The Secret of the Nagas (12 page)

‘It doesn’t look good for the Brangas,’ said Parvateshwar. ‘Can we reason with the Kashi mob?’

‘I already tried, General,’ said Bhagirath. ‘They will not listen. They believe the Brangas can buy out the courts with their gold.’

‘It’s probably true,’ mumbled the Kashi Captain Kaavas, quietly revealing his own leanings.

Bhagirath turned towards Kaavas, who immediately recoiled with fear, for Bhagirath’s reputation was legendary in Kashi.

‘You don’t agree with the mob, do you?’ asked Bhagirath.

Kaavas’ face glowered, ‘I detest the Brangas. They are dirty scoundrels who break every law, even as they throw their gold around.’ Having said his piece, Kaavas seemed to calm down. He looked down and whispered. ‘But is this the way they should be treated? Would Lord Rudra have done this? No, Your Highness.’

‘Then find us a solution.’

Pointing to the angry Kashi citizens surrounding them, Kaavas said, ‘This horde will not back off till the Brangas are punished in some form, Prince Bhagirath. How can we ensure that, while keeping the Brangas alive and safe? I don’t know.’

‘What if the Suryavanshis attack them?’ asked Parvateshwar, shocked at the effective but borderline ethical solution that had entered his mind.

Bhagirath smiled immediately, for he could suspect where Parvateshwar was going. ‘We’ll use the batons of the Kashi police, not our weapons. We’ll only injure, not kill.’

‘Exactly,’ said Parvateshwar. ‘The mob will get its justice and back off. The Brangas will be injured, but alive. I know this is not entirely right. But sometimes, the only way to prevent a grave wrong is to commit a small wrong. I will have to take full responsibility for this and answer to the Parmatma.’

Bhagirath smiled softly. Some Chandravanshi ways were entering Parvateshwar’s psyche. It had not escaped his notice that his elder sister had been lavishing attention on the Meluhan General.

Parvateshwar turned to Kaavas. ‘I will need a hundred batons.’

Bhagirath shot off with Kaavas towards the Sacred Avenue. They were back in no time. Parvateshwar had meanwhile spoken to the leaders of the Kashi mob, promising them justice if they dropped their weapons. They waited patiently for the Suryavanshis to deliver.

Parvateshwar gathered the Suryavanshis in front of him. ‘Meluhans, do not use your swords. Use the batons. Limit the blows to their limbs, avoid their heads. Keep your shield rigidly in the tortoise formation. Rocks from that height can kill.’

The Suryavanshis stared at their General.

‘This is the only way the Brangas can be saved,’ continued Parvateshwar.

The Meluhans moved quickly into battle formation, with Parvateshwar, Bhagirath and Veerbhadra in the lead. Kaavas, who was unfamiliar with such tactics, was placed in the middle, where it was safest. As the soldiers marched into the Branga garden, there was a hailstorm of stones. Their shields kept them safe as they strode slowly but surely towards the building entrance.

The entrance itself was, naturally, narrower than the garden path. The tortoise formation would have to be broken here. Parvateshwar ordered a double file charge into the building, shields held left-right to prevent attacks from the sides. He had assumed the rocks could not be used within the building. A grave miscalculation.

‘What a statue,’ whispered Sati, shuddering slightly at the awe-inspiring sight of Lord Rudra.

Shiva and Sati had just entered the massive Vishwanath temple.

The temple, built a little distance away from the Brahma Ghat, was an imposing structure. It wasn’t just the gargantuan height of one hundred metres, but also the overwhelming simplicity of the edifice that inspired wonder. An open garden, built in the symmetrical style of Lord Rudra’s native land, provided the entry from the Sacred Avenue to the temple. The red sandstone structure, almost the colour of blood, was startlingly sober. The giant platform, almost twenty metres in height, which soared from the farthest point of the garden, had absolutely no carvings or embellishments, unlike any other temple Shiva had seen so far. A hundred steps had been carved into the platform. Devotees, who reached atop the platform, would be stunned by the main temple spire, again of red sandstone, which soared an improbable eighty metres. Just like the platform, the main temple also had no carvings. There were a hundred square pillars to hold up the spire. Unlike other temples, the sanctum sanctorum was in the centre and not at the far end. Within the sanctum was the statue that drew devotees from across the land: The formidable Lord Rudra.

Legend had it that Lord Rudra mostly worked alone. He had no known friends whose stories could be immortalised in frescoes on the temple walls. There was no favourite devotee whose statue could be placed at his feet. The only partner Lord Rudra had, the only one he listened to, was Lady Mohini. Hence Krittika found it odd that her legendary beauty had not been rendered into an idol.

‘How come Lady Mohini’s statue is not here?’ whispered Krittika to an aide of Athithigva.

‘You know the stories of the Lord well,’ replied the aide. ‘Come.’

She led Krittika to the other side of the sanctum. To her surprise, Krittika discovered that the sanctum had another entrance from the back. Through that entrance a devotee would see an idol of Lady Mohini, rumoured to be the most gorgeous woman of all time, sitting on a throne. Her beautiful eyes were in an enchanting half stare. But Krittika noticed that in her hand, surreptitiously hidden at first view, was a knife. Mohini, ever capricious and deadly. Krittika smiled. It seemed fitting that the idols of Lady Mohini and Lord Rudra were back to back. They shared a complex relationship; partners but with vastly different outlooks.

