The Secret of Nagas Page 4

  ‘King Mahendra?’ asked Bhagirath.

  ‘Doesn’t that mean the conqueror of the world?’

  ‘Yes, it does, My Lord. But he does not do justice to that name. Magadh was a great kingdom once. In fact, there was a time when it was the overlord kingdom of Swadweep and its kings were widely respected and honoured. But as it happens with many great kings, their unworthy descendants frittered away the wealth and power of their kingdoms. They have been trying hard to live up to Magadh’s past glory, but have been spectacularly unsuccessful. We share a prickly relationship with them.’

  ‘Really, why?’

  ‘Well, Ayodhya was the kingdom that defeated them more than three hundred years ago to become the overlord of Swadweep. It was a glorious Ashwamedh Yagna, for this was a time when Ayodhya had still not fallen prey to the wooden kings who rule it today. As you can imagine, Magadh was not quite pleased about the loss of status and revenue from tributes.’

  ‘Yes, but three hundred years is a long time to carry a grudge!’

  Bhagirath smiled. ‘Kshatriyas have long memories, My Lord. And they still suffer from their defeat to Ayodhya. Magadh could theoretically benefit from the fact that it is at the confluence of two rivers. It becomes the most convenient trading hub for merchants travelling on river ports on the Sarayu or the Ganga. This advantage was negated after they lost the Ashwamedh to us. A ceiling was imposed on their portage and trading hub charges. And then, our enmity received a fresh lease of life a hundred years back.’

  ‘And how did that happen?’

  ‘There is a kingdom to the west, up the Ganga, called Prayag. It had historically been in close alliance with Magadh. In fact the ruling families are very closely related.’

  ‘And...’

  ‘And when the Yamuna changed course from Meluha and started flowing into Swadweep, it met the Ganga at Prayag,’ said Bhagirath.

  ‘That would have made Prayag very important?’ asked Shiva.

  ‘Yes, My Lord. Just like Magadh, it became a crucial junction for river trade. And unlike Magadh, it was not bound by any treaty on its portage and trading charges. Any trader or kingdom wanting to settle or trade in the newly opened hinterlands of the Yamuna had to pay charges at Prayag. Its prosperity and power grew exponentially. There were even rumours that they were planning to support Magadh in an Ashwamedh Yagna to challenge Ayodhya’s suzerainty. But when my great grandfather lost the battle to the Suryavanshis and a dam was built on the Yamuna to turn the flow towards Meluha, Prayag’s importance fell again. They have blamed Ayodhya ever since. They actually believe we purposely lost the war to give them a devastating blow.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bhagirath, shaking his head. ‘But to be honest, we lost the war because my great grandfather employed terrible battle strategy.’

  ‘So you people have hated each other forever?’

  ‘Not forever, My Lord. There was a time when Ayodhya and Magadh were close allies.’

  ‘So will you be welcome here?’

  Bhagirath burst out laughing. ‘Everyone knows I don’t really represent Ayodhya. This is one place I will not be suspect. But King Mahendra is known to be highly suspicious. We should expect spies keeping a close tab on us all the time. He does that to every important visitor. Having said that, their spy network is not particularly efficient. I do not foresee any serious problems.’

  ‘Will my blue neck open doors here?’

  Bhagirath looked embarrassed. ‘King Mahendra does not believe in anything my father believes in, My Lord. Since the Emperor of Ayodhya believes in the Neelkanth, the Magadh king will not.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by Siamantak climbing up the ship ladder. He came up to the Neelkanth, saluted smartly and said, ‘A deal has been struck, My Lord. We can disembark. But we will have to stay here for at least ten days.’

  Shiva frowned.

  ‘I have temporarily transferred the ownership of the ship to a palace guesthouse owner in Magadh, My Lord. We will stay in his guesthouse for ten days. He will pay the portage charges to Andhak from the guesthouse rent we pay. When we wish to leave, the ownership of the ship will be transferred back to King Dilipa. We have to stay for ten days so that the guesthouse owner can earn enough money for his own profit and for portage charges.’

