Harappa - Curse of the Blood River Read online

  ‘Rise, O Surya of Harappa, rise, O great devta’, said one of the Sages in a voice as soothing as the healing touch of a loving Mother. Vivasvan looked up with misty eyes. One glance at the Saptarishi was more peace giving than a hundred years of deep meditation. This was not the first time Vivasvan Pujari was meeting the Sages, and he could not thank his stars enough. His love for the great Sages was second to none.

  ‘O great Sages, O benefactors of your people, O Saptarishi…your humble servant bows to you with deepest affection and veneration’, said Vivasvan Pujari as all of his bodyguard stood stunned in awe and disbelief. The new ones among them had seen the Saptarishi for the first time. They knew that in Harappa this opportunity was considered no less than the most hallowed of pilgrimages. Darshana (or the sighting of the Lord) of the Saptarishi was a matter of finest fortune. And it brought the devotee a step closer to gaining the love and blessings of the deific Mother Saraswati – the one believed to have given divine birth to the Seven Sages.

  ‘What brings you here, revered devta?’ asked one of the Sages.

  ‘The insatiable thirst for your darshana and your blessings, O great Sages’, replied Vivasvan, now smiling at the Saptarishi like a child. He was experiencing a deep sense of peace and satisfaction in the vicinity of the Sages. Their inner spiritual power radiated for miles around them, offering rejuvenation and life-energy to every living organism. Being face-to-face with them meant absorbing their indescribable vitality from the very epicenter. Vivasvan Pujari was soaking in every wave of that invisible but potent nectar. He knew how to.

  ‘The day after tomorrow this devotee of yours will be granted the duty of leading Harappa as the Chief Priest. Bless him with your gracious presence at the sacred ceremony on the banks of Sara Maa herself,’ continued Vivasvan.

  The Seven Sages smiled all at once, and then spoke in unison as if they were seven voices emanating from the same one being, ‘Our affection for you is boundless, O devta. But never use the name of the one and only Saraswati, our divine Mother, until absolutely necessary.’

  Vivasvan Pujari was stunned as he heard these words. He never meant to use Sara Maa’s name unduly. But somehow the Saptarishi appeared to be overly sensitive about the Mother. Everything about the great Sages was an extremity – their love, their benevolence, their patience, their power… and their wrath.

  Vivasvan wasted no time and without debating whether or not he was understood correctly, he fell prostrate on the pebbly banks of the gushing stream, with his hands still folded towards the feet of the Saptarishi.

  ‘Forgive me, O great Sage. My intention was not to invoke Sara Maa’s name needlessly.’ Pausing for a moment Vivasvan continued, ‘While she may not have given birth to me, I consider myself to be her child.’

  The Sages grinned, and the entire universe broke into a smile with them. The birds broke into a chirpy flight. The river stream seemed to have raised the decibels of its bubbling. The flowers appeared to be blossoming all at once, and the horses of Vivasvan Pujari’s bodyguard danced and neighed in strange symphony.

  ‘You really are the noblest of them all, Vivasvan Pujari,’ said one among the beautifully laughing Sages.

  Vivasvan Pujari raised his head, thankful at being forgiven so quickly, though still wondering what he had said so wrong.

  ‘You don’t need us or Mother Saraswati’s waters to be physically present at your grand appointment, Vivasvan,’ continued one of the Sages. ‘It may give you some happiness to know that the brotherhood of the Saptarishi has decided to embrace you as one of our own.’

  Vivasvan Pujari could not believe what he had just heard. He stood up in a slow, dazed motion, dusting the sand off his face.

  ‘Do not be amazed, O mighty devta. You have earned this position and you honor us with your esteemed presence amidst us as a brother…now and forever. Soon the Saptarishi will be known as the Ashtarishi (the Eight Sages).’

  The seven smiling Saptarishi bent down together with their right hands scooping up some water from the gushing stream. They took the water in their arms outstretched from their right shoulders, shut their eyes once again in synchronized action and announced in a practiced chant -

  ‘We pronounce you our brother, O great Vivasvan Pujari,’ said the glowing sages with soft smiles beaming from their gentle, bearded faces. ‘You will hereon be counted one amongst us. Our wise and loving Mother, Saraswati Maa, will now be your mother as well.’