Krittika bowed low to Lady Mohini. While some refused to honour her as
Vishnu
, Krittika was amongst the majority which believed that Lady Mohini deserved the title of
the
Propagator of Good
.

On the other side of the sanctum, Shiva was staring at Lord Rudra’s idol. The Lord was an imposing and impossibly muscled man. His hirsute chest sported a pendant. Upon closer examination, Shiva realised the pendant was a tiger claw. The Lord’s shield had been laid at the side of his throne and while the sword too rested along the seat, the Lord’s hand was close to the hilt. Clearly, the sculptor wanted to signify that while the most ferocious warrior in history had renounced violence, his weapons lay close at hand, ready to be used on anyone who dared to break his laws. The sculptor had faithfully recreated the proud battle scars that must have adorned Lord Rudra’s body. One of the scars ran across his face from his right temple to his left cheek. The Lord also sported a long beard and moustache, many strands of which had been painstakingly curled with beads rolled into them.

‘I have never seen anyone in India wear beads in their beard,’ said Shiva to Athithigva.

‘This is the way of the Lord’s native people in Pariha, My Lord.’

‘
Pariha
?’

‘Yes, My Lord. The
land of fairies
. It lies beyond the western borders of India, beyond the Himalayas, our great mountains.’

Shiva turned back to the Lord’s idol. The strongest feeling he had in the temple was fear. Was it wrong to feel like this about a God? Wasn’t it always supposed to be love? Respect? Awe? Why fear?

Because sometimes, nothing clarifies and focuses the mind except fear. Lord Rudra needed to inspire fear to achieve his goals.

Shiva heard the voice in his head. It appeared to come from a distance, but it was unquestionably clear. He knew it was a Vasudev Pandit.

Where are you, Panditji?

Hidden from view, Lord Neelkanth. There are too many people around.

I need to talk to you.

All in good time, my friend. But if you can hear me, can’t you hear the desperate call of your most principled follower?

Most principled follower?

The voice had gone silent. Shiva turned around, concerned.

Chapter 6

Even a Mountain Can Fall

‘Take cover!’ shouted Parvateshwar.

Bhagirath and he had entered the Branga building to be greeted by a volley of stones.

The building had a huge atrium at the entrance, with a sky light. It was a brilliant design that allowed natural sunlight and fresh air to come in unhindered. There was a cleverly constructed retractable ceiling to cover the atrium during the rains. At present, however, the atrium was like a valley of death for the Suryavanshis, surrounded as it was on all sides by balconies from where the Brangas rained stones upon them.

A sharp missile hit Parvateshwar on his left shoulder. He felt his collar bone snap. A furious Parvateshwar drew his baton high and bellowed, ‘Har Har Mahadev!’

‘Har Har Mahadev!’ yelled the Suryavanshis.

They were gods! Mere stones wouldn’t stop them. The Suryavanshis charged up the stairs, clubbing all who came in their path, including women. But even in their fury, they were mindful of Parvateshwar’s instructions: No strikes on the head. They injured the Brangas, but killed none.

The Brangas started falling back, faced with the relentless and disciplined Suryavanshi attack. Soon the Suryavanshis were charging up the building to the top. Parvateshwar found it strange that there appeared to be no leader. The Brangas were just a random mob, which was fighting heroically, but in a disastrously incompetent manner. By the time the Suryavanshis reached the top, practically all the Brangas were on the floor, writhing in agony. Injured, but alive.

It was then that Parvateshwar heard the noise. Even in the commotion of the numerous Brangas howling in pain, the horrifying din could not be missed. It sounded like hundreds of babies were howling desperately, as if their lives depended on it.

Parvateshwar had heard rumours of ghastly ritual sacrifices that the Brangas committed. Fearing the worst, he ran towards the room where the sound emanated from. The General broke open the door with one kick. He was sickened by what he saw.

The limp body of the decapitated peacock was held at a corner of the room, its blood being drained into a vessel. Around it were many women, each holding a baby writhing in pain. Some babies had blood on their mouths. A horror-struck Parvateshwar dropped his club and reached for his sword. There was a sudden blur to his left. Before he could react, he felt a sharp pain on his head. The world went black.

Bhagirath screamed, drawing his sword, as did the Suryavanshis. He was about to run his sword through the man who had clubbed Parvateshwar when a woman screamed: ‘PLEASE DON’T!’

Bhagirath stopped. The woman was very obviously pregnant.

The Branga man was about to raise his club again. The woman screamed once more. ‘NO!’

To Bhagirath’s surprise, the man obeyed.

The other Branga women at the back were carrying on with their sickening ritual.

‘Stop!’ screamed Bhagirath.

The pregnant Branga woman fell at Bhagirath’s feet. ‘No, brave Prince. Don’t stop us. I beg you.’

‘High priestess, what are you doing?’ asked the Branga man. ‘Don’t humiliate yourself!’

Bhagirath looked at the scene once again, and this was when the real inference dawned on him. He was stunned. The only children crying were the ones who did not have blood on their mouths. Their limbs were twisted in painful agony, as if a hideous force was squeezing their tiny bodies. The moment some of the peacock blood was poured into a baby’s mouth, the child quietened down.