Bheem Page 4

  Saragha chuckled ruefully. ‘No matter how many passages I explore, the cave never fails to surprise me!’

  ‘I am the only one that knows its full extent, my friend,’ Hanuman said. ‘An inner world exists here, dark veins that under-run every inch of the world’s skin.’ Hanuman gazed into the distance, ageless eyes seeing a vastness beyond mortal grasp. ‘Antaragata, the Internal,’ he said, ‘built by the ancients—vaanars and humans together. A bastion-ultimate against the might of the asuras.’

  The greybeard looked at his leader, troubled. Hanuman shook his head and smiled, and instantly Saragha’s worries vanished.

  ‘Walk with me,’ said Hanuman.

  They padded down the hall past huge statues of the vaanar kings Vali and Sugreev and the queen they had shared, Tara. Hanuman gestured to a tangle of giant roots above. Smoothly, the vaanars leapt and swung upward into a shaft that led away from the hall.

  ‘You were downcast, Saragha,’ Hanuman said, looking at the greybeard benignly. ‘Regret for the warrior, perhaps?’

  Saragha started. Of course the Vayuputra would know. No thought was hidden from him.

  ‘It is not for me to second-guess you, lord. But the human is . . . was . . . brave . . .’

  ‘And so was Ashvatthama. We vaanars will not take sides, Saragha. It has brought us only doom.’

  They sped on in silence. The rocky walls of the cave receded, replaced by a forest of roots, gnarled and knotted, woven into an impassable web. Hanuman led the way through it as if it did not exist.

  ‘The Rudra sword,’ Hanuman said. ‘The jewelled mace. They were the last of the war instruments of the ancients. Had Bheem and Ashvatthama battled with such weapons, had we physically intervened, the world itself would have been at risk. Asuras and humans destroy everything.’ Bleak eyes turned to the greybeard. ‘We must put an end to this—for all time.’

  ‘I am yours to command.’

  Hanuman smiled. ‘I wouldn’t say “command”. Perhaps I could “suggest”.’

  They continued their dizzying spiral through the roots. It grew intensely cold. Saragha’s thick pelt provided little protection against the bone-numbing chill. His limbs stiffened, his teeth rattled. Abruptly, his frozen paw lost its grip on an icy root and slipped. Saragha panicked, scrambling desperately with feet, tail and claws. But then what felt like a steel rope whipped around him, steadying him—Hanuman’s tail. Warmth flooded through Saragha and he gasped in relief and gratitude. Hanuman gestured towards a break in the roots far above. Raising his eyes, Saragha saw a blue glow—cold, brilliant, magnetic. Hanuman moved towards it, his tail around his old comrade, helping him along.

  The source of the glow took shape: a gargantuan hand woven out of the roots. Saragha stared, fascinated. The hand cupped a piercing blue pool that—impossibly—did not leak through the myriad holes in the root mesh. A soft mist hovered over the pool’s surface. From a ceiling lost in the murk far above, a single icicle speared down. A droplet formed at its tip, quivered, and fell. The pool rippled as the drop struck, ruffling the mist, which resolved itself into fantastic shapes: horned creatures, winged chariots, erotic couples of unknown species. The ripple died away and with it the visions, only to stir to life again as the next drop struck.

  ‘Maya,’ Hanuman said.

  The vaanars stood at the edge of the pool, paws and tails gripping roots that dissolved and reappeared as the mist shifted. The waters spread out before them, vast and deep, and Saragha could no longer see the pool’s end—or be certain it ended at all.

  Hanuman pointed at the droplets that formed and fell from the icicle tip with unrelenting precision. ‘The Tears of Mandodari. It is said that Mayasura wept at the death of his daughter, Mandodari, and this pool is the result of those tears.’

  Startled, Saragha looked at his leader.

  Hanuman’s eyes twinkled. ‘Nonsense, of course. This pool has existed since the beginning, as old as time, predating the Brahmaand itself.’

  Another drop struck and the mist reared up, a giant seven-headed serpent, Sesha Nag, breathing blue smoke. Saragha flinched.