  Shiva gaped at Siamantak. He didn’t know whether to laugh at this strangely convoluted compromise or be impressed at Siamantak’s bureaucratic brilliance in achieving Shiva’s objective of visiting Magadh while upholding his Emperor’s prestige. The portage charges would be paid, but technically not by Emperor Dilipa.

  The Naga and his soldiers had been silently tracking the fleet carrying Shiva, Sati and their entourage. The Naga Queen, Prime Minister Karkotak and her bodyguards had left for Panchavati, the Naga capital. The smaller platoon allowed the Naga to maintain a punishing pace, staying abreast with the fast moving ships of Shiva’s convoy.

  They had wisely remained away from the banks. Far enough to not be visible to the boat look-outs but close enough to follow their paths. They had moved further inland to avoid Magadh and intended to move closer to the river once they had bypassed the city.

  ‘A short distance more, My Lord,’ said Vishwadyumna. ‘Then we can move back towards the river.’

  The Naga nodded.

  Suddenly, the still of the forest was shattered by a loud scream. ‘NOOOOO!’

  The Naga immediately went down on his knees, giving Vishwadyumna rapid orders with hand signals. The entire platoon went down quickly and quietly, waiting for the danger to pass.

  But trouble had just begun.

  A woman screamed again. ‘No! Please! Leave him!’

  Vishwadyumna silently gestured to his soldiers to stay down. As far as he was concerned, there was only one course of action to take. Retrace their steps, take a wide arc around this area and move back towards the river. He turned towards his Lord, about to offer this suggestion. The Naga, however, was transfixed, eyes glued to a heartbreaking sight.

  At a distance, partially hidden by the trees and underbrush, lay a tribal woman, frantically clutching a boy, no older than six or seven years. Two armed men, possibly Magadhan soldiers, were trying to pull the child away. The woman, showing astounding strength for her frail frame, was holding on to the child desperately.

  ‘Dammit!’ screamed the leader of the Magadhans. ‘Push that woman off, you louts!’

  In the wild and unsettled lands between the Ganga and Narmada lived scattered tribes of forest people. In the eyes of the civilised city folk living along the great rivers, these tribals were backward creatures because they insisted on living in harmony with nature. While most kingdoms ignored these forest tribes, others confiscated their lands at will as populations grew and need for farmlands increased. And a few particularly cruel ones preyed on these helpless groups for slave labour.

  The Magadhan leader kicked the woman hard. ‘You can get another son! But I need this boy! He will drive my bulls to victory! My father will finally stop his endless preening about winning every race for the last three years!’

  The Naga looked at the Magadhan with barely concealed hate. Bull-racing was a craze in the Chandravanshi areas, subject to massive bets, royal interest and intrigue. Riders were needed to scream and agitate the animals to keep them running on course. At the same time, if the riders were too heavy, they would slow down the animal. Therefore, boys between the ages of six and eight were considered perfect. They would shriek out of fear and their weight was inconsequential. The children would be tied to the beasts. If the bull went down, the boy rider would be seriously injured or killed. Therefore, tribal children were often kidnapped to slave away as riders. Nobody important missed them if they died.

  The Magadhan leader nodded to one of his men who drew his sword. He then looked at the woman. ‘I am trying to be reasonable. Let your son go. Or I will have to hurt you.’

  ‘No!’

  The Magadhan soldier slashed his sword, cutting across the mother’s right arm. Blood spurted across the child’s face, making him bawl inconsolably.

  The Naga was staring at the woman, his mouth open in awe. Her bloodied right arm hanging limply by her side, the woman still clung to her son, wrapping her left arm tightly around him.

  Vishwadyumna shook his head. He could tell it was a matter of time before the woman would be killed. He turned towards his soldiers, giving hand signals to crawl back. He turned back towards his Lord. But the Naga was not there. He had moved swiftly forward, towards the mother. Vishwadyumna panicked and ran after his Lord, keeping his head low.

  ‘Kill her!’ ordered the Magadhan leader.

  The Magadhan soldier raised his sword, ready to strike. Suddenly, the Naga broke out from the cover of the trees, his hand holding a knife high. Before the soldier knew what had happened, the knife struck his hand and his sword dropped harmlessly to the ground.