  Vivasvan Pujari could not believe his ears. He broke into tears of devotion and fell at the feet of the divine Sages with reverence that cannot be measured. He was overwhelmed at the assurance that once he was done delivering his material duties of this life, he would find enlightenment as one of the Ashtarishi. No human or devta could ask for more.

  Banaras, 2017

  THE DYING BRAHMIN CHIEFTAIN

  The outer periphery of the Dev-Raakshasa Matth looked like a haunted ancient castle to the unacquainted. It had vast courtyards surrounded by dark corridors and monstrous-looking sculptures. The stone cut figure of a man with the head of a bloodthirsty lion was a rendition of the fierce Narsimha avatar of Lord Vishnu. The terrifying and massive statue of an eagle with a muscular human body represented Garuda, the mighty celestial bird. There were several pits blackened with years of soot from the fires of dark taantric rituals. Menacing sentries dressed in saffron and black, and armed with scimitars, tridents and old Enfield rifles stood guard at every corner. Smoke, dark walls, barren yards, fearsome chanting, negative forces and angry faces - this entire area was called the Raakshasa Khand or the Demon Sanctum.

  For those who considered the matth their home and their place of spiritual learning, it presented itself in a tender and beautiful form. These select few men and women had access to the inner sanctum or Dev Khand of the matth. This section of the matth looked diametrically opposite to the outer periphery. It had beautiful gardens, flowerbeds, lotus ponds and havan kundas or ritual pits for divine Vedic yajnas. The air was fragrant with rose and marigold scents and one could see learned priests performing various advanced sacraments around holy fires. There were various corners where handsome young boys with shaven heads recited divine hymns in unison. The entire sanctum resounded with sacred chants of Vedic and Puranical couplets. The Dev Khand was truly among the most divine and spiritual places in the whole world.

  The inner and outer sectors of the matth were not in their present forms by accident. They were an outcome of meticulous planning by the great Dwarka Shastri and his powerful ancestors, in line with the very core objectives of the matth’s establishment. While the world was made to believe that the matth was a center of spiritual learning and dark-arts, the reason behind the founding of this powerful monastery was something very different. It was built as a spiritual cantonment, an impregnable fortress armed with the ability to withstand and counter every otherworldly assault that could be imagined. It was established to protect a bloodline. Vivasvan Pujari’s bloodline.

  Very few people know that Varanasi or Kashi itself is placed at the center of seven concentric holy circles. Each circle represents a group of potent deities, primarily Ganesha, and is dotted by shrines and temples. For the common visitor or pilgrim these 56 temples represent simple centers of divinity and are places of worship. Millions of pilgrims throng to Kashi every year and circumambulate these circles and shrines barefoot, over days of tireless treks. Only a handful of mystical priests and yogis of Kashi know that these seven circles exist for thousands of years, and are strong celestial force fields against black occult originating half the globe away.

  At the heart of the circles lies the ancient city of Kashi. At the core of Kashi, in the vicinity of the Vishwanath temple, stood the Dev-Raakshasa Matth. At the very nucleus of the matth, surrounded by vast gardens and massive statues of Lord Shiva on all four sides, stood Dwarka Shastri’s majestic cottage. Constructed with perfect vaastu (ancient Indian architectural science) and astrological precision, this cottage was built at the world’s
most ethereally secure spot. And it was home to the world’s most powerful taantric and most profound yogi.

  As Vidyut entered the dim, vast and lamp-lit chambers of the great Dwarka Shastri, he sensed the presence of power he had never felt before. He could sense the presence of over a hundred, maybe thousand unearthly beings in this large room where Dwarka Shastri lay propped-up with half a dozen pillows on a massive bed.

  The grandmaster looked as old as his age, yet his heavily wrinkled face radiated with the vitality of someone much younger. His thick, snow-white hair was thrown back and gave his towering personality the appearance of a battle-scarred Mohican chieftain. He had a large red teeka or vermillion smearing at the center of his forehead, and he was adorned with several garlands of pure rudraksha (beads believed to be the teardrops of Rudra or Shiva himself, its biological term being Elaeocarpus Ganitrus). He wore white robes and his fingers constantly flipped the beads of a rosary. In all, he looked like a galactic warlord.

