Bheem Page 7

  The vaanars under Hanuman had fought for Ram and the human race, but that decision had proved ruinous. The asura venom had decimated them, the holocaust burnt deep in the vaanar racial memory. For the vaanars, the choice was stark: their ancient ally or the enemy who had ultimately defeated them. They had cast their lot—but with whom? Bheem had no idea. Trusting Saragha could play directly into the enemy’s hands. And yet . . . and yet . . . the flames had been the only option. Had the greybeard not lured him in, had Bheem not challenged the vortex, Ashvatthama would have escaped; the battle would have been over already. The sword that Saragha wielded had been two-edged and only he knew where its cut had been aimed.

  For three millennia, Saragha had lived with this secret, and Samay, the record-keeper of all existence, had stored his thoughts deep in its never-ending archives. In an instant, those records could be laid bare for Bheem—Saragha’s motive revealed. But the vaanar was concealed within the cavern walls; there had been no physical contact between them, and Bheem had no key to the greybeard’s memories, locked though they were in the warrior’s mind by Samay. Bheem ran his eyes along the walls: limestone, layer upon layer of sediment. He could smash through that rock as if it were termite-riddled wood. The matter would be resolved instantly. Saragha was within reach. All it would take was a touch. But there was something unexpected about that voice behind the stone, something unsettling that set Bheem’s teeth on edge.

  Sudden snorts and grunts—the vaanar was laughing again! And moving . . . The rasping growls receded, travelling a subterranean path out of the recess. Bheem stepped into the outer cave following the sound, eyeing the calcified walls behind which he could hear the light-padded shuffle of the vaanar.

  Aviva froze. She had reached a cluster of stalagmites and petrified roots nestling against the arched entrance of the recess. All at once, the grunts and snorts had restarted, moving closer. And then the giant appeared, shouldering past the roots out of the chamber into the main cave. Fear stabbed at Aviva; she broke out in sweat despite the chill of the cave. Involuntarily, her mind snapped back to that night in war-torn Gaza, seven years ago, when she had been inadvertently separated from her unit of the Israel Defence Forces, in the ruins of Al Aqhwar Street. She had hidden in the public washroom, hoping its horrendous stench would deter the cursing Hamas fighters as they smashed walls and splintered doors, looking for her. Aviva remembered the stink that was yoked inescapably to fear and struggled for control as she watched the gigantic man approach. But the brute ignored her and moved away, eyes fixed on the wall from which the strange, bestial snuffles emerged.

  Bheem placed his left hand on the wall, flexed powerful fingers, sliding them forward, digging into the surface. Powdered limestone crumbled to the floor.

  ‘Break the rock! Smash it!’ shouted Saragha.

  Bheem stared. Could he be mistaken? No . . . It was the greybeard’s voice. Bheem resisted the impulse to crash through the layers of limestone and confront Saragha. The vaanar felt secure behind the brittle rock face. Naturally, there had to be a reason.

  ‘Why does he hesitate?’ Saragha yelled. ‘These flimsy walls are hardly a barrier for Bheem, the destroyer!’

  ‘Flimsy, yes . . .’ Bheem agreed, ‘but still walls. Why does a wily old vaanar decide to place them between friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ Saragha repeated.

  And paused.

  Bheem waited. That single word could be interpreted in multiple ways. Had there been an ironic inflection or was it an affirmation?

  ‘Of course we are friends!’ Saragha screamed. ‘We have been friends for thirty centuries! The longest friendship I have ever had with someone who first met me just a few hours ago!’

  ‘Bheem, the destroyer’ . . . ‘Friends for thirty centuries’ . . . It was ridiculous, insane. The voice was moving again, with the giant called ‘Bheem’ walking alongside, tracking it. Like a hooked fish, Aviva followed behind helplessly, slipping into stalagmite shadows, unconsciously muttering her talisman, heading deep into the cavern.