  As the Magadhan soldier shrieked in agony, the Naga drew out two more knives. But he had failed to notice the platoon of Magadhan soldiers at the back. One had his bow at the ready, with an arrow strung. The soldier released it at the Naga. The arrow rammed into his left shoulder, slipping between his shoulder cap and torso armour, bursting through to the bone. The force of the blow caused the Naga to fall to the ground, the pain immobilising him.

  Seeing their Lord down, the Naga’s platoon ran in with a resounding yell.

  ‘My Lord!’ cried Vishwadyumna, as he tried to support the Naga back to his feet.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ screamed the cruel Magadhan leader, retreating towards the safety of his platoon, before turning back to the Naga’s men.

  ‘Get out of here if you want to stay alive!’ shouted one of the Naga’s soldiers, livid at the injury to his Lord.


  ‘Bangas!’ yelled the Magadhan, recognising the accent. ‘What in the name of Lord Indra are you scum doing here?’

  ‘It’s Branga! Not Banga!’

  ‘Do I look like I care? Get out of my land!’

  The Branga did not respond as he saw his Naga Lord getting up slowly, helped by Vishwadyumna. The Naga signalled Vishwadyumna to step back and tried to pull the arrow out of his shoulder. But it was buried too deep. He broke its shaft and threw it away.

  The Magadhan pointed at the Naga menacingly. ‘I am Ugrasen, the Prince of Magadh. This is my land. These people are my property. Get out of the way.’

  The Naga did not respond to the royal brat.

  He turned around to see one of the most magnificent sights he had ever seen. The mother lay almost unconscious behind his soldiers. Her eyes closing due to the tremendous loss of blood. Her body shivering desperately. Too terrified to even whimper.

  And yet, she stubbornly refused to give up her son. Her left hand still wrapped tight around him. Her body protectively positioned in front of her child.

  What a mother!

  The Naga turned around. His eyes blazing with rage. His body tense. His fists clenched tight. He whispered in a voice that was eerily calm, ‘You want to hurt a mother because she is protecting her child?’

  Sheer menace dripped from that soft voice. It even managed to get through to a person lost in royal ego. But Ugrasen could not back down in front of his fawning courtiers. Some crazy Branga with an unseasonal holi mask was not going to deprive him of his prize catch. ‘This is my kingdom. I can hurt whoever I want. So if you want to save your sorry hide, get out of here. You don’t know the power of...’

  ‘YOU WANT TO HURT A MOTHER BECAUSE SHE IS PROTECTING HER CHILD?’

  Ugrasen fell silent as terror finally broke through his thick head. He turned to see his followers. They too felt the dread that the Naga’s voice emanated.

  A shocked Vishwadyumna stared at his Lord. He had never heard his Lord raise his voice so loud. Never. The Naga’s breathing was heavy, going intermittently through gritted teeth. His body stiff with fury.

  And then Vishwadyumna heard the Naga’s breathing return slowly to normal. He knew it instantly. His Lord had made a decision.

  The Naga reached to his side and drew his long sword. Holding it away from his body. Ready for the charge. And then he whispered his orders. ‘No mercy.’

  ‘NO MERCY!’ screamed the loyal Branga soldiers. They charged after their Lord. They fell upon the hapless Magadhans. There was no mercy.

  Chapter 3

  The Pandit of Magadh

  It was early morning when Shiva left the guesthouse for the Narsimha temple. He was accompanied by Bhagirath, Drapaku, Siamantak, Nandi and Veerbhadra.

  Magadh was a far smaller town than Ayodhya. Not having suffered due to commercial or military success and the resultant mass immigration, it remained a pretty town with leafy avenues. While it did not have the awesome organisation of Devagiri or the soaring architecture of Ayodhya, it was not bogged down by the boring standardisation of the Meluhan capital or the grand chaos of the Swadweepan capital.

  It did not take Shiva and his entourage more than just half–an–hour to get across to the far side of the city where the magnificent Narsimha temple stood. Shiva entered the compound of the grand shrine. His men waited outside as per his instructions, but only after scoping the temple for suspects.

