Mountains of the East!

With Shankara at Rishikesh

They sat on the stairs at the ghat of Ganga at Paramarth Niketan, overlooking the ancient Statue of Shiva as it sat on the island in the middle of swiftly flowing Ganga.

“She starts from his locks, and yet years back she devoured him in her tides.” Shankara told Burak, pointing to the Ganga.

He then shifted his gaze at the starry sky above him. “That is the Orion – from where it all started.” He spoke t6o Burak.

“What all?” Burak asked, confused.

“All this around you, whatever you have seen.” Shankara answered.

“I don’t understand.” Burak said.

“The very life that we see now.”  Shankara answered.

“In times immemorial, before the prehistoric, before any human being ever roamed on the face of the earth, there was a cosmic battle. It occurred in the belt of the Hunter as we see it from here.” Shankara pointed towards the Orion. “There lies a higher world there to which we all belong –where we all go after our life – to be born again. That is our seed.”

“Ages back, when ice covered the earth; the vanquished of the war were exiled from the Orion to find their own world. The sages who protected them lived across the skies – headed by the seven most gracious ones. The vanquished approached those sages with a request for refuge. The sages however had another purpose to fulfill. They gave refuge, but on condition that they would leave in two years for the earth. The sages taught them the art of travelling at a speed higher than that of the light – with the speed of mind.

After two years the sages set them off for their new abode. When they reached here, they mixed up with the native life forms to acqire a body, as they were originally, mind bon, as all the cosmic beings. They formed a new species – Homo sapiens.

Some of them went to a higher world and built civilization higher than Orion.  

The seven sages are still our guardian angels who watch us from that dark space between the seven stars. The ones who control the Orion still look for victory and glory – both on earth and the higher planet. They are all mind – bodied except the beings of the earth, therefore their realm of control is mind and the senses. They repeatedly aim at controlling the human minds. That is their battleground.”

“The almighty from whose golden egg everything develops and who holds the world in the balance of his mind intervenes in this game of mind every now and then and enters the realms of the mind to balance out the opposing side whenever one side becomes heavy. The cosmic play continues in many millions of such creations all the time. We think about right and wrong, good and evil; but in reality none of this exists – it is just opposing side of the axis – which has to exist for the very existence of the other side. We are just the pawns in this game of dice, where the turn of the dice decides how much we would move – the only difference is that we have a freedom in deciding the speed of our movement and how high we would jump.”

“Whatever you say seems to make sense.” Burak  said.” But somehow, the brain tells me not to believe in it.”

Shankara smiled, “you have travelled all your life alone, haven’t you?” He asked.

Burak nodded.

“Yes.” He remarked. “It all ended in Mecca.”

“You saw me there?” Shankara asked.

Burak exhibited a sense of mild shock, more than he actually felt there. How does he know?

“You saw many other people there, isn’t it?” Shankara continued. “You were even instructed to go to the eastern mountains.”

Burak nodded silently.

“Look to the north Burak.” Shankara pointed to the snow covered peaks on the horizon. As Burak turned to have a look, Shankara completed his sentence. “Those are the mountains that you were ordained for.”

Burak took a deep sigh. He raised up from the ghat where he sat.  The water of the Ganges made a sweet music in the background. He looked towards the majestic mountains on the north  and their snow covered peaks. He never thought that the fate would take him this far. He looked back. He was talking to a kafir priest. He did not know what was going on, but there was something that was inviting him to the wilderness beyond Rishikesh. Was the seer to be his guide in this journey?

The Transatlantic Meet

The World Parliament of Religions

Chicago, the Central Territories of America

“If there is something that can save the world from its present state of degradation,” he paused for a while and let the words imbibe into the teaming millions who were present there to hear the inaugural address before he resumed, “it is synthesis.”