  ~

  Outside the Cave

  Vasu turned the body around. He didn’t need to look at the head lolling on a broken neck to know that ‘Hingo Dagtar’ was dead. And so was everyone else in the camp. Vasu clicked his tongue, simulating a wood cricket’s chirrup with astonishing accuracy. Noiselessly, his men gathered around, fifteen liberators, insurgents, Naxalites, Maoists—what they were depended on one’s point of view. They were the core of Vasu’s three-hundred-man group, all Adivasis from the jungle villages of Chhattisgarh. For twelve years now they had fought government units and rival ‘revolutionary’ forces in the deep jungle. The oppression that had caused them to rebel was no longer relevant; it was about power now, territorial control. Accessing this sector of the Bastar wilderness was particularly dangerous—Vasu and his men were extremely fastidious about whom they let in. Dr Royce, though, was no fool. As soon as the expedition camp was established, he had set up rudimentary schools in the neighbouring villages. The team’s resident doctor, Dr Hingorani—‘Hingo Dagtar’—had provided badly needed medical help, even extracting bullets from the bodies of wounded fighters on several occasions. By government reckoning, this was sedition; public knowledge of it unquestionably would have led to the team’s arrest. They had had no choice, of course. The expedition’s survival depended on coming to terms with the fighters. Word had gone out: Dr Royce’s people had Vasu’s protection. Opportunistic incursions and pilfering were ruthlessly stamped out—the camp could have been situated in the high-security grounds of the Rashtrapati Bhavan in New Delhi. Vasu’s law prevailed.

  Until now.

  The men looked at their leader nervously. They were experienced fighters; fear and death were family, the constant beat of their harsh lives. But they were shaken by the murderous fury on Vasu’s face as he gently lowered the doctor’s lifeless body and absorbed the fact that his protection had meant nothing.

  ‘The cave,’ Vasu said, quietly.

  ‘The killers, Dada?’ asked Kisna, Vasu’s lieutenant.

  Vasu stood, hefting his automatic rifle. ‘This was at least two days ago.’ He looked at the cave mouth. ‘But pray that we find someone alive inside. Those who have reason to be in there . . . or those who do not.’

  Vasu moved towards the yawning cavern entrance, his band of ruthless fighters following soundlessly.

  Water murmured through rock-strewn rills, the sound magnified by the emptiness of the massive cave, drowning out the soft padding of the vaanar’s feet behind the walls. But Bheem knew exactly where his adversary was. Adversary? He couldn’t decide; not until he knew what was in Saragha’s mind. And he was about to find out. Bheem had spotted an almost invisible crevice in the rock face, large enough to squeeze through without smashing the walls and prematurely alerting Saragha. A quick move and Bheem would be through, a bow’s length from the greybeard. There was a minor snag, though: Avivafein.

  From the moment the woman had crept into the outer cave, Bheem had been aware of her presence. She was of no consequence, however, and Bheem had ignored her. Unfortunately, in an attempt to conceal herself, Avivafein had slipped into the shadow of the roots adjoining the crevice. Bheem’s planned plunge through the fissure would panic the woman, delaying the warrior fractionally, affording the vaanar a few vital seconds to scramble to safety. Bheem conspicuously looked away, vaanar spoor sufficient to pinpoint his quarry as he weighed options.

  Sound. The cavern beyond the passageway. Whoever is in there is not a professional, Vasu thought. Or the sound was deliberate and this was a trap. Vasu did not move, a silent shadow in the murk. The faint sounds again, echoing up the passageway—snorts, grunts. An animal. Probably a bear. Vasu exhaled. His pulse was normal, muscles relaxed. Despite the rage he felt, he was fully in control of himself, skills honed by years of guerrilla warfare. He chirruped. Like wraiths, his men slid out from behind stalagmites and ossified roots, scurried forward, melted into the pervasive gloom. The snuffles and hiccough
s were closer now, just beyond the collapsed archway that pulsed with a strange, flickering light. But despite their proximity, it was increasingly difficult to locate the grunts precisely, distorted as they were by the hiss and crackle of flame and the sound of water that had risen to a steady roar.

  ‘Ete atra asti!’

  An abrupt, guttural shout, slicing through the cave.

  Vasu froze. That was no animal.

  ‘They are here!’

  The obscure Sanskrit was no impediment; Aviva understood the shouted warning instantly. Desperately, she flattened herself against the wall of the recess, nerves vibrating like violin strings.

  Minutes earlier, the man she was following, the ‘warrior’, had suddenly turned and frowned. For a heart-stopping second, Aviva thought she had been spotted but the man called ‘Bheem’ was looking down the passageway. Aviva stole a glance in the same direction: nothing. Her eyes swivelled back—and widened with shock. The ‘warrior’ had vanished.

