Agniputr Page 2

‘Let’s hear him first.’

  The speaker was a boy not more than seven years old. He wore a long kurta and pyjamas. His hooded eyes were bright, glistening with a life of their own in the firelight. His thin long face was saturnine in the glow of the fire lamps. He looked like a young version of Count Dracula.

  ‘Adhi Kaadhu nana Surya Prasad, this son of a worthless worm confessed to killing you father,’ the zamindar tried to convince his grandson.

  ‘Thatha garu andi, lets listen to him first,’ said the boy again, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. He was tall for a seven-year-old, close to five feet. His voice carried a ring of authority that could not be slighted, not even by his grandfather from whom he derived that trait.

  ‘Cheppi Chavu,’ the old zamindar spat out, still aiming the gun at the bleeding man.

  The tantrik gulped, wetted his bleeding lips and tried to figure out where to start. He knew he had very little time. He spat the blood trickling out of his mouth and spoke.

  ‘There is only one way to stop the Sutram. You must learn how to wield the Agniputr.’

  ‘Agniputr?’ the boy shook his head, ‘Wait...what is...?’

  ‘There is no other way’, the tantrik croaked.

  He flopped to the ground, dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  Present Day

  HE did not laugh out loud.

  Rather, his mirth comprised of a series of small throaty chuffs that galled the men sitting around him. People called him many things. ‘Guru’, ‘Necromancer’, ‘Aghori’, ‘Tantrik’ and other, meaner things. He preferred to be known as the tantrik. He had long wavy hair that he had recently washed and tied into a knot. His torso was caked with ash and all he wore was the Gochi, a loin cloth, in spite of the December cold. A streak of red ran down his forehead till the tip of his flat nose. In the gathering twilight he appeared eerie, like the lone representative of an alien civilisation.

  He used a blackened finger nail to slit the throat of a pigeon that he held gently in his hand. The tantrik craned the neck back only that much to allow for droplets of blood to fall on a piece of flattened metal until a small puddle formed on its dented surface. With a gentle nudge, he broke the pigeon’s neck, thus ending its wild eyed misery.

  He used a cylindrical strip of metal like a spoon to widen the circumference of the blood on the metal plate. The tantrik was lost to the world, as though critiquing some morbid art. He pulled out a couple of withered leaves from a cloth sack and dropped them into the blood.

  To the onlookers nothing changed dramatically but the tantrik drew a sharp breath...and chuffed again. He inverted the plate, dropping the blood and the withered leaves to the thirsty ground below.

  ‘It is remarkable, I say, it is remarkable,’ he declared in a purr. His voice was mild and soft, it could have been the voice of a priest, or a salesman.

  ‘It is revealed to me only now. Only now, I say. The God of Agony was trapped many years ago, yes, I say it was trapped,’ he shook his head with disdain, ‘I thought I failed. I say, I thought that. We must free it or it is of no use, is it? I say it is of no use. But listen well for we must control it before we release a God from its trap, we must leash it or it will wipe us out. It is very powerful. I say it is more powerful than, as its maker, I ever intended it to be. A quirk of fate you think? I think not. It is an act of randomness you think? No, I say no. My command became its purpose and thus it became reality, do you understand? I say you don’t.’

  The tantrik chuffed again which produced many a frown from the group of onlookers, some of whom had had enough of his rantings. Karan Kiromal, watched intently. He knew the tantrik was not finished. In the end the tantrik would reveal the plan. They had to bottle up and listen to his rantings till then. There really was no other way out. The tantrik had always been that way. He ranted and raved, spewed out information that made little or no sense to Karan. Still, in the end he would tell him concisely what he needed to do.

  Karan was old, nearing eighty in years. His birthday was just a couple of months away. He was not energetic enough to do the things that needed to be done. He depended on his nephew, Govind Kiromal, to do his bidding. Govind controlled the affairs of their family, industries, and the political future of their party. At that moment, uncle and nephew were sitting cross-legged on the ground.

  It was chilly in the fields in winter but they hardly had a choice. If they had brought the tantrik into their more than hundred-year-old haveli in Jaipur, it would have been downright dangerous.