“We must talk. We must share. We must evolve. We must do it for our future.” He spoke with several pauses as the audience heard aptly. “Our neighbors in east and west have aligned themselves in a way principally different from us. Though, this is not a political platform, but I bring this in because we have a spiritual connection between us. When we in the central territories were talking about a spiritual consensus, our neighbors in the east were talking about a single American identity. This they might have achieved in the area they govern, but, see how flawed their completeness looks with its homogeneity. People are diverse. You cannot ask them to reshape and live, prey and die in the same way. In our west , however, they have given a complete freedom to materialists. They have turned to be like feudal lords. The personal independence should not be so overemphasized that it turns the society into a utilitarian system.” Michael O’Donnell was the Supreme commander of the CTA. A ‘democratic tyrant’ as the world called him. His country saw elections every four years, but the ministry that was elected had to work under his government, and perhaps he had a veto power. He promoted liberal thinking ‘within limits’ that he decided. A seventy years old man – he was running the government since he was thirty. He inherited the throne from his godfather Richard Houston after the latter’s death .As he spoke the finishing line of the inaugural session, people rose at their places, as was the custom and gave a standing applause to the commander. “With such a world in my mind I wish the president elect of the congress His holiness Mr. Narayanaswami, also the head of the Vidyapanthi sect for the success of the programs. With these words I declare the 564^th World Parliament of Religions at Chicago open.”

The board of governors of the parliament thanked the supreme commander and felicitated him before he left. The addresses and the agenda for the meeting followed.

Narayanaswami who was the present president elect was a relatively new face. He emerged two years back from the oblivion and rose to glory. Thousands of people from all walks of life came to him, just as they did to his guru –the late Rajendrananda. He headed the board of governors that comprised of the most influential religious men in the world of all the religions - a body that the world saw with respect in this era of the dying light. His story of rise to fame and glory, however, no one knew. Just as this man rose to speak amidst thunderous applause, another gracious man was rising from his humble bed as the dawn broke around the globe in India.

Old Story of the East

Lahore, India

Burak sat on his rocking chair in the guest house apartment with visual tool on his wrist and audio device in his ears. As he clicked the play button on his book, he heard the sound, “Please close your eyes for the text. You can open your eyes and the text would be paused to restart at the same point when you play again. In case you want to start from the beginning or another page, just say scroll back or scroll forth. Happy reading.”

As he closed his eyes visual images started forming about the text as his imagination fed the visual tool sensors. It started.

“It is a prehistoric text of the subcontinent of India - A text on its rulers, a text of war and a text of peace.”

Images rose in Burak’s mind about huge buildings, wars, brown kings and cities and villages of old. There was tumult and excitement.  The book continued, as did vivid image in Burak’smind.

“When they first wrote it, writing was an art confined only to the Brahmins- elegant and intellectual caste of the Indians. They wrote it with peacock’s feather. The dark and effulgent Krisna  Dwaipayana ,the one who was born on an island in the dark coloured Yamuna; who is also called Vyasa because he divided the eternal  knowledge into various subjects so that it is intelligible by the human minds; wrote this text. No, they say the elephant headed immortal – Ganesha, who is the son of Shiva –the lord of demigods wrote it as Vyasa narrated it, on a condition that when his pen stops he would write no more – and when he stopped, the epic became the largest poem ever written on the earth. It claims that what is here could be found elsewhere, but what is not here is nowhere to be found. This is the history of Prehistoric India, the story of the line of Bharata. It’s called the Mahabharata – The great scions of Bharata.

Burak opened his eyes. The images vanished. He hadn’t asked for the subcontinental history. He called on Mujeeb. “I think we’ve picked up the wrong book Mr.Mujeeb. Its about prehistoric  India. Looks like fables, where there are strange beings.”

Mujeeb gave a short laugh. “Well, Burak. I told you that this is a conditioning text. You need to read this before anything else Be patient and read as I say. I know  what I have given you to read. We’ll discuss about it tomorrow.”

Burak closed his eyes and started with the text again. He slowly got absorbed in the text as it entered his mind in viid imagination till he heard in his mind the sound of  azaan – the call for prayer.