  The temple was surrounded by a massive square garden, a style from Lord Rudra’s land, far beyond the western borders of India. The garden had an ingeniously designed gargantuan fountain at its heart and rows of intricate waterways, flowerbeds and grass spread out from the centre in simple, yet stunning symmetry. At the far end stood the Narsimha temple. Built of pure white marble, it had a giant staircase leading up to its main platform, a spire that shot up at least seventy metres and had ornately carved statues of gods and goddesses all across its face. Shiva was sure this awe-inspiring and obviously expensive temple had been built at a time when Magadh had the resources of the entire Swadweep confederacy at its command.

  He took off his sandals at the staircase, climbed up the steps and entered the main temple. At the far end was the main sanctum of the temple, with the statue of its god, Lord Narsimha, on a majestic throne. Lord Narsimha had lived many thousands of years ago, before even Lord Rudra’s time. Shiva mused that if the Lord’s idol was life size, then he must have been a powerful figure. He looked unnaturally tall, at least eight feet, with a musculature that would terrify even the demons. His hands were unusually brawny with long nails, making Shiva think that just the Lord’s bare hands must have been a fearsome weapon.

  But it was the Lord’s face that stunned Shiva. His mouth was surrounded by lips that were large beyond imagination. His moustache hair did not flow down like most men, but came out in rigid tracks, like a cat’s whiskers. His nose was abnormally large, with sharp eyes on either side. His hair sprayed out a fair distance, like a mane. It almost looked as though Lord Narsimha was a man with the head of a lion.

  Had he been alive today, Lord Narsimha would have been considered a Naga by the Chandravanshis and hence feared, not revered. Don’t they have any consistency?

  ‘Consistency is the virtue of mules!’

  Shiva looked up, surprised how someone had heard his thoughts.

  A Vasudev Pandit emerged from behind the pillars. He was the shortest Pandit that Shiva had met so far; just a little over five feet. But in all other aspects, his appearance was like every other Vasudev, his hair snowy white and his face wizened with age. He was clad in a saffron dhoti and angvastram.

  ‘How did you...’

  ‘That is not important,’ interrupted the Pandit, raising his hands, not finding it important to explain how he discerned Shiva’s thoughts.

  That conversation... another time... great Neelkanth.

  Shiva could have sworn he heard the Pandit’s voice in his head. The words were broken, like the voice was coming from a great distance. Very soft and not quite clear. But it was the Pandit’s voice. Shiva frowned, for the Pandit’s lips had not moved.

  Oh Lord Vasudev... this foreigner’s...impressive.

  Shiva heard the Pandit’s voice again. The Pandit was smiling slightly. He could tell that the Neelkanth could hear his thoughts.

  ‘You’re not going to explain, are you?’ asked Shiva with a smile.

  No. You’re certainly... not ready... yet.

  The Pandit’s appearance may have been like other Vasudevs, but his character was clearly different. This Vasudev was straightforward to the point of being rude. But Shiva knew the apparent rudeness was not intended. It was just a reflection of the mercurial nature of this particular Pandit’s character.

  Maybe the Pandit was a Chandravanshi in another life.

  ‘I’m a Vasudev,’ said the Pandit. ‘There is no other identity I carry today. I’m not a son. Or husband. Or father. And, I’m not a Chandravanshi. I am only a Vasudev.’

  A man has many identities, Panditji.

  The Pandit narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Were you born a Vasudev?’

  ‘Nobody is born a Vasudev, Lord Neelkanth. You earn it. There is a competitive examination, for which Suryavanshis or Chandravanshis can appear. If you pass, you cease to be anything else. You give up all other identities. You become a Vasudev.’

  ‘But you were a Chandravanshi before you earned your right to be a Vasudev,’ smiled Shiva, as though merely stating a fact.

  The Pandit smiled, acknowledging Shiva’s statement.

  Shiva had many questions he wanted answered. But there was a most obvious one for this particular Vasudev.

  ‘A few months back, the Vasudev Pandit at the Ramjanmabhoomi temple had told me that my task is not to destroy evil, but to find out what evil is,’ said Shiva.

  The Vasudev Pandit nodded.

  ‘I’m still digesting that idea. So my question is not on that,’ continued Shiva. ‘My query is about something else he said. He had told me that the Suryavanshis represent the masculine life force and the Chandravanshis represent the feminine. What does this mean? Because I don’t think it has anything to do with men and women.’