  Thirty years ago, Rajasthan was theirs for the asking. No one dared to challenge Karan Kiromal. In those days, the tantrik was a regular visitor at his haveli though Karan’s elder brother, the late lamented Ganshyamlal Kiromal, would have had the man tarred and feathered had he known. But, of late, secrets were hard to keep, especially from the media. Even the slightest suspicion would destroy his nephew’s career.

  Govind Kiromal cleared his throat, ‘How do you know this?’ he asked, challenging the tantrik’s observation.

  The man stared at Govind for a long moment. It was like a hungry wild cat waiting to pounce. Suddenly, he burst into full throated laughter.

  ‘He asks me how I know, Karan, should I tell him?’ he asked. Without waiting for a reply, he continued.

  ‘Because Govind Kiromal, you are bound to it. I don’t say it. The blood says it. Can you read drops of blood, Kiromal? I can. I say, don’t ask stupid questions, just listen.’

  Uncle nudged nephew and shook his head to say, ‘Shut up’.

  Karan had no children but his elder brother had seven of them. Govind was the third; neither old enough to be involved in politics with his father, nor young enough to be excused from the harrowing work of managing their estate, a job he hated. It was therefore not a surprise to anyone when Govind found his uncle to be a better alternative. Karan loved Govind like the son he could never have. Soon enough, Govind became Karan Kiromal’s political and legal heir.

  His association with his uncle had paid rich dividends for Govind. He was at the time the second most powerful public official in the country, the Home Minister of India. Politically, perhaps he was the most powerful.

  Wiping the plate clean on both sides, the tantrik placed the implement on the ground. With one flick of his head, the man noted the positions of all the people around him. Karan, Govind, his right hand man Shiro, the goons that followed Shiro, he needed to know where all of them were positioned. It was important for what he was just about to do.

  The two politicians were closest to him, within touching distance. The uncle with his eyes closed, putting on a show of meditation, while the nephew was meddling with a cellular phone. The rest of the crew were standing in a circle around them to block the view of anyone snooping around.

  Without a warning, the tantrik pounced on Govind and held his right hand in a vise-like grip. Before the politician could realise it, he cut off the little finger on Govind Kiromal’s right hand with a knife he pulled out of nowhere.

  Govind let out a screech that ended in a horrible wail of pain. He clutched his hand, staring at the stump in shocked disbelief. Shiro and his men rushed at the tantrik. They had already drawn a variety of weapons which included country made pistols, knives while one of them even had a midsized spear. The henchmen needed no better excuse than the fact that the tantrik had cut off their employer’s finger. They had every intention of burying him that day. If possible, alive.

  The tantrik did not as much as look up from the severed finger. He flicked a wrist, just a faint movement, as though he were ridding himself of a persistent fly. The thugs went flying into the air like leaves in an autumn wind. Not one of them rose.

  The tantrik did not bother to examine the result of his handiwork. Instead, he drew four quadrants on the metal plate with a piece of yellowed chalk. He pulled a few pieces of withered leaves from his cotton sack and placed them in one quadrant. He placed a piece of string in another. In the third quadrant he placed Govind’s sever
ed finger while in the fourth quadrant he placed a withered crow’s foot. He dipped his makeshift spoon into the blood pooled around the finger and sprinkled it into the remaining three quadrants of the plate, whispering mantras under his breath.

  Karan Kiromal could not drag his gaze away from the crow’s foot. A shrivelled claw quivered. The old man shuddered feverishly. The leaves turned green, as though they had erupted into life just that afternoon.

  The tantrik pulled out the string from the second quadrant. He folded the piece of metal with enormous effort and dexterity until it was the size of a toe thumb nail. He wound the thread around the folded piece of metal first in one direction and then in another such that the thread criss-crossed what was evidently a talisman.