  Hanuman’s tail lashed out, scattering the fearsome beast. ‘Illusion. Which is not to say that creature didn’t exist. This is maya, the substance of the world itself. Real and unreal at the same time because it exists but is not what it appears to be.’

  The mist swirled around them and Saragha felt his senses swim. He gripped his leader’s elbow, anchoring himself to the unshakable reality that was Hanuman. His eyes distant, Hanuman was seeing things that had nothing to do with the churning mist. The clutching paw brought him out of his reverie.

  ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘we have succeeded in transporting the destroyers out of this yug, saved the world for now. The vortex has taken Bheem and Ashvatthama, but what will it do with them? Samay is unreceptive to commands or suggestions. Even mine.’

  ‘What must I do, lord?’

  Hanuman pointed to the mystic waters. ‘The ancients knew this as the Pool of Possibilities. Just as Samay is “what was” and “what is”, maya is “what could be”.’ Grim-faced, he turned and looked at the greybeard. ‘I would do it myself. But maya cannot seize my mind. It has no effect on me.’

  Saragha felt his skin crawl, hackles rise. He dreaded what was coming.

  ‘Mandodari’s curse . . . Ashvatthama and Bheem . . . what horrors will they inflict on the tomorrow-world? We must know.’ Hanuman’s paw rested on Saragha’s shoulder, but, for once, the greybeard was not comforted. Hanuman continued, ‘My old friend, you are the only one to whom I can entrust this task. And I do not ask this lightly. It is through your mind alone that I can prise open maya’s mysteries . . . It is only through your eyes that I may glimpse the world to come . . .’

  Like a dark cloak, fear wrapped itself around Saragha. He understood exactly what Hanuman was ‘suggesting’—he must surrender his mind to the hallucinogenic thrall of maya. And once he walked down that unmapped path, would he be able to find a way back? Would maya’s insidious coils ever relinquish their grip? Saragha’s gorge rose and he bit it down.

  ‘I understand, lord,’ he said, looking directly at his leader. ‘It has been an honour to serve you.’

  ‘I have never forgotten our together-days in beautiful Kishkinda, Saragha.’ Hanuman was sorrowful, relentless. ‘Perhaps we could live them again, if maya but shows us the way.’

  ~

  The Vortex of Samay

  It was hate that kept Bheem alive. The elemental blast of Samay—he had never known anything like it. He had risen to the bait of Saragha’s scepticism, scoffed at the unavailability of the protective secrets that had been passed on to Ashvatthama by the asura guru. His mace would suffice. It was indestructible. And he was Bheem, the undefeated.

  His mace had been vaporized in a heartbeat. The flames feasted on his body, tearing his flesh, drinking his blood. He was blown apart, put together and then shredded again. The pain was unendurable; he could not survive it. Had the vaanar betrayed him? Was Saragha in league with the enemy, leading him into this trap? Hate surged in the warrior’s mind, bloating it with bile, engorging it with acid even as his body was obliterated. The mind cursed Saragha, railed at Ashvatthama, lacerated itself for falling blindly into the snare, and continued to live as the body fragmented and formed again, with centuries flaming past. Bheem had no shield, no mantra, but he roared, unintelligibly, defiantly, fending off death that clawed at him in the boiling cauldron that was Samay.

  ~

  New Delhi

  18 October 2017

  Vineet forced a laugh. ‘It’s not dead, just dormant.’

  In bed next to him, Amita smiled uncertainly, wondering whether he would attribute his lack of performance to her.

  ‘Maybe if I . . .’ she began, reaching for him again.

  ‘Let’s take a break,’ he said, intercepting her hand. ‘You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?’

  ‘Gave up last year.’

  ‘So did I.’ He si
ghed. ‘What I wouldn’t give for one just now. Really need something to cheer me up!’

  Amita looked at him pointedly.

  ‘Hey, it’s nothing to do with you!’ he said, attempting to placate her. ‘It’s that damn virus story for tomorrow’s paper! The Old Man has huge problems with the interview.’