The Lady with the Secrets

Nalash, Patiala, India

 It was evening.

“Rajat, I will not tell you everything. I will take you to someone’s home tonight. We have been here since a long time. You haven’t eaten anything since morning. On our way, I’ll get you some dinner. This place is famous for food-though not the south Indian food that you are used to, but something very different from that. The Jaggi’s is just on our way back, and  the food tastes awesome – that is what I have heard.” Jai smiled at him. “We’ll take a cab, but remember, there’s just one person.”

Rajat laughed. “You aren’t dead Rajat…um…Jai!” He said. “Here we meet- in this way – halfway across the country..” They left the woodlands.

By the sunset, they were in the suburb of Nalash- which was once a village centered on an old Shiva temple. The locals said that if you want to meet Shiva, it can either be at Kailash or at Nalash.  On the 87^th street was a moderate home, where Jai took Rajat. He pressed the doorbell. A lady, seemingly of European decent emerged out.

“Oh my boy!I have been waiting for you!” She said as she opened the gate and led them in.

Rajat felt confused. She led them to the drawing room, where strangely, he saw Vikas.

“Mother, its time for evening prayers.” Vikas said the lady. “The guests shall also join in if they so like.” He added.

Jai and Rajat followed them into a room which was essentially empty except a cupof  burning guggal in the centre that sent up clouds of smoke – making the room fragrant and smoky. In one corner he sawa small  photograph of virginMary. It was all confusingly alien to him.

The woman took up  conch from the floor while Vikas got a huge bell in his hand. She blew the couch loud as Vikas rang the bell rhythmically and broke into Sanskrit chants. Something that reminded Rajat of that night at the crematorium.

Galadha Raktha Mukthavali Khanda Mala,
Maha Gora Raava, Sudamshtra Karala,
Vivasthra Smasanalaya Mukthakesi,
Maha Kala-Kamakulaa Kalikeyam

Wearing a garland of skulls drenched with blood,
Having a fearful form, black in colour with externally projecting teeth,
She is nude and lives in cremation ground with fully untied hair,
And she is Kali busy in love play with the great Lord Shiva.

Rajat felt the vibrations in his mind. They were more intense than ever.  After they finished the prayers, they returned to the drawing room. The woman looked at Rajat.

“I’m Vikas’ mother, Rajat. You can call me Anuradha. I was born Annie though. It doesn’t matter what you call me.” She said.

Rajat nodded his head.

“Well, Jai – your friend might have told you a couple of things. I’m going to tell you a couple of other things, that you must listen attentively.” She continued.

“Your father, the great Rama Uthhappa had an elder brother named Shiva Uthhappa, was; well, to say it mildly – having a psychiatric ailment since he was a child. The treatment was started early, however, the symptoms worsened. By the time, he was thirty two- he had to be confined to a room. Your father was the one taking care of him by now. At NIMHANS, he was admitted on a long term basis and was let out of his room only for two hours in the day and two in the evening in order to walk in the lawns and meet people, and that too under observation. Rukhsaana was a newly admitted Turkish patient, who was probably under chronic depression that was triggered by her traumatic past in the England as a student when she was reportedly defamed by her boyfriend who scandalized a sex session and spread a video involving him and her. Both the patients met each other and surprisingly, since they met- they would long to meet each other all the time. Their symptoms improved as well. The doctors allowed them to meet each other more often and visit each others at their time. That was till the time that it was found out that Rukhsaana was pregnant with Shiv’s baby. The boy was born in the hospital, but sadly, the mother died while giving birth. The father could not endure the loss and lived just a month after her death. The boy was adopted by the brother Rama Uthaappa – your father. That child was you. “

Rajat kept listening attentively.

“ As for Pankaj and Chandrashekharappa – the accountant – they were both killed – by Rama Uthaappa’s men.” She stopped. “Rama is not the man he looks to be.”

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!

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

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.

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.