Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Read online

  Published by Vineet Bajpai in 2017

  Copyright © Vineet Bajpai, 2017

  All Rights Reserved

  Vineet Bajpai asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this book.

  This is a work of pure fiction. Names, characters, places, institutions and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of any kind to any actual person living or dead, events and places is entirely coincidental. The publisher and the author will not be responsible for any action taken by a reader based on the content of this book. This work does not aim to hurt the sentiment of any religion, class, sect, region, nationality or gender.

  HARAPPA

  CURSE OF THE BLOOD RIVER

  ISBN : 9789352685486

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser and without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, physical, scanned, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except in the case of brief quotations (not exceeding 200 words) embodied in critical articles or reviews with appropriate citations.

  Published by

  Vineet Bajpai

  Sector 93A, Noida,

  Uttar Pradesh - 201304, India

  Email - [email protected]

  www.VineetBajpai.com

  Printed and Bound in India by

  Gopsons Papers Ltd.

  A-2 Sector 64, Noida - 201307, India

  Cover Design by

  Munisha Nanda

  To the one and only,

  Munisha

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Disclaimer

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Delhi, 2017 : VIDYUT

  Paris, 2017 : ‘KILL THAT BLOODY ARYAN-BOY.’

  Banaras, 2017 : KASHI: THE ANCIENT CITY

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE LAST DEVTA

  Banaras, 2017 : ROMI PEREIRA

  Banaras, 2017 : ‘NOBODY MISSED YOU…?’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : SAPTARISHI

  Banaras, 2017 : THE DYING BRAHMIN CHIEFTAIN

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : SHAV-SAADHANA

  Banaras, 2017 : MANKIND’S GREATEST UNTRUTH – PART 1

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : PRALAY

  Banaras & Somewhere in the Swiss alps, 2017 : ‘HE CANNOT BE KILLED.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : HOW CAN A MOTHER LET THIS HAPPEN?

  Banaras, 2017 : ‘I’M HALF-HUMAN, HALF-GOD.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : MOUNTAINS OF BRICK AND BRONZE

  Goa (16th Century) : THE DARKEST CRUSADE

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : NAYANTARA

  Banaras, 2017 : NAINA

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : SIN LIKE A HUMAN. REPENT LIKE A GOD.

  Banaras, 2017 : MANKIND’S GREATEST UNTRUTH – PART II

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : MURDER

  Banaras, 2017 : MANKIND’S GREATEST UNTRUTH – PART III

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : MAD-MEN AND ZOMBIES

  Banaras, 2017 : ‘YOU AND ME.

  HERE AND NOW.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE FALLEN DEVTA

  Banaras, 2017 : ‘WE’RE FIGHTING FOR ONE THOUSAND YEARS.’

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE PRINCESS OF MOHENJO-DARO

  Banaras, 2017 : DAMINI

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE FIRST KING OF HARAPPA

  Banaras, 2017 : ARDHAANGINI

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : MRIT KAARAAVAAS

  Banaras, 2017 : TRAITOR!

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE DAGGER OF BETRAYAL

  Banaras, 2017 : THE GREAT VEDIC CIVILIZATION

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : PRATISHODH

  Banaras, 2017 : THE LAST SAPTARISHI

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE MIDNIGHT RAID

  Banaras, 2017 : SANKAT MOCHAN

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : MANU

  Banaras, 2017 : RISE OF THE DEVTA

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE SCION OF THE DEVTA

  Banaras, 2017 : THE TAANTRIC FUNERAL

  Harappa, 1700 BCE : THE GREAT BLOOD BATH

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  At the outset, I would like to thank my closest companions that have made Harappa possible – books. Yes, you read that right. Books.

  It has been possible to envision a tale as expansive as Harappa only because of the continuous and incremental learning I have received from the hundreds of books that I have had by my side over the years. I would like to thank all those magnificent authors who have made this world a better place with their passionate imagination and intense hard work.

