The Fortune Teller

8

On The Train to Jalandhar

“What are you here for?” The lady asked Deborah abruptly. Her sobs and sobriety had drowned down in a wink. She returned as her usual irritating self, as if, from a fit of normalcy.

Deborah and Thomas were yet to recover from their brief moment of shock, and were quite unprepared for this question. The woman, however, didn’t wait for an answer, but barked out in her hoarse stupid, and shrill voice, “Oh, you haven’t come here all the way for a honeymoon?” She stared at Deborah from top to bottom, as if trying to examine something on her body, then she looked at Thomas, and said in a tone that resembled a mad woman. “ Nooo.. You don’t look like that.” She giggled like a little girl, and said, “ I am sorry. I was just wondering.” Thomas just rolled her eyes in disgust as she continued with her interrogation. “What are you here for, young lady?”

Deborah answered in a quick outburst as she had revealed her origins earlier. Only, this time, for Thomas’ relief, she didn’t reveal everything out. “Work.”, was all she said, and then, she got silent.

“What do you do?” The lady asked a quick question.

Deborah had started gathering her wits by now. She had already thought of the reply before the lady completed her question. “What do you do? Why don’t you tell us first?”

The lady smiled. “In this foreign land, I met people who adopted me. They left me with a skill that would never part from me. I have made a fortune from it.” She answered.

“What skill is it?” Thomas jumped in. He wouldn’t let Deborah speak anymore lest she gave up any other crucial information to the lady.

“I read fortunes and tell people about their future,” The lady answered.

“The crystal ball or something?” Deborah seemed interested.

“More accurate than that.” The lady answered. “Here, show me your hand.”

Deborah stretched her hand in front of her.

The lady read the hand for a moment, and then looked at her with strange eyes, as though reading from her face.

“A life full of agony and struggle, is it not? You lost your parents young, and went out for studies.” She said. “You have lost four of your loved ones, one of them pretty recently.”  She continued. ”You are running from someone.” Deborah kept quiet, however, the lady continued unabated. “Times are good now. You are blessed. Long journeys await you. You don’t have any idea, lady, what you will do will change the world.”

The lady contemplated for a moment, and then spoke again. “What are you here for, lady?”

“Well I am a historian, just came here on a sabbatical.” Deborah concealed the truth cunningly.

“Stay with me, both of you. We have long journeys to make together. I can see it clearly now. the mountain by the Emerald Lake. This was the time that all of us were waiting for.” Her voice seemed deep and genuine by now.

“You aren’t here on a sabbatical, girl. You and this priest are here because you were touched by the God!” She grew silent and closed her eyes.

ego Deus gratias ago tibi, et laudamus te

Thomas could briefly hear her say in her lips as she sat with closed eyes.

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 enemy within!

4

P-82, East of Kailash, New Delhi

India

The home was rented in the name of Mr. Ranjit Singh of Mohalla Malkana, Kapurthala. The man did not exist, except on the passport. The young man who stayed there was Colonel Amarjit Bakshi of Military Engineering Services. He had taken a premature retirement from the services to start his own firm. However, just like his passport, his firm was fake too. The firm he was actually running was the communication interception department of the Research and Analysis Wing for Northern Afghanistan.

He moved out from his home and walked down the street towards Nehru Place. It was peak hour and it was difficult to drive, even for a kilometer in this heavy traffic. He took the turn towards Satyam, and mindlessly wondered into the busy technical market before entering a great rusty tower. He pushed the door of the office at 38^th Floor – R R Lalchandani & Associates. The receptionist escorted him to a chamber, deep into the office area. The man on the other side of the table was a man in his early 50s. A Sikh with an impeccable turban and well groomed beard.

Bakshi presented a small, black box to the gentleman. “This is all the information about the blasts sir.”

The man took over the box, inspected it closely, and then tossed it away casually. Bakshi looked at him with shock.

The man rose from the chair.

Major General Virender Sekhon was a tall man at 6 feet 5. However, in the army circles, he was better known for his tall ethics and remarkable work culture than his height. At 56, he was the chief commanding officer of the communication cell of MES, and worked for the RAW as the head of communications for Asia.

“Bakshi, you’re young, and I want to tell you one thing before you grow up as an irresponsible officer; and that is to use your brain.” Sekhon said calmly and yet firmly.

He continued, as Bakshi listened with his head hung down in shame. 

“This institute is respected by our enemies, not because we use technology, but because we use brains, and looking at this box, I can only say that it originated from Uzbekistan. The question is that why would someone give you a black box obtained from Uzbek intelligence, until it is fake?”

Bakshi’s eyebrows rose involuntarily for a moment as Sekhon spoke the last part. He seemed to be in a thought. Sekhon patted on his shoulder and said again, “ Leave the blast out for now, my boy! Find the traitor in our team first!”

The Light from the East

2

Bamiyan, Afghanistan

It was evening when Burak regained consciousness. He was at Wazir’s house. As he tried to sit, Wazir helped him straighten-up and recline on the pillows behind him.

“Thank god, you are fine!” Wazir said, as he sat back on chair beside the bed.

“He is great!” Burak replied.

“Perhaps, not for six thousand other people who couldn’t make it to their homes.” Wazir had a remorseful look on his face.

“…including the young guy who wanted to travel to Istanbul…” Burak added. He had a look of contemplation. His life was shaken. For a moment he had felt as if it was the apocalypse.

“Who did it?” Burak asked.

