The Immortals of Meluha
Page 2
The Gunas, despite being used to the brutality of regular battle, were shell-shocked by the viciousness of the attack on the women and children.
‘I keep nothing secret from you. All of you know the invitation of the foreigners,’ continued Shiva, pointing to Nandi and the Meluhans. ‘They fought shoulder-to-shoulder with us today. They have earned my trust. I want to go with them to Meluha. But this cannot be my decision alone.’
‘You are our chief, Shiva,’ said Bhadra. ‘Your decision is our decision. That is the tradition.’
‘Not this time,’ said Shiva holding out his hand. ‘This will change our lives completely. I believe the change will be for the better. Anything will be better than the pointlessness of the violence we face daily. I have told you what I want to do. But the choice to go or not is yours. Let the Gunas speak. This time, I follow you.’
The Gunas were clear on their tradition. But the respect for Shiva was not just based on convention, but also on his character. He had led the Gunas to their greatest military victories through his genius and sheer personal bravery.
They spoke in one voice. ‘Your decision is our decision.’
It had been five days since Shiva had uprooted his tribe. The caravan had camped in a nook at the base of one of the great valleys dotting the route to Meluha. Shiva had organized the camp in three concentric circles. The yaks had been tied around the outermost circle, to act as an alarm in case of any intruders. The men were stationed in the intermediate ring to fight if there was a battle. And the women and children were in the innermost circle, just around the fire. Expendable first, defenders second and the most vulnerable at the inside.
Shiva was prepared for the worst. He believed that there would be an ambush. It was only a matter of time.
The Pakratis should have been delighted to have access to the prime lands, as well as free occupation of the lake front. But Shiva knew that Yakhya, the Pakrati chief, would not allow them to leave peacefully. Yakhya would like nothing better than to become a legend by claiming that he had defeated Shiva’s Gunas and won the land for the Pakratis. It was precisely this weird tribal logic that Shiva detested. In an atmosphere like this, there was never any hope for peace.
Shiva relished the call of battle, revelled in its art. But he also knew that ultimately, the battles in his land were an exercise in futility.
He turned to an alert Nandi sitting some distance away. The twenty-five Meluhan soldiers were seated in an arc around a second camp circle.
Why did he pick the Gunas to immigrate? Why not the Pakratis?
Shiva’s thoughts were broken as he saw a shadow move in the distance. He stared hard, but everything was still. Sometimes the light played tricks in this part of the world. Shiva relaxed his stance.
And then he saw the shadow again.
‘TO ARMS!’ screamed Shiva.
The Gunas and Meluhans drew their weapons and took up battle positions as fifty Pakratis charged in. The stupidity of rushing in without thought hit them hard as they met with a wall of panicky animals. The yaks bucked and kicked uncontrollably, injuring many Pakratis before they could even begin their skirmish. A few slipped through. And weapons clashed.
A young Pakrati, obviously a novice, charged at Shiva, swinging wildly. Shiva stepped back, avoiding the strike. He brought his sword back up in a smooth arc, inflicting a superficial cut on the Pakrati’s chest. The young warrior cursed and swung back, opening his flank. That was all Shiva needed. He pushed his sword in brutally, cutting through the gut of his enemy. Almost instantly, he pulled the blade out, twisting it as he did, and left the Pakrati to a slow, painful death. Shiva turned around to find a Pakrati ready to strike a Guna. He jumped high and swung from the elevation slicing neatly through the Pakrati’s sword arm, severing it.
Meanwhile Bhadra, as adept at the art of battle as Shiva, was fighting two Pakratis simultaneously, with a sword in each hand. His hump did not seem to impeded his movements as he transferred his weight easily, striking the Pakrati on his left on his throat. Leaving him to die slowly, he swung with his right hand, cutting across the face of the other soldier, gouging his eye out. As the soldier fell, Bhadra brought his left sword down brutally, ending the suffering quickly for this hapless enemy.
The battle at the Meluhan end of camp was very different. They were exceptionally well-trained soldiers. But they were not vicious. They were following rules, avoiding killing, as far as possible.
Outnumbered and led poorly, it was but a short while before the Pakratis were beaten. Almost half of them lay dead and the rest were on their knees, begging for mercy.
One of them was Yakhya, his shoulder cut deep by Nandi, debilitating the movement of his sword arm.
Bhadra stood behind the Pakrati chief, his sword raised high, ready to strike. ‘Shiva, quick and easy or slow and painful?’
‘Sir!’ intervened Nandi, before Shiva could speak. Shiva turned towards the Meluhan.