  Of course the story was the problem. The interview had messed him up. Despite himself, he couldn’t get it out of his mind:

  Unknown Disease—Infected Doctor Makes Startling Diagnosis

  BY VINEET KUMAR SINHA

  New Delhi, 19 Oct: Dr Nishi Agarwal, the well-known epidemiologist, has a disquieting diagnosis for what has come to be known as the ‘Kerala Syndrome’. Currently confined to an isolation chamber in the All India Institute of Medical Sciences after being exposed to the deadly virus, Dr Agarwal sensationally revealed her diagnosis in an exclusive interview with this correspondent.

  Clarion Call

  The views expressed by Dr Nishi Agarwal are entirely her own. This newspaper finds them untenable and in no way supports or endorses them.

  The editor had insisted on the clarification. And despite Vineet’s objections, he had pushed the story to the second section. Vineet shifted uncomfortably. He rarely disagreed with the Old Man, and hated going out on a limb. But there was something about Dr Agarwal . . .

  She had been working behind the glass wall of the isolation chamber when Vineet was ushered in. For someone under a possible death sentence, she seemed remarkably composed, seated at her laboratory table, studying electronic blow-ups of what appeared to be virus images on a screen. She looked up distractedly as an administrator led Vineet to a comfortable chair on the opposite side of the glass wall.

  ‘Talk into the microphone, Mr Sinha,’ the administrator said. ‘And just knock on the door when you’re done. The technician outside will take you through the exit protocols.’

  As the interview went on, Dr Agarwal began answering his questions readily, recalling the incidents that led to the exposure. She was open, unaffected, and he had felt his professional scepticism ebbing. She spoke calmly about the fact that she was indeed infected, that there was no cure, no hope for her. He was appalled.

  ‘As you can see,’ she said flatly, ‘I have very little time left.’

  ‘Is that why you’re talking to the press?’

  She nodded. ‘The health authorities have rejected my assessment, my recommendations. Apparently I’m paranoid.’ She smiled bleakly. ‘I need the media to get my message out.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘How much do you know about the virus, Mr Sinha?’

  ‘Very little,’ he admitted.

  Nishi brought up a graph on her screen and turned it towards him. ‘It’s one of a kind,’ she said. ‘Almost metronomic in its precision.’

  Vineet noted the glimmer of scientific interest in the changed tone of her voice, the narrowing of her eyes.

  ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the progression of the disease. An infected person remains completely asymptomatic for four months—precisely 120 days, actually. Then suddenly, on the hundred and twenty-first day, the symptoms surface in their most virulent form and the victim dies within seventy-two hours. This pattern has been replicated in every patient. No exceptions.’

  ‘But that seems . . . unlikely.’

  Nishi looked directly at him. ‘We have extensive, verifiable data from the field, Mr Sinha. The disease does not differentiate between sexes, age groups, races, physical condition. The period from exposure to symptom appearance to death is identical, no matter how you split the data. Designed to cause maximum damage.’

  ‘Designed?’ Vineet jerked upright. ‘What are you implying?’

  ‘Mr Sinha, a patient with full-blown symptoms of a contagious disease is quickly isolated, has very little chance to infect others. For an outbreak to occur, it is the asymptomatic period that is the most insidious, when casual contact spreads the contagion. There is no precedent in nature for the precise four-month asymptomatic period of the Z-6 virus, the “Kerala Syndrome” as the media calls it. There is no equivalent in any affliction affecting any life was form. It is evident that this was designed, tailored . . .’

  Vineet was shaken. ‘But . . . but then you are saying that this is . . .’

  Nishi looked at him with dreadful certainty. ‘A biological weapon,’ she said. ‘We are under attack.’

  Maybe the Old Man was right, after all. Maybe she was a nutter, paranoid, driven to pathological conclusions by her own unfortunate condition. Of course! That must be it! Vineet felt an oppressive cloud lift from his mind. Dammit, why had he been so fussed about what she had said? His eyes alighted on Amita’s caramel nakedness and his body responded to his suddenly unburdened mind.

  ‘Hello!’ Amita exclaimed. ‘Look who’s woken up!’

  Grinning, Vineet reached for her. This was more like it!

  The cell phone on the bedside table beeped discreetly, insistently. Vineet’s head jerked up. Shit, that was his private number, the one very few people had. He had switched off his regular number but journalistic professionalism was important to him and he was always available to certain diligently cultivated contacts. Amita’s arm reached for his head and tried to urge him back to her breast.