  The tantrik sidled up to Govind. He tied the talisman high on the minister’s left forearm. Govind, half delirious with pain, jerked his head around to stare balefully at the tantrik. The tantrik groped for Govind’s injured right arm. The minister resisted, folding his arm deeper into his body. The tantrik pried the hand out, ignoring the Home Minister’s bleating protests. He uncurled Govind’s fingers.

  All five of them!

  The tantrik announced, ‘You will be the king of the world. Don’t forget that. There are grave dangers afoot and like all strong kings you must brave the dangers, I say, you must face them. Remember this Govind Kiromal, the talisman that now rests on your arm is the most powerful one I have attempted till now. You will be in command of anyone you may come across. Even your so-called superiors will be slaves that do your bidding. The talisman should not always be with you though. No, I say no. That is not its purpose. You must offer it to the Sutram when the time is right. I will then offer a sacrifice, I say, a human sacrifice and thus will the God of Agony obey.’

  Govind, till then transfixed on his brand new little finger, turned to the tantrik.

  ‘Who’s this human sacrifice?’

  ‘There is a person of great power. I will guide you to this person.’

  Govind nodded briefly.

  ‘Now go Govind Kiromal, I say go, for good news awaits you.’

  CHAPTER 3

  SATYANARAYANA Raghava Kasavari, SRK to his friends, was all smiles as he peered out of the first class compartment onto platform no.1 of the Eluru railway station. He spotted his brother and father peering into the coaches as the train came to a grudging three-minute halt.

  He hopped onto the cemented platform, two pieces of luggage slung over his shoulder. He had politely refused the services of a porter by the time it took his brother, Vishwanath, to reach him in a dead run.

  ‘Annaya,’ he yelled.

  ‘My god, you’ve become a man!’ SRK exclaimed, as he hugged his kid brother.

  ‘And you look like Shah Rukh Khan more than ever,’ his brother blurted out in between mouthfuls of air. By then Jaganath Kasavari, their father, joined them.

  ‘Hi dad.’

  LATER, at home, after a hearty breakfast, SRK joined his father in the living room of their meyda. Any dwelling that had more than one floor of constructed area was called a Meyda in Eluru, inferring a rich man’s house.

  SRK still remembered the Eluru of his childhood when there were only a handful of meydas. The biggest of them all was of course the ‘Surya-Nilayam’; home to the Surya Royal family. That was a true meyda, spanning an entire street length while connecting two parallel streets. The entry was through one street and the exit was through another. Now-a-days even they, the Kasavari, owned a meyda, a modest affair built in hundred square yards of land.

  ‘How’s work?’ his father wanted to know.

  ‘As interesting as ever. I’ve been deputed into RA...into the scientific research wing of the army along with a bunch of other people. Military intelligence wants scientists now to understand many things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well dad, its classified information, national security and so on. But typically, it’s about behavioural patterns of terrorists.’

  ‘Since when do they need physicists to study behaviour? Anyway, how’s that dour faced boss of yours? I forget her name.’

  ‘Sheila? Sheila Pitambar. Oh yes, she’s fine. Still doesn’t smile much and if I were her, I wouldn’t too.’

  Jaganath nodded gravely.

  ‘Yes, you told me she lost her husband in 2005 in the floods in Mumbai and parents during 26/11. Must be terrible to be all alone after all that. She must start seeing someone, get married. Maybe start a life again.’

  ‘Sheila? I don’t think she’s even human any more. I’ll be sorry for the man who marries her.’

  Jaganath raised his eyebrows philosophically.

  ‘How’s the retired life treating you, dad?’

  Jaganath shrugged, ‘Your mom hates it that I watch news on the TV.’

  His mother walked in at that very moment, wiping her hands on the pallu of her saree.

  ‘Did you show him the picture?’ she asked her husband.

  ‘Yes...I was about to...I…’

  ‘Anukuna, I knew it. My competition is the damn news, it’s a downright insult. He doesn’t remember a thing he needs to do for his house but he needs to know whatever is happening in the rest of the world.’

  By this time, she had retrieved an envelope from one of the drawers on the wall mounted cabinet.

  ‘Here’s the picture, her name is Sri Sailaja. I think you’ll remember her. She’s a distant relative of ours. You used to call her S2 when you were young.’