  The Israeli gaped in disbelief. How had he done that? Aviva had been distracted for just a . . . And then she heard it: a chirrup—a wood cricket. Aviva wasn’t an entomologist but she knew no wood cricket could survive in the stony lifelessness of the cave. The sound was clearly a signal. Men coming up the passage, a group that felt compelled to conceal its approach. Hostiles. Aviva slithered into a cleft in the wall, just in time. Within moments, men with guns, trained men, advanced methodically, positioning themselves dangerously close to the hidden Israeli. And then the creature in the walls had shrieked.

  ‘Ete atra asti!’

  An ambush! And he had walked right into it. Self-contempt ripped through Vasu’s mind. Then his battle experience cut in, shouldering aside futile considerations. Coolly, counter-intuitively, Vasu signalled the attack. His men clicked smoothly into pre-assigned roles: automatic rifles hammering, paired fighters covered by withering fire slipping forward, lobbing grenades into the forest of stalagmites that was visible beyond the archway. Flash and roar and shrieking shrapnel—an instant of mind-shredding chaos. Smoke and lime dust threw a blinding mantle over the cave beyond the passageway. And then the screaming mob of fighters was through the entrance, disappearing into the opaque fog of gravel and earth crust that hung in the air, pulsing and flickering like a dense swarm of fireflies.

  Vasu fired as he ran, not knowing what lay ahead. The enemy, of course, would be as blinded as he was so prevailing in the encounter would be a matter of luck. Vasu had been in similar situations many times, firefights on moonless nights, pursuit through dense jungles; the single critical element was to hold one’s nerve. Suddenly, his foot twisted on something soft and he pitched forward, crashing shoulder-first into a stalagmite, desperately clutching his gun. He sprawled, tried to rise, failed. Shit! Foot’s trapped! Vasu kicked out, reached down and gripped . . . hair? He tugged hard; something parted like splitting leather and came away in his hand. A head. Dr Royce. Vasu froze in shock, then gagged and flung away the grisly thing. It whirled into the blanket of dust and smoke, vanishing from sight. It must have struck something, landed somewhere, but the sound was submerged in the roar of water and flame and the cacophony of unsighted shots and frantic screams. The screams. My men, thought Vasu. Hard men, experienced, used to fighting blind. Why had they lost control? What had made them panic? What was happening?

  A monster. A rakshasa.

  Kisna’s mind fragmented in terror as a huge, white-streaked apparition suddenly emerged from the swirling smoke. Kisna’s gun had barely begun to move when something rock-hard crashed into the side of his head, splintering his skull. The fighter paired with Kisna emitted a strangled scream that was abruptly cut off by an elbow that felt like a steel rod crushing his larynx. A man sheltering behind an adjacent stalagmite had just about levelled his weapon when Bheem was upon him like a rampaging demon. The fighter tried to hold on to his gun. An instant later, he realized his mistake as the arm holding the weapon was ripped out of its socket. The man was hurled away, spraying blood, slamming into a fighter thirty feet away who had no time to react before the dismembered body slammed into him. The smog meant nothing to the warrior. He did not need to see his adversaries to know where they were. He blurred through the smoke like a whirlwind, sweeping over the terror-stricken fighters.

  Aviva had forgotten to hide. What she was seeing was so extraordinary, so compelling, that she gave no thought to the extreme danger of her position. The curtain of powder and smoke that enveloped the arched entrance billowed and ebbed, allowing Aviva glimpses of the scene within the cave. It was surreal, like watching flickering images from an old black-and-white movie. The smoke momentarily thinned in a corner revealing the mayhem the giant was causing. In the blink of an eye, he was in another section of the chamber altogether, wading through the invaders’ ranks. The iron discipline Vasu had imposed on his men had broken down completely. They fired unseeingly into the smoke, bullets ricocheting off stalagmites and hard roots, drilling sudden death into their terrorized comrades. Aviva was battle-trained, fully conscious of the danger from wildly careening bullets, aware that the marauding brute could turn his attention to her at any moment; still, she watched—unable to tear her eyes away.