  While there was complete silence in this vast hall of a room, Vidyut could almost hear the faint hissing of an invisible Brahma-Raakshasa. There was nothing ordinary or Earthly about this place. Vidyut stood frozen, wondering whether his great grandfather was a hermit, a devta, a raakshasa or a dangerous combination of all.

  ‘Do you know the Atharva Veda by heart, Vidyut?,’ enquired the great Dwarka Shastri in a voice that reverberated across the room like the grumble of a raging fire-dragon.

  ‘Yes Baba…Atharva Veda, Yajur Veda, Sama Veda and Rig Veda…I know all four Vedas by rote,’ replied Vidyut without any show of pride. Although he had never expected any show of love from his great grandfather, Vidyut was somewhat hurt at the complete absence of affection from the only blood relative he had left.

  ‘Hmmm…’ came the acknowledgement from Dwarka Shastri. It sounded like the hum of a massive diesel engine. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Baba, Purohit ji informed me that you were not keeping well.’

  ‘Now will that Purohit decide when Dwarka Shastri himself is well or unwell?’ growled the grand old man angrily as he sputtered into a painful coughing bout. Vidyut stepped forward to show his concern. ‘Stand back!’ yelled the breathless master. Vidyut froze where he stood.

  ‘Listen to me, boy,’ continued Dwarka Shastri. ‘Now that you have come, I see it is quite at an opportune time. Now with me gone, they will come for you.’ Dwarka Shastri’s voice was uncharacteristically shaken. It had traces of an emotion that was never even remotely associated with the grand old man over the hundred plus years that he lived and ruled. It had traces of fear.

  Vidyut felt a cold sweat breaking on his forehead and temples. He had a faint inkling of who his grandfather was referring to. And if the grandmaster’s words came true, nothing was going to remain the same for Vidyut, for the matth, for his beloved Damini or even for the entire human race. That would mean that a prehistoric prophecy long forgotten was about to raise its brutal head. A war infected by the ancient curse was going to rage again. War in the name of God. War between the proverbial devtas and demons.

  And like everyone at the matth believed, and the Order in Rome was sure of - Vidyut was the last devta left.

  Harappa, 1700 BCE

  SHAV-SAADHANA

  It was a horrifying sight.

  The three hollow-eyed Mesopotamian magicians sat inside a dark cave that was lit by a lone torch flickering in one corner. Their posture was crooked and their empty eye-sockets looked like black holes leading into an evil infinity. Their jaws drooped and they looked like hideous creatures from another world.

  The stink from the stale human blood that they had poured over themselves during their black-ritual against Vivasvan Pujari made it impossible to stand and breathe in the cave. But their feisty employer stood her ground firmly. Despite being a woman of exceptional beauty and evident royalty, she looked more dreadful than the three fiends. She was burning with violent rage.

  ‘What happened, O mighty magicians from the West?’ she asked in a scathing whisper.

  Her devoted guards in red hoods stood around the three magicians, their swords unsheathed, gleaming alarmingly in the dim light. Just a flick of a finger from their powerful mistress would have meant a swift beheading of the three conjurers of black magic. The single source of light threw monstrous shadows of this vile gathering on the stone walls of the dank cave. The three blind sorcerers sat frozen and battered with defeat.

  ‘What….happened…?’ the woman enquired again, slowly.

  ‘Zzzzzaaaaaaarrggghhhhh…..uuuuurrggghh……bbbbrrrrrrrggghhh…….’ the three scoundrels began growling in unison, in voices that didn’t belong to them. Their long and dirty fingernails were clawing their own faces and necks, peeling skin and flesh. They were clearly still under the control of the angry spirits that possessed them.

  Then one of them spoke, in a horrifying voice that sounded like someone extremely old, in an accent of a very distant land. It was the most sinister voice that the royal lady and her guards had ever heard.

  ‘Shav….sssshhhhaaavv……’ spoke the horrible voice through the magicians open mouth, as his face twisted and distorted into a lunatic expression.

  Shav meant a dead body. The ethereal being inside the malevolent magician was asking for a human corpse.