  SRK smiled wanly and took the envelope.

  ‘Go on open it. You might as well take a look at the girl with whom you’re going to spend the rest of your life,’ his father said.

  SRK already knew how she looked. After all, the entire episode up to the time his mother handed him her photograph a few minutes ago was orchestrated so he could marry her. He loved her from when he was fifteen and she was twelve.

  ‘I’ll see it...later,’ he left the envelope aside.

  SRK worked at the CSIR, short for Council of Scientific and Industrial Research, the largest publicly funded research centre in the world. The council had loaned its scientists for many government projects. Thus, he was part of a team of scientists assigned to RAW—Research and Analysis Wing—the intelligence arm of the Indian Army.

  Part of what he had said to his father was true, though that part was not related to his core area of expertise. He was in the newly established PAD, short for Paranormal Activities Division. More specifically, he collected scientific evidence of unexplained and so-called paranormal activities, anything between ghost sightings to demonic presence, and tried to figure out a scientific explanation for it.

  His suspicions that PAD was someone’s private agenda was accentuated by the fact that official India was secular, which was to say that it did not subscribe to any one religion or set of religious beliefs. Ghost hunting depended on believing in religious hocus-pocus. One could not touch upon the ‘spirit world’ without believing in the ‘spirit’. If his suspicion proved to be true, well, there was a lot of public funds being diverted to satisfy someone’s private whims.

  He had asked his boss, Sheila, many times why the division even existed. The answer was always a ‘mind-your-business’ line. SRK suspected that maybe Sheila did not know the answer.

  Other than quantum mechanics, SRK was also a confirmed meta-physician. Though one was a science and the other a branch of philosophy, quantum mechanics sometimes encouraged a person to examine the other contours of existence.

  He was happy at work. He did what he liked to do, he had travelled across the length and breadth of India to investigate so-called paranormal activities though he had to confess that the data with him was scant and almost useless. Still, RAW funded his research for some unknown reason and he had nothing to complain about. He only wished he could give something back in return.

  A few months earlier Sri, the love of his life, had e-mailed him that her parents had started a hunt for a suitable groom for her. He knew he was n
ot their first choice. Though their families were related, a feud, no one knew when it had started and in aid of what, managed to keep them at arm’s length.

  He realised it was time to make his move or lose her. He hatched a simple plan that played on the fear factor of small town parents. It had worked like clockwork, thanks to his buddies from school. He was getting engaged to her in a few days. SRK looked forward to an evening with the old gang. He had a lot to thank them for.

  Drinks were on him.

  THE bar in Hotel Manorama had new seating arrangements, better upholstery and most importantly, the smell of decay and stale air was replaced by central air-conditioning and room fresheners. The bartender was actually friendly and wore a smart uniform. The patrons in the bar at that late hour were few and drunk. One by one, they hopped to the adjacent restaurant, also part of the same establishment, for a spicy Andhra meal.

  The atmosphere around their table was buoyant, half empty mugs of beer, quaint whisky and cocktail glasses, plates of chilli chicken and meat, roaring laughter and loud conversation. Valaneni, the most cynical member of the group and least successful of them all, was tanking up.

  ‘Hello...you, get me another large one and double quick,’ he yelled at a waiter.

  SRK, who was opposite him, grinned at Valaneni.

  ‘Dude, that’s like your ninth round, you sure?’

  Valaneni sneered. ‘Yeah I am fine... I am no scientist but I can walk down that cremation ground in the middle of the night with the whisky inside me,’ he said.

  ‘Good for you.’

  Santosh, Valaneni, Sivaprasad, Narayana Prasad, Meher Prasad, all of them friends from school, all of them drunk.

  ‘Does your father know that you even drink?’ Sivaprasad asked SRK.

  ‘Yeah, he’s cool.’

  ‘Does S2 know?’

  ‘Yeah, she doesn’t mind as long as we are not married. She was clear that it was only until we tied the knot. No more drinking after that.’

  ‘What have we done?’ Santosh said in mock anguish.