  Vasu had a clear shot. The smokescreen shifted and suddenly he could see the monster. Instantly, he shouldered his rifle and snapped off a burst, the bullets smashing into the enormous, naked back. Bheem reacted, turned. Unharmed. His mighty body had shrugged off more than a hundred arrows in Kurukshetra’s killing fields. And Samay’s furnace had sealed in that hardness, tempering his skin into an almost impenetrable armour, a living kavach.

  Vasu’s eyes widened in disbelief. How could this be? He was sure he had . . . He ducked behind a stalagmite but was too late; the rakshasa had spotted him. Instinctively, Vasu ripped a grenade off his belt. He had designed the belt to wrench the pin out when a grenade was pulled out of the holder. The split second saved in not having to tug out the pin manually made all the difference in a life-and-death situation. But even as Vasu hurled the primed grenade, he knew that this time the saved split second gave him no advantage, that his opponent was preternaturally fast, that his death was upon him. Effortlessly, the demon batted away the hurtling explosive and an iron fist cannoned into the nerve centre below Vasu’s ribs. All breath left him and he collapsed as if shot.

  In the nanosecond it had taken Bheem to dispatch the rebel leader, the grenade he had swatted aside had arced towards the stalagmites by the wall on which the huge arrow symbol was inscribed. The grenade exploded, the arrows flaming gold as a fireball enveloped them. The towering stalagmites collapsed, throwing up a suffocating cloud of dust.

  Water. That was Aviva’s only chance of survival before the lethal cloud of smoke and dust overwhelmed her, choking her as surely as a hand around her throat. She took a deep breath before the rolling cloud hit her, wiping out sight. Aviva knew that the stream that ran through the passage was just metres away—she could even hear it gurgling now that the firing had stopped—and she started towards it. Be careful, she thought. In a cave, water is lethal, don’t stumble in. She almost did, though, startled by sudden unearthly howling. The creature. But much closer now—not in the walls!

  Bheem stood still. Nothing was visible, but to the warrior the cave and everything in it was an open page. He did not need to see the howling vaanar to know that he was sixty hands away, ten cords above the ground. And Bheem also knew that the wily greybeard was equally aware of his location. The warrior concentrated, absorbing sounds and scents, images forming in his mind. He had picked up the sound of cloth being torn and the sudden watery ripple at the cave’s entrance: something being dipped in the rivulet. The woman, he thought. Irrelevant. Unless the keening vaanar decided to attack her.

  Aviva inhaled, the strip of soaked cloth wrapped around her nose and mouth filtering out the whirling grit and dust. The smoke masked everything—she was invisible. And that made her position even more perilous. Lack of sight was no handicap to her antagonists. Avi
va had just seen the giant savage decimate the gunmen, flickering through the blinding clouds with ease. And the howling creature—who knew what it would do if it picked up her scent? But she could take no evasive action; miscalculation could result in instant death. Marooned in the smoke, Aviva waited, her flesh crawling at the agonized howling of the unseen beast.

  The air seemed stagnant in the cave’s sinuous passages but the steady ebbing of the smoke indicated the existence of a working ventilation system. As the smokescreen dissolved, Aviva watched a scene out of legend unfold. The warrior stood near the white lake, blood-spattered, red-gold, resplendent in the light of the grotto’s flames. The battlefield of the cave was littered with broken bodies. But what took Aviva’s breath away was a sight unlike any other. Atop a ledge, above the remains of the massive arrow symbol, was a being from the realms of fantasy: as large as the warrior, its powerful body covered by a thick, grey pelt, prehensile tail coiled around a rocky protrusion, the man-beast pounded its chest and howled resentment.

  Saragha.

  Undoubtedly the greybeard, thought Bheem. But this wasn’t the wise, wily old vaanar who had inveigled him into Samay. Saragha was wounded, of course. The exploding metal had torn through the vaanar’s matted fur and leathery hide. But the crazed howling wasn’t just physical distress—it was the expression of a mind adrift, a soul cast away.

  Red-black fluid ran from Saragha’s wounds, dripping down the rock face, hissing through the lime-coated surface of the wall below, steam rising as the detritus of centuries burnt away. The vaanar’s toxic blood—Bheem had witnessed its power back in the dark glade of the Forest of Always Night. He knew that the asura venom had wiped out the vaanars; there was no telling what it would do to him if he went after Saragha now. But the greybeard had been smoked out of the walls; he stood on a ledge, an easy leap away—an opportunity that may not arise again. It was a risk that had to be taken.