener made the board of the governors, who also took care of the home office, the treasury, and the external affairs respectively. A shadow government was, likewise, made to represent the minority voice in the assembly. The shadow assembly had half the vote of the actual assembly. Every resolution was passed on a three fourth majority. As a result a second choice poll was usually conducted.

 

In the Grand Hall which was the office of the Convener of Bamiyan Assembly, Wazir Ali Khan signed on the sheet of parchment with his traditional fountain pen. As he ended his signatures with a dot, he broke the nib.

As was the tradition, the last sermon; as the law was called in Bamiyan, would be issued by the Convener in the Grand hall in presence of the mayor, the shadow mayor, the chancellor and the shadow chancellor. Over a period of time, the Conveners had made another unwritten rule of breaking the nib on the last sign.  

“Indeed, this era would be written in golden words in the history of Bamiyan.” Muzammil Hussain said holding Wazir’s hands, kissing them, and touching them on his eyes.

“Definitely sir! You make us proud.” The other voices added. There was an overwhelming atmosphere in the hall.

Wazir Ali smiled gently, took a seal out of his drawer and put it under his signatures. The seal bore the emblem of Afghanistan and under it was written:

W. A. Khan

Convener, Bamiyan Assembly

The sermon pronounced the dissolution of the Assembly and passage of all the powers to the chair of the highest power - ceremonial chair of the god kept under the golden dome in the central hall of the assembly. The chair would, thereafter, bestow the powers to the peoples’ representatives after elections. He passed the parchment over to his clerk. The clerk would later broadcast it and digitalize it for its use for all practical purposes. As for the parchment – it would be laminated and kept in the Assembly Achieves like all other sermons.

Wazir Khan folded his spectacles into his case. His Durban took hold of the case and followed him. As he moved on to the corridors, his staff had gathered on both the sides to see him off. He had been there for eight years – two consecutive terms. He had denied contesting for the third time.

Wazir took the stairway at his right that led to the central hall and stood before the chair of the highest power. He closed his eyes and said:

“Allah! Let there be prosperity and peace!”

All the people repeated the phrase. The only difference was that everyone prayed to his own god. The Chair of the hisghest Power was the place where the god sat – the one god, called by innumerable names. He protected the city and the world through ages. In this age of decline – Bamiyan was verily a heaven.

Wazir Khan left the building through the northern stairway that led straight to the Republic Street. People had gathered at the Assembly Square to see Wazir Khan leave the office. He was, perhaps, the most popular face in Afghanistan, and one of the world’s most important persons.  Just as Khan came out of the high door, there was a massive applause from the people at the square. Khan waved at them shortly and then descended the stairs onto the official wagon waiting to drop him home for the last time. He sat on his wagon and took a sigh. His work wasn’t over as yet, though.

The Ritual

In the afternoon, Vibhu handed Rajat over to Rudra. Since then, Rajat and Rudra had been together. Rajat had obediently listened to Rudra all this time. He never tried to escape as other people would have done!

 He somehow had nothing left to live for anymore after Pankaj’s death. Both were together, when his car crashed. He couldn’t overcome the guilt that it all happened due to his negligence.

He ought to have died, not Pankaj! Maybe whatever was happening to him was the way nature corrected its mistakes. This was his redemption.

He, however, told Rudra once while they sat together for lunch – “you are in an illusion brother! You’re on the side of the devil. You will have to suffer.”

Rudra answered back calmly – “you are wrong. You will realize it later.” Rajat never answered back.

Now that they were in the crematorium, things happened in a really traditional way. Rajat was first taken to Pankaj’s cremation table. He was shocked to see that Pankaj’s ashes were there. They were missing when he last saw them in the morning!

Rudra laughed at Rajat’s expressions – “This is the truth, Rajat. What you saw in the morning was an illusion. It was all created by the child you met in the morning. Even that child was an illusion. Here he is! Rajat, meet Vibhu” He said introducing Rajat to a young man standing on the other side of the table.

Rudra continued.” He will be your friend in your afterlife.” Rajat heard what Rudra said, trying to absorb all that was happening around him as Rudra continued, “Now, your main work will be to pick the ashes and mix it with the sacrificial powder.”

Rajat felt spellbound to do as Rudra instructed. He could have run, but he didn’t want to, something had stoppedhis entire thought process. Rajat slowly collected Pankaj’s ashes and mixed it with the sacrificial powder amidst invocations and chants. As the chants continued. Rajat was stripped naked and bathed with honey, milk, water and liquor. He was finally taken to the alter.

Vikas invoked the holy fire of the night and increased it by pouring clarified butter. It was midnight. The fire would go on till sunrise. There were more invocations, more chants and finally the sacrificial offerings started with sacrificial powder mixed in Pankaj’s ashes. Each offering had an explosive effect on the fire.

As the darkness deepened, Vikas stood up and amidst invocations, took a sickle shaped sword, and ran towards Rajat. In a single blow, he decapitated Rajat entirely. Rajat's head toppled off his body and rolled over near the pit of sacrificial fire. Blood poured out of his throat and soaked his whole body red. Rudra and others started the dismemberment of his limbs quickly afterwards.

The Crying Child

Friday Morning 10:00 AM

BANNERGHATTA CREMATORIUM, Bangalore

People were grieving as the button was pressed and the dead body heated to intense red and turned into flames. There was a tremendous uproar. Ladies of the house were crying insane. It was the sound of death. It tears the heart and the soul in its merciless music.

 The melody of death was the favorite music for Vibhu’s ears. He stood there – in the form of a child – a young boy at it – watching the proceedings calmly. He haunted the crematoria as a crying child – filling the heart of the survivors with the sadness of death.

Just as the attendance to the funeral attrited , Rajat left the mourning family. He was among the last ones to leave as he was so close to the deceased. As he took the turn towards the lawns that lead to the parking outside the crematorium gates – he heard a squeal. The saddest and the most painful one he had ever heard. It resonated with a great loss. It resonated with emptiness and longing which can never be fulfilled - a wail that would invoke sympathy even in the hearts of the most merciless people. The wind was in the trees. It was a beautiful day. He turned around and saw the most beautiful and yet the saddest face of a boy he had ever seen. Fair, but pale, with red lips and black hair. He wore white kurta- pyjama. His mourning seemed complete.

An instant sense of sadness at the loss of the boy filled Rajat’s heart with extreme sympathy. He approached him and sat down on the ground on his knees facing the boy. He gently wiped the boy’s tears and amidst his sobs, he asked him, “Don’t cry my child. Where are your parents? Why are you alone?”

The boy had a white rose in his hand. He asked Rajat, “Was he your brother?” He was still sobbing.

Rajat answered, “He was my friend - a really close friend.”

“It’s so sad.” The boy said and burst into a sad squeal.

Rajat was a bit confused. Was he from the family? But then why was he alone? He asked, “You know him?”

The boy moved his head in denial.

“Then why are you crying for him?” Rajat asked. He was really confused by now.

“He will never find peace……” the boy burst into the saddest cry. “ He will never be able to cross to the other side.”

Rajat’s face turned white. The words reverberated in his mind. He looked like a dead man already. His hands turned cold. His speech stopped.

“This is your friend’s flower. I’ll take him with me.”

He remembered that a dead man’s flower is his ashes.

He ran off stumbling and falling a little distance away. He heard the boy’s words. “Its so sad. I’ll take you too. I cry for you as well.” And then burst into a loud crackling cry. The cry filled Rajat’s heart with absolute sadness. He stopped running and stood still. He didn’t want to live anymore.

The boy came over to him and gently took his hand. He led him to cremation table where his friend lay minutes back. The family was gone. There were no ashes there.