Wazir still had the remorseful look. He thought for a moment and answered. “You never know who could it be. Maybe the Chinese, Russians. Maybe, the Indians or the Arabs. Maybe the Iranians or the Jews. It could be the Americans or the Europeans. It could be anyone.”

“But why would anyone do it?” Burak seemed confused.

Wazir gave a slight smile. “It is a tough question to answer.” He moved toward the window and looked out at the Khanzada Street below, as he continued. “This country has a turbulent past. If you want to know the roots of the blast, you would have to know what happened here is last 4000 years. Only then can you make sense of it.”

Burak nodded in affirmation, but quietly, he had made up his mind to meet his friend Yasser Yazdi, the librarian of the Farsi University.

The Farsi Library, Bamiyan

Next day

Burak reached the University library early in the morning. Yasser listened to his request. He thoughtfully browsed through the catalogue, and answered. “Mr. Burak, we have a great collection here, but none of the books is in Turkish.”

“How would I get one then?” Burak asked.

Yasser smiled.

“Dr. Ahmed Mujeeb.” He said. “He is the head of History at Punjab University at Lahore. The department has a great collection of History books in Turkish.  As far as I know, there is a history course on Afghan history with Turkish option.”

“Great!” Burak smiled. “Where is Punjab University?”

“In India.” Yasser answered. “ I know the chief librarian Mr. Ravi Verma really well. I can talk to him for the course if you like.”

Burak smiled…..

By next week he was ready to move to India. Wazir Khan funded him for the course and stay.

4.1 A call for change!

Chapter 4

The Roll of the Dice

1.

The Royal Crematorium, Patiala, India

Life seemed to have become a run from temples to crematoria for Rajat. It sometimes left him confused and puzzled. He often thought about what lay in store for him? Was it a blessing for him or a lifelong liability?

Today, as he stood in front of a strange crematorium, in a strange city, all he could think of was the probable purpose of him being sent here? He thought of everything that had happened to him since that accident in Bangalore. He sometimes thought that he had become delusional. But this was more than just delusions. Everything that happened had really happened. The accident followed by the death, the relocation to Kolkata, meeting Biswada, and now this. Everything seemed so surreal.

As he was lost in his thoughts, Rajat saw a group of familiar faces in front of him. Faces he could recognize. As his eyes moved from one face to another, his mind recollected their names one by one – Vikas, Tara, Trishna, Rudra, and with them wasVibhu. Rajat stepped back, but then charged at Vikas with sudden rage.

“You bastard! You threw me outside a crematorium in somebody’s body.” Rajat yelled, as he remembered his past.

Vikas calmed him by touching his head with a spell. He said to Rajat slowly. “It was my duty to do what I did. The difference was that I didn’t know the purpose of what I was doing then. I know what I have done now, and why I am doing it.”

As Rajat normalized from the short spell, he asked in a rather feeble voice. “What amount did you get for all this?”

“That time it was actually a lot!” Vikas answered, “but now, I don’t work for money anymore. I realized the futility of it all.”

“Then, why you’ve got me here today? Whom do you work for now?” Vikas asked in a tone of scornful insult.

“Let us get in Rajat,” Vikas said pointing towards the gates of crematorium. “I work for the kids who asked you to come here.”

Rajat looked at Vikas with contempt as both of them walked into the old arched gateway. Others followed them soon after.

Shahi Samadhan was, perhaps, the world’s only crematorium that doubled up as a tourist spot. Its gardens and domed funeral places gave it an air of royal retreat, rather than crematorium. The memorials, or ‘samadhis’ of the royals dotted the beautifully landscaped gardens, lined by shady trees, and flowering plants. It was open to the public, except on the days when it was booked by the royals and old households of the city for funeral. That was the time when it converted into a mourning retreat from a tourist spot. The solemnness of the place was still evident from the fact that there was a temple right close to the entrance, and right in the middle of the funeral grounds was a huge marble platform, covered by marble arches. The place was silent and calm. People meditated, sitting on the marble floor there.

“They want me to help you meet someone here.” Vikas said, as both of them moved towards the central platform. “Let us sit here till he arrives.” He said leading Rajat towards the meditation area.

As both of them sat on the marble floor, Vikas closed his eyes, and soon wandered off into meditative bliss, till he felt a cool and fragrant whiff of air on his face. It suddenly made him happy from inside. He slowly opened his eyes to see another himself sitting in front of him. Only that it was not a body. It was the true Rajat. Not the Pankaj-in-Rajat. It was Rajat’s soul. It smiled and said in a flowery voice in the language of the trees. “They call me Jai these days, for I won the battle from the death.”

Rajat just kept looking at his closest friend. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Jai consoled him in his flowery voice, taking away all the sadness and guilt from Rajat’s mind.

“Don’t worry Rajat, I am perfect. I am happier than I ever was in your body. I don’t feel any pain, any anger, sorrow, hunger or thirst. My friend in the afterlife is with me. Vibhu feels all that I should. But, all I can do is pray for him.”

He continued in his flowery tongue “I live among the trees as the air between their leaves. I dwell among the woods at the Rajbaha woodlands, not far from here. I indicated the Kumars on my willingness to meet you.”

Jai continued. “I just returned from the Himavant. Lord Parashuram burnt his abode and his body yesterday evening. When he moved north to the transhimalayas, I knew that the time for calling you had come. It is the time to get ready for the change!”

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

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.”

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.