‘This is wrong! They are begging for mercy! Killing them is against the rules of war.’
‘You don’t know the Pakratis!’ said Shiva. ‘They are brutal. They will keep attacking us even if there is nothing to gain. This has to end. Once and for all.’
‘It is already ending. You are not going to live here anymore. You will soon be in Meluha.’
Shiva stood silent.
Nandi continued, ‘How you want to end this is up to you. More of the same or different?’ Bhadra looked at Shiva. Waiting.
‘You can show the Pakratis that you are better,’ said Nandi. Shiva turned towards the horizon, seeing the massive mountains.
Destiny? Chance of a better life?
He turned back to Bhadra. ‘Disarm them. Take all their provisions. Release them.’
Even if the Pakratis are mad enough to go back to their village, rearm and come back, we would be long gone.
A shocked Bhadra stared at Shiva. But immediately started implementing the order.
Nandi gazed at Shiva with hope. There was but one thought that reverberated through his mind. ‘Shiva has the heart. He has the potential. Please, let it be him. I pray to you Lord Ram, let it be him.’
Shiva walked back to the young soldier he had stabbed. He lay writhing on the ground, face contorted in pain, as blood oozed slowly out of his guts. For this first time in his life, Shiva felt pity for a Pakrati. He drew his sword and ended the young soldier’s suffering.
After marching continuously for four weeks, the caravan of invited immigrants crested the final mountain to reach the outskirts of Srinagar, the capital of the valley of Kashmir. Nandi had talked excitedly about the glories of his perfect land. Shiva had prepared himself to see some incredible sights, which he could not have imagined in his simple homeland. But nothing could have primed him for the sheer spectacle of what certainly was paradise. Meluha. The land of pure life!
The mighty Jhelum river, a roaring tigress in the mountains, slowed down to the beat of a languorous cow as she entered the valley. She caressed the heavenly land of Kashmir, meandering her way into the immense Dal Lake. Further down, she broke away from the lake, continuing her journey to the sea.
The vast valley was covered by a lush green canvas of grass. On it was painted the masterpiece that was Kashmir. Rows upon rows of flowers arrayed all of God’s colours, their brilliance broken only by the soaring Chinar trees, offering a majestic, yet warm Kashmiri welcome. The melodious singing of the birds calmed the exhausted ears of Shiva’s tribe, accustomed only to the rude howling of icy mountain winds.
‘I keep nothing secret from you. All of you know the invitation of the foreigners,’ continued Shiva, pointing to Nandi and the Meluhans. ‘They fought shoulder-to-shoulder with us today. They have earned my trust. I want to go with them to Meluha. But this cannot be my decision alone.’
‘You are our chief, Shiva,’ said Bhadra. ‘Your decision is our decision. That is the tradition.’
‘Not this time,’ said Shiva holding out his hand. ‘This will change our lives completely. I believe the change will be for the better. Anything will be better than the pointlessness of the violence we face daily. I have told you what I want to do. But the choice to go or not is yours. Let the Gunas speak. This time, I follow you.’
The Gunas were clear on their tradition. But the respect for Shiva was not just based on convention, but also on his character. He had led the Gunas to their greatest military victories through his genius and sheer personal bravery.
They spoke in one voice. ‘Your decision is our decision.’
It had been five days since Shiva had uprooted his tribe. The caravan had camped in a nook at the base of one of the great valleys dotting the route to Meluha. Shiva had organized the camp in three concentric circles. The yaks had been tied around the outermost circle, to act as an alarm in case of any intruders. The men were stationed in the intermediate ring to fight if there was a battle. And the women and children were in the innermost circle, just around the fire. Expendable first, defenders second and the most vulnerable at the inside.
Shiva was prepared for the worst. He believed that there would be an ambush. It was only a matter of time.
The Pakratis should have been delighted to have access to the prime lands, as well as free occupation of the lake front. But Shiva knew that Yakhya, the Pakrati chief, would not allow them to leave peacefully. Yakhya would like nothing better than to become a legend by claiming that he had defeated Shiva’s Gunas and won the land for the Pakratis. It was precisely this weird tribal logic that Shiva detested. In an atmosphere like this, there was never any hope for peace.
Shiva relished the call of battle, revelled in its art. But he also knew that ultimately, the battles in his land were an exercise in futility.
He turned to an alert Nandi sitting some distance away. The twenty-five Meluhan soldiers were seated in an arc around a second camp circle.
Why did he pick the Gunas to immigrate? Why not the Pakratis?
