The Deciet!

7

Rajbaha Woodlands, Patiala

Rajat was suddenly dumbstruck. Both of them were driving in the same car when the accident occurred. They were speeding on the highway when a truck came and hit them head on. The truck driver has been in jail ever since. After returning back, Rajat had visited the jail once, in order to see the face of the savage who killed him. He wasn’t allowed, but he got the photograph of the truck driver. True to his deeds, he indeed looked like a devil in human grab.

Rajat’s conscious mind had forgotten the incident, or at least suppressed it so that he could live with a continuous thought of that moment. He had developed a coping mechanism. It had all started coming back again. He felt his heart rate increase. His arms and legs were trembling, and he felt very weak. A cold sweat ran along his back, sending a shiver down his spine. He felt as if he is going to choke down, and felt like running away somewhere. It had been months now, since he last got such a panic attack. Jai realized suddenly about what he had triggered. He immediately blew a whiff or air on him. It immediately calmed Rajat’s anxiety, and brought him back to a calm state of mind.

“I am sorry Rajat, but that is the truth. You would have to live with it throughout your life. There was perhaps someone who killed us!” Jai said in a tone of consolation.

“I don’t know Jai.” Rajat replied. “I just wanted to share some things with you that day. I thought it would be important to you. God wanted something else, perhaps!”

“Perhaps, he wants me to know.” Jai said.

Rajat started narrating. “I was happy that I had got a job in your father’s office. My data entry work sometimes made me sit for some extra time. The day I talk about, I sat late to complete my work, while everyone else at the office had gone. I had just completed the work, when I saw the chief accountant Chandrashekharappa come in with another man. They were oblivious of the fact that I was there. It was weird for Chandrashekharappa to come there at that hour. He was your father’s loyalist, and could access the office any time, but it was unusual for him to bring some outsider in the office, where one couldn’t even bring a bag without very heavy scrutiny. What amazed me even more was that he took him straight to the accounts chamber and had him access the accounts details of the company! I hid behind the aluminum walls of my chamber, and watched through the glass partition as they made a payment. I was able to click the photograph of the screen as they made the payment. They transferred a huge amount to M/s Night Star Developers. These were probably office innovators. However, when I researched about the company over the internet, I found that it was located at the market block next to my home in Banashankari. Strangely, the address belonged to the bakery from where we bought our bread and cakes.

I went to the bakery in the evening next day. The teller told me that the shop had been here for past 127 years. This increased my curiosity about the Night Star. I returned to their website and called on the number that they had provided. A lady spoke on the other side, and told me that the address on the website was a mistake, and gave me an alternate address, where I visited the next day in the evening ad talked about the possibility of office innovation. They seemed to be nice people.

While returning back home, I saw the same person at the bakery near my house, whom Chandrashekharappa had got into the office. I thought to tell you the whole thing next day. However, that was never to be.” Rajat stopped. Contemplated for a moment, and then remarked.

“Chandrashekharappa was a big cheat!”

Jai smiled and said. “I think it’s now time to meet someone who would tell you all the truth regarding this matter. There are some things that will send a chill down your spine! Be ready to see the new faces of people you know!”

The Secret

6

Patiala, India

“I can’t believe my eyes, and my ears, Rajat!” Rajat said to Jai. He was so used to calling him Rajat, that calling him by his new name seemed unnatural to him.

“I can’t believe that I am talking to you! Over that, when you tell me about immortal sages and hermitages on this earth, it seems that I am visiting an epic.” Rajat continued.

“Yes!” Jai remarked. “Rajat, we are the epic!” He looked deep into Rajat’s eyes, as if he would pierce through them and enter into his soul. Rajat imbibed the intense communication, by closing his eyes, and feeling Jai’s presence through his soul. He know deep inside, that Jai wasn’t lying. A soul cannot lie! It may change forms and perceptions, but it cannot lie. This was Rajat’s soul.

“We can’t be here for long.” Jai interrupted Rajat’s train of thoughts. ”There are too many people around, and a significant amount of them are presently watching you talk to thin air!”

Rajat turned around, and realized that he was on the high platform in the middle of a park in a place where all others were, perhaps, silent and meditating! He saw a couple of people staring at him in a pretty unforgivable manner. He immediately blushed, and looked at Jai, who sat in front of him.

Jai asked him to get up, and just listen to him. Both of them came out of the crematorium and crossed the narrow street to reach a weird wall full of lifts marked “Shahi Samadhaan”. Rajat saw people getting into the lift hastily. He looked up and saw cable cars running in self-drawn cable paths that materialized and vanished into nothing! The sky level was full of cable cars going and coming from different directions. It was an enigma for Rajat since he arrived in the city. He wondered that who controlled the traffic. Rajat and Jai went to the ‘board’ level, where they were presented with a drop down option to choose their destination.

