Freedom. Freedom for the wretched to also have dignity. Something impossible in Meluha’s system of governance.

‘Are you full now, my son?’

Shiva nodded slowly, still not daring to look into the old man’s eyes.

‘Good. Go. It’s a long walk to the temple.’

Shiva looked up, bewildered at the astounding generosity being shown to him. The old man’s sunken cheeks were spread wide as he smiled affectionately. He was on the verge of starvation, and yet he had given practically all his food to a stranger. Shiva cursed his own heart for the blasphemy he had committed. The blasphemy of thinking that he could actually ‘save’ such a man. Shiva found himself bending forward, as if in the volition of a greater power. He extended his arms and touched the feet of the old man.

The old man raised his hand and touched Shiva’s head tenderly, blessing him. ‘May you find what you are looking for, my son.’

Shiva got up, his heart heavy with tears of guilt, his throat choked with the cry of remorse, his soul leaden and its self-righteousness crushed by the old man’s munificence. He knew his answer. What he had done was wrong. He had committed a terrible mistake. These people were not evil.

CHAPTER 26

The Question of Questions

The road to the Ramjanmabhoomi temple clung to the sides of a gently sloping hill, before ending its journey at Lord Ram’s abode. It afforded a breathtaking view of the city below. But Shiva did not see it. Neither did he see the magnificent construction of the gigantic temple or the gorgeously landscaped gardens around it. The temple was sheer poetry, written in white marble, composed by the architect of the gods. The architect had designed a grand staircase leading up to the main temple platform, which appeared awe-inspiring, yet inviting. Colossal and ornate marble statues in sober blue and grey had been engraved on the platform. Elaborately carved pillars supported