  The devta was unbeatable. The three black-magicians – Gun, Sha & Ap as they were ridiculously called, had tried a powerful exorcism on Vivasvan Pujari. The practice of exorcism was known and feared across the known world, and most believed that it could prove to be deadly effective. It basically stole the soul of the target and replaced it with a violent and dissatisfied spirit from the netherworld. For most ordinary people, this meant the end of life and physical existence, as they knew it. But Vivasvan Pujari was not an ordinary mortal.

  The exorcism had backfired. The devta’s soul was so spectacularly evolved and blessed, that no evil spirit could overpower it. Decades of intense meditation, penance and an unparalleled mastery of the Atharva Veda (Veda of occult) had made Vivasvan Pujari indomitable. Even without his conscious knowledge, Vivasvan’s powerful soul had repelled the assault. The evil spirits had come back even angrier, and housed themselves in the bodies of the three magicians. And they sought revenge.

  Shav-saadhana or corpse-practice was the darkest and most horrendous of all occult rituals. It meant the ceremonial use of a fresh human cadaver that concluded with inviting the most insatiable spirits into it. Half the taantrics that attempted this malicious ritual died while trying. Shav-saadhana was prohibited in the virtuous scriptures of Harappa, because it went against the very central rule of creation.

  Shav-saadhana brought back the dead to life.

  Illegitimate life.

  ‘Who is that dancing girl that wears the famous bangles during her performances?’ enquired the beautiful yet witchlike woman. None of her guards responded, although they all knew well whom she was referring to.

  ‘Did you hear what I asked?’ she said again, ‘Ranga!’ this time raising her eyebrows at the captain of her personal bodyguard.

  ‘Pardon your servant, my lady…but I don’t know who you are referring to.’

  She laughed. And she looked so pretty that even the Gods wished her soul shared at least a bit of the beauty of her face.

  ‘Really? Is she not the bitch that every man in Harappa wants to feed on?’ she barked with an arrogant and authoritative tilt of her head. ‘Answer me!’ she thundered.

  ‘Nayantara, my lady…her name is Nayantara,’ replied Ranga hastily. Much as his reputation was one of dread across Harappa, in the presence of his mistress the giant Ranga was no better than a wet puppy.

  She laughed again. Then her face slowly turned to a stony expression. She appeared demented with hate and envy.

  ‘Use her. Bring these three dogs the corpse of a young girl. Then use it to capture this Nayantara’s soul. She is the only one who can corrupt the incorruptible Vivasvan Pujari.’

  Upon hearing this Gun cackled lik
e a wicked witch. Sha growled in hideous delight. Ap was already chanting something incomprehensible yet menacing. They looked worse than the worst nightmare any human could have.

  Ranga and his men gasped in horror, but the lady walked out of the cold cave unfazed. Pundit Chandradhar’s wife was not as righteous as he was. Priyamvada’s blood was no better than the yellow venom of the cobra.

  Banaras, 2017

  MANKIND’S GREATEST UNTRUTH – PART 1

  ‘Harappa?!’ exclaimed Vidyut as he now sat next to his great grandfather’s bed.

  They had been alone together in Dwarka Shastri’s cottage for nearly six hours now, barring one interruption by Govardhan, the monastery’s physician. These were the most terrifying yet transcendent six hours in Vidyut’s entire life. He now knew why Pujari ji had asked him to perform certain nerve-control rituals before this meeting. Vidyut was a whisker away from his head exploding like a fireball.

  Over the six hours Dwarka Shastri had narrated one part of the gripping and cruel tale of the mighty Vivasvan Pujari, Chandradhar, Nayantara, Priyamvada, Manu, Sanjna, Somdutt, the Saraswati river, the Saptarishi and Harappa in great detail. He described the city of Harappa, its culture and how the great Sanatana Dharma (the world’s most ancient religion followed by people of the Hindu way of life) originated on the banks of the venerated Saraswati. Vidyut found it hard to believe that he was hearing a true story that unfolded itself in Harappa thousands of years ago, a civilization he had only read about in the schoolbooks of history.

  Vidyut was unsure how to react. Had it been anyone other than his powerful great grandfather, Vidyut would have laughed off the episode as a wild figment of some storyteller’s imagination. But it was Dwarka Shastri who was narrating this fantastic and horrifying tale. And Dwarka Shastri was no storyteller.