“Take the northern line to Thapar.” Jai remarked. Rajat looked at him.

“Dude, I can’t touch!” Jai said irritatingly. “I am not a human. I’m not taking the car anyways! I would reach much before it. Meet me at the Rajbaha Woodland”  In an instant, Jai was gone!

Rajat took the cable car to Thapar.

Rajbaha Woodlands

In twenty first century, the forest authorities had developed this two kilometer narrow strip of woods besides the shallow Rajbaha canal into a jogging track amidst the untamed nature. Bound by roads on both the sides, it was an unexpected piece of wilderness in the heart of a city. With time, they had introduced small animals, with the monkeys being the first colonizers, however, today, the black bucks often roamed around the roads and neighborhood.  In absence of a predator, their number had once increased a lot. That was the time that they were shifted to nearby deer park and only fifteen black bucks were allowed to be in the woodlands at any time, with only four females.

Jai stood on the gate of the woodlands as Rajat descended the lift at the station.

“This is my home, Rajat.” He said.

“How do you even manage?” Rajat asked as he entered the green and calm woodlands.

“ Rajat, I know now that the accident in which you died wasn’t an accident at all!” Jai suddenly changed the topic.

(To continue tomorrow….)

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 Dawsons

3

Jalandhar, India

Deborah and Thomas had been on the run since they crash-landed in Sind. Even though, Deborah tried to hide her foreign origins, her language, and her body language revealed a lot. She colored her hair black, wore the traditional dress, and spoke very little. People often took her as depressed or otherwise, sick girl. They had escaped Multan through another truck. They reached Bikaner, from where they took a ride to Ludhiana, where they were given some money and food. Someone told them that they would get some help at Suraj Singh’s house in Jalandhar. Suraj Singh was a scion of an old business family of the city, and was known for his help and charity. Both found it to be their best bet in this unknown land. They took the next train to Jalandhar.

An apparently Euro-Indian lady caught Deborah’s accent as she talked to Thomas. She was passing by at the aisle. She suddenly stopped and looked at Deborah. She turned around and took the empty seat opposite them. Deborah and Thomas stopped talking.

Without a moment’s delay the lady suddenly announced. “Midlands? Right?”

Deborah pretended not to have listened.

“Oh! The typical British way of ignoring people. I know it well!” The lady giggled like a mad woman.

Thomas was offended by now. He turned to the lady and said, rather rudely. “You know a little too much about Britain in this foreign land, lady. Don’t you!

“A little too much, my boy!” The lady said, as the wrinkles on her face deepened. She continued in a hushed up voice. “They don’t like you if you know too much.” She giggled between the words, saying, “The Scotland Yard, I mean. They’re full of shit! But who cares, they can’t do a thing to me till I am here.”

“But why would they do something to you in the first place?” Thomas sounded disgusted by now.

“That is beyond your scope lad!” The lady answered loudly. “But I am a free bird here. They can’t get e even if they want.”

“And why do you think so?” Thomas asked.

The lady moved her head side to side as she laughed. “There’s no extradition treaty.” She said.

Thomas’ brow rose involuntarily as he heard this. He gave a subtle look at Deborah. She seemed relaxed for the first time. Before they could make sense of what they had just heard, the lady turned towards Deborah and snapped roughly at her, “Where in the Midlands are you from, girl?”

“Coventry.” The words escaped from Deborah’s mouth suddenly. She could just regret, what she had let out!

“Oh, Coventry, a shitty place that is.” The woman said loudly, as Deborah’s face turned red in anger. Before she could respond, the lady spoke up again in her shrill voice. “ My daughter was unhappily married there, till they killed her.”

The lady continued unabated. “ Those scoundrels used her for political mileage, and when she knew too much, they killed her. They continuously kept her on sedatives and psychotropic drugs..” She broke down into sobs.

Deborah’s heart melted. She held her hand and tried to comfort her. “Were they political people?” She asked.

The lady just nodded in response, between the sobs.

“I won’t ask you who they were, bur whatever they…” Before Deborah could finish, the lady gave her the most shocking answer that she could’ve ever expected to hear.

“The Dawsons.” 

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

A Travel to the Goddess

Patiala, India

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

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

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

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

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

To The Mountain of White Flower

The Himalayas, India

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch me!” Parashuram said.

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

Parashurama laughed loudly.

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

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

Gorakshak was too stunned to respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Parashurama replied in a clear and loud voice.

 “To the mountain of white flower.”

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.