  ‘Let the phone be,’ she whispered.

  ‘Hey, won’t be a moment,’ he reassured her. ‘Keep the good work going!’

  He reached across the wide bed for the phone and groaned with pleasure as he felt her mouth encircle him. He was enjoying what she was doing and the last thing he needed right now was a crank call. He looked at the screen—an unlisted number.

  ‘Who is this?’ Vineet snapped into the device.

  A moment later, all of Amita’s good work came undone. She felt Vineet shrivel up suddenly and slip out of her mouth with a forlorn plop. She looked up and was startled to see that he appeared sick, his face purple. Or was it puce? Amita prided herself on always using the precise word in her newspaper pieces—uncredited though they had been until recently.

  Abruptly, Vineet scrambled off the bed, grabbed Amita and dragged her up.

  ‘Get dressed!’ he hissed. ‘Get out! Now!’

  ‘What?’ Amita gasped.

  He flung her clothes at her, and snatched up his own.

  ‘That was the Old Man. Calling from god-knows-where! The Enforcement guys have got into this. Trying to kill the virus story! Come on! Quick! We’ve got to get out!’

  His urgency snapped her out of shock.

  ‘But . . . but . . . Enforcement . . . ?’ she stuttered, as she struggled into her clothes. ‘Should . . . should I go home?’

  ‘No!’ Vineet said, throwing essentials into an overnight bag. ‘Go to a friend! Anywhere! Keep out of sight!’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m getting out of town!’

  What he didn’t tell her was what the Old Man had said to him at the end. There was a ticket waiting for him under another name at the Nizamuddin railway station. He was being sent to Chhattisgarh to report on the damage from the cyclone. Of course, that wasn’t the real reason. They wanted him beyond the reach of the Enforcement Directorate. So they were burying him in the jungle.

  ~

  They had come for Nishi two hours earlier, three men and a woman, protected by fully compliant hazmat suits. She was being shifted—they had not told her where. Clearly, someone was determined to prevent her ‘biological weapon’ conclusion from reaching the public. To stop panic, Nishi thought sardonically. As if that’s going to be possible when the truth finally gets out.

  The woman helped Nishi into a protective suit, supervising her ‘transfer’. Quietly efficient, they took over her computer, her hard drives, her research material. Even the blood and body fluid samples she had so painstakingly collected in Kerala had been ‘acquired’—with her consent, of course. There were no crude threats, just subtle asides about ‘protecting’ her parents and Ashok. Ashok—that was ric
h! He had simply melted away the moment she had shared the shattering truth. Her calls had gone unanswered; his mother had unambiguously distanced herself from Nishi’s parents. So her ‘transfer facilitators’ didn’t know about that. They weren’t that efficient, after all. And if further proof of ineptitude were needed, there was the slip-up in the administrator’s office. With the repercussions of non-compliance already clear to Nishi, she signed the discharge papers without a fuss. Meticulously, they had compared her signature with a previously authenticated sample.

  ‘It’s different,’ the woman said.

  They had a backup set of papers, many backups. Obviously, they had come prepared for resistance.

  ‘Try again,’ said the woman.

  ‘It’s the glove,’ Nishi said. ‘It’s hampering me.’

  Following protocol, the woman ordered the unprotected hospital administrator out. The door closed behind him.

  ‘Take off the glove,’ said the woman.

  Nishi took off the glove and signed. A perfect match. She slipped the glove back on. The administrator was allowed to enter and take possession of the documents. Nishi watched him pick up the papers, slip the pen she had handled moments ago into his pocket. The virus could exist for hours outside the human body. If she had left even a trace of perspiration on the pen, if the administrator had a minor open scratch on his hand, he was already dead. And so were hundreds of people with whom he would come into contact over the next few months. We are doomed, thought Nishi as she stepped into the sealed ambulance specially prepared to convey her to an unknown destination. Safety protocols were futile—there would always be leakages. Blood, she thought. That was the only solution. Transfusions of antibody-rich serum generated by the blood of survivors. But no one had survived Z-6. It was impossible. Or was it? Was there a survivor somewhere? Someone who had recovered from the sickness without ever knowing what it was? Someone immune?