  While the number is too high to name each one of those luminaries, I have to specifically thank a few here. Diana L. Eck for her profound book Banaras City of Light. William Dalrymple for all his splendid work. Robert E Svoboda for his brilliant book Aghora: At the Left Hand of God. And to many, many other brilliant writers whose writing style has, no doubt, had a rub-off effect on mine - Gregory David Roberts, Dan Brown, Ashwin Sanghi, Arun Shourie, Holger Kersten…thank you all. Learnings from all of the above illustrious writers will find a reflection in Harappa. Or so I hope.

  There are several fine institutions that I have been associated with over the last three decades, and I feel compelled to thank each one of them. Air Force Bal Bharati School, Hansraj College, Delhi University, Lal Bahadur Shastri Institute of Management, GE Capital, Magnon Group, TBWA, eg+ Worldwide, Omnicom Group, Jaico Publishing House and talentrack. The people I met, studied with and worked alongside at these excellent institutions have shaped my ideas and beliefs, which in turn gave me the intellectual fuel to write Harappa.

  Some of the people who have helped me at various stages of Harappa deserve a special mention here. My beloved wife Munisha for the spectacular cover design. My brother Varun for helping me with the editing process. Tanuj Nanda, Denny Joseph, Apoorve Arya and Rukmini Chawla Kumar for their inputs on the book’s blurb. Rahul Kanonia for the excellent type setting. Vivek Merani for being a partner at every single step, and for being the one person who showed most faith in the book becoming a roaring success. Amit Kukreja for his support on the production process. Ashutosh Negi, Nitin Naresh, Ayush Gupta and Denny Joseph (once again!) for the promotional campaigns of the book.

  My dear friends Manishi Singh, Gaurav Bhatia, Prashant Misra, Joydeep Kalra, Naved Aqueel, Sunil Ahuja, Vikas Misra - you are all my strength and my driving force.

  There are a few mentors without whom Harappa, or most other big and small achievements of my life, would not have been possible. They include Manoj Ghai, Nishish Jha, Navin Chawla and Praveen Puri.

  My parents and my family are my universe, the kindle in my soul. I am indebted to them for all the love that surrounds me. My daughter Vandita is the light of my life, and my nieces Vedika and Aditi its sparkling stars.

  Utthishtha!

  Rise.

  Vineet Bajpai

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a novel, a work of pure imagination and fiction, written with the sole intention of entertaining the reader. While the content has several references to religions, history, institutions, beliefs and myths, it is all presented with the only purpose of making the story richer and more breathtaking. The author is a believer of all religions, and respects them equally and deeply. He makes no claim to the correctness of the historical o
r mythological references and facts used in the story.

  INTRODUCTION

  2017, New Delhi:

  Vidyut Shastri, a young entrepreneur from Delhi, gets an unexpected summon from his 108 year-old great grandfather who is now on his deathbed. The old matthadheesh or clan-leader Brahmin from the ancient Indian city of Kashi (Banaras) wants to reveal the secret of a prehistoric curse to Vidyut. A curse that not just destroyed an entire civilization thousands of years ago, but also obliterated its very truth.

  Until now.

  The dying Brahmin, Dwarka Shastri, is the last among a lineage of guardians of a hidden cellar in the complex maze of a Shiva temple in Banaras. There lies buried a 3,500 year-old encrypted and preserved hand-written scroll. It has a lone Sanskrit couplet written on it, along with a prophecy that during a specific sacred hour in the Rohini Nakshatra (constellation) on the purnima or full-moon as per the shaka-samvat or Hindu calendar, a person of their own bloodline, yet unblemished by the sins of his ancestors, will unfurl the dark secret. He will put an end to the most horrifying curse in the history of mankind.

  There is a reason why Vidyut hears from his great grandfather.

  The sacred hour has arrived.

  Vidyut has been kept away from Kashi by his previous three generations because they are bearers of a spell – the curse. It was none other than their own ancestor, Vivasvan Pujari, who betrayed his own people and his own civilization 3,700 years ago. He paved way for the destruction of planet Earth’s first metropolis – Harappa.

  But most unforgivable of all – he betrayed the great River of the Wise. He turned it into the Blood River.