Shiva’s thoughts were broken as he saw a shadow move in the distance. He stared hard, but everything was still. Sometimes the light played tricks in this part of the world. Shiva relaxed his stance.
And then he saw the shadow again.
‘TO ARMS!’ screamed Shiva.
The Gunas and Meluhans drew their weapons and took up battle positions as fifty Pakratis charged in. The stupidity of rushing in without thought hit them hard as they met with a wall of panicky animals. The yaks bucked and kicked uncontrollably, injuring many Pakratis before they could even begin their skirmish. A few slipped through. And weapons clashed.
A young Pakrati, obviously a novice, charged at Shiva, swinging wildly. Shiva stepped back, avoiding the strike. He brought his sword back up in a smooth arc, inflicting a superficial cut on the Pakrati’s chest. The young warrior cursed and swung back, opening his flank. That was all Shiva needed. He pushed his sword in brutally, cutting through the gut of his enemy. Almost instantly, he pulled the blade out, twisting it as he did, and left the Pakrati to a slow, painful death. Shiva turned around to find a Pakrati ready to strike a Guna. He jumped high and swung from the elevation slicing neatly through the Pakrati’s sword arm, severing it.
Meanwhile Bhadra, as adept at the art of battle as Shiva, was fighting two Pakratis simultaneously, with a sword in each hand. His hump did not seem to impeded his movements as he transferred his weight easily, striking the Pakrati on his left on his throat. Leaving him to die slowly, he swung with his right hand, cutting across the face of the other soldier, gouging his eye out. As the soldier fell, Bhadra brought his left sword down brutally, ending the suffering quickly for this hapless enemy.
The battle at the Meluhan end of camp was very different. They were exceptionally well-trained soldiers. But they were not vicious. They were following rules, avoiding killing, as far as possible.
Outnumbered and led poorly, it was but a short while before the Pakratis were beaten. Almost half of them lay dead and the rest were on their knees, begging for mercy.
One of them was Yakhya, his shoulder cut deep by Nandi, debilitating the movement of his sword arm.
Bhadra stood behind the Pakrati chief, his sword raised high, ready to strike. ‘Shiva, quick and easy or slow and painful?’
‘Sir!’ intervened Nandi, before Shiva could speak. Shiva turned towards the Meluhan.
‘This is wrong! They are begging for mercy! Killing them is against the rules of war.’
‘You don’t know the Pakratis!’ said Shiva. ‘They are brutal. They will keep attacking us even if there is nothing to gain. This has to end. Once and for all.’
‘It is already ending. You are not going to live here anymore. You will soon be in Meluha.’
Shiva stood silent.
Nandi continued, ‘How you want to end this is up to you. More of the same or different?’ Bhadra looked at Shiva. Waiting.
‘You can show the Pakratis that you are better,’ said Nandi. Shiva turned towards the horizon, seeing the massive mountains.
Destiny? Chance of a better life?
He turned back to Bhadra. ‘Disarm them. Take all their provisions. Release them.’
Even if the Pakratis are mad enough to go back to their village, rearm and come back, we would be long gone.
A shocked Bhadra stared at Shiva. But immediately started implementing the order.
Nandi gazed at Shiva with hope. There was but one thought that reverberated through his mind. ‘Shiva has the heart. He has the potential. Please, let it be him. I pray to you Lord Ram, let it be him.’
Shiva walked back to the young soldier he had stabbed. He lay writhing on the ground, face contorted in pain, as blood oozed slowly out of his guts. For this first time in his life, Shiva felt pity for a Pakrati. He drew his sword and ended the young soldier’s suffering.
After marching continuously for four weeks, the caravan of invited immigrants crested the final mountain to reach the outskirts of Srinagar, the capital of the valley of Kashmir. Nandi had talked excitedly about the glories of his perfect land. Shiva had prepared himself to see some incredible sights, which he could not have imagined in his simple homeland. But nothing could have primed him for the sheer spectacle of what certainly was paradise. Meluha. The land of pure life!
The mighty Jhelum river, a roaring tigress in the mountains, slowed down to the beat of a languorous cow as she entered the valley. She caressed the heavenly land of Kashmir, meandering her way into the immense Dal Lake. Further down, she broke away from the lake, continuing her journey to the sea.
The vast valley was covered by a lush green canvas of grass. On it was painted the masterpiece that was Kashmir. Rows upon rows of flowers arrayed all of God’s colours, their brilliance broken only by the soaring Chinar trees, offering a majestic, yet warm Kashmiri welcome. The melodious singing of the birds calmed the exhausted ears of Shiva’s tribe, accustomed only to the rude howling of icy mountain winds.