  1700 BCE, Harappa:

  Harappa is the mightiest city on planet Earth and is run by the wise and righteous Vedic way-of-life. Vivasvan Pujari is about to be announced as the chief priest of Harappa – the most powerful position in all of Aryavarta or the land of the mighty Aryans. He has worked for half a century to reach this pious and coveted position.

  But something goes horribly wrong.

  His friend turned archrival, the wise Pundit Chandradhar and his bewitchingly beautiful wife use the dark forces of the three long-faced magicians with empty eye-sockets from Mesopotamia. They get Vivasvan Pujari entangled in a dreadful controversy of being the cold blooded murderer of Nayantara, the enchanting dancing-girl known for her upper-arm bangles that covered her elbow and then were worn right up to her shoulder. That’s all she wore while performing for her most powerful and intimate guests.

  Vivasvan Pujari is condemned in a public court and is thrown into the dark cellars of Harappa’s Mrit Kaaraavaas (dungeons of the dead), where he swears vengeance. Not against Chandradhar. Not against his venomous conspirator. Not against the judge who declared him guilty or the black-magicians from Mesopotamia. He swears vengeance against the whole of Harappa! His public trial is held at the Great Bath. He is spat upon and pelted with stones by the very people of the great city for whom he had dedicated his whole life. His property is seized and his beloved family exiled to barren and deathly lands. He screams with hate and paints the word pratishodh (retribution!) on the wall of his dark cell - with his own blood.

  1578 AD, Portugal:

  King Immannoel the Vth of Portugal receives an urgent letter from the Vatican. In the letter the Big Man himself refers to an ominous truth that when discovered will change the world forever. That secret buried in the sands of a western-Indian port-village must be found & wiped-out from the face of the Earth. It is once again about the lost city that once prospered on the banks of the fabled river. Once again! This chapter of human history must be destroyed forever. The very existence of the Church leadership depends on it.

  The emperor is advised to use the fiercest force of the sword to achieve this end. King Immannoel sends a lethal fleet of two hundred warships to the quiet and peaceful Indian region of Goa. The natives were unaware of the prized remnant of mankind’s greatest secret that lay buried in the deep chambers of popular yet fiercely guarded Goan temples. And little did they know that they awaited the bloodiest pages in the story of the sub-continent.

  1856 AD, Barrackpore:

  The British sociologist and employee of the East India Company, Wayne Ashbrook, seeks a midnight meeting with his superior, Colonel Mark Sanders. He has made a discovery that cannot wait. It is a reality diametrically opposite to what he has been asked to record in his India diaries and documents. It is the biggest lie on the face of the Earth. It is about the Aryan invasion he has been indoctrinated with. It is about the racial superiority of this creed that arrived into India and colonized the natives. He has now unveiled scriptures and sources that point to an unbelievable truth about the mighty Aryans. Wayne knew this startling revelation would alter the very fundamental dynamics of religious and political discourses of the world.

  To his utter shock, Wayne is warned of dire consequences by Colonel Sanders who wants Wayne to quietly document the false data and forget that he ever unearthed anything about the Aryans. He tells Wayne that he has no idea of the scale and implications of this reality, and the forces behind it. Wayne nods and takes leave of Sanders, but his conscience does not allow him to do as told. He tries to get the truth published in the Calcutta Tribune.

  Wayne’s mutilated body is found hanging on a tree outside the Writers’ Building secretariat the next morning. The newspapers declare it an act of violence by two Indian sepoys. But the truth is something else. Something terrible.

  The prophesied blood-thirst is about to raise its head again.

  PROLOGUE

  1700 BCE

  He was the only human for miles. He could hardly see in the dark of that unusually fearsome, stormy night. Especially with the heavy trickle of his blood, tears and sweat mixed with the muddy waters of the unseasonal, torrential rain blurring his vision. In the pitch-black night the bald, bare-chested Brahmin struck with his axe back and forth at a feverish yet futile pace. He was attempting to cut at least one of the thick jute ropes that bound one pillar of the freshly built, man-made mountain of brick and bronze. Although made with the objective of diverting the course of a river, the enormous mound of stone, brick, metal and wooden blocks appeared threatening enough to alter the assault of even the bold tsunamis of a rogue sea. But then the river under question was no less than the mighty oceans themselves.

  Muttering to himself under the roar of the downpour, like a man possessed, he used every ounce of strength from his body hardened by years of penance and Vedic discipline. He pounded the cable-like rope furiously even as his fingers splayed and started to bleed. When he couldn’t breathe anymore he threw his head back and looked up once to let the heavy raindrops slap his face angrily. With the unsympathetic water washing the red mud off his eyelids, he let out a ghastly, sky-piercing scream. It was perhaps an attempt by his recently blackened soul to make the Gods hear his indescribable angst. But he knew it was too late. The Gods were horrified at his deeds and would not forgive him. Or anyone.

  He started cutting the rope with his short axe again, more menacingly than before. He knew he had been trying to cut one coupling knot for over an hour now. The ropes were specially made, upon his own instructions. He knew there were 998 more brick, bronze and stone pillars held together by thousands of similar rope-knots that forged the unbreakable mount. And that it would take weeks to disassemble it if a thousand men worked day and night. The 999 strategically engineered and reinforced pillars were built as per his own careful architectural and astrologic guidelines. What was he doing? Had he gone mad? He knew he could not undo the giant mound even one bit. And yet he fired away his axe incessantly, hopelessly.

  A solitary figure in the lonely miles of empty land ravaged by a mid-night cloudburst, Vivasvan Pujari, a man worshipped for decades as a devta (half-human, half-God), revered as the Sun of Harappa, looked liked a ghost. He felt extreme pain and a sinking regret at the sinister consequence he knew could not be averted. He kept weeping, kept mumbling and kept chopping away. And then he heard it
.

  It had begun.

  The ominous rumble of the mighty river gushing into an unnatural course, somewhere distant but not too far, made his blood curdle. The once generous, loving and nurturing Mother River had incarnated into a thirsty Rakt-Dhaara (Blood River) lunging towards devouring her very own children. The River of the Wise was betrayed by one of her favorite sons. She was betrayed by her devta son, Vivasvan Pujari.

  The once righteous and indomitable Vivasvan Pujari let the axe slip from his hand and it fell on the slushy mud with a wet thud. He stood frozen gazing towards the direction he knew his now-manic Mother would appear in her demonic form. He knew it then. He knew he was going to be the first blood at her altar. Suddenly, he wanted it that way.

  He slowly felt a sense of ease and relief spreading within him. He felt hope. Maybe his Mother would claw out his life but spare the millions of others. He dropped to his knees, stretched out arms in submission by his sides and opened his palms. The rain washed his taut and wounded body as if finally helping him cleanse his badly knotted conscience. As if pitying Vivasvan Pujari and offering him his last bath.

  “Take my life, O mighty Mother! I have earned your wrath. And I submit myself to thee!”, he yelled out as the night sky lit-up with an angry clap of thunder. It was as if the Gods were rejecting this fallen devta’s plea.

  He screamed again, this time his voice splitting with desperation and heavy sobbing, “Do you not listen to your crestfallen son, O mighty Mother?! Take my life but forgive the others! They have not sinned as your son has. Take me!!!”

  The sky lit up again. It was nearly daylight for a few moments. The silent lightning flashed on Vivasvan Pujari’s bleeding, sweating and deranged face. And then it followed. The delayed noise of the thunder was as loud as an exploding sun.

  The Gods were saying NO!

  Vivasvan Pujari felt a powerful gust of wind on his face as he saw the giant water-mountain appear from the corner of the far mound, turning directly towards the path where he sat crumbled on his knees. It looked like an enormous hydra dragon turning its head towards its prey. The din of the river was louder than the thunder that roared a few moments ago. Vivasvan Pujari sat there dazed, as he looked up at the mountain-high torrent casting a looming shadow even in the darkness. He appeared as small as an ant would in front of Mount Sumeru, as the sky-high tsunami of his Mother River was all but a few moments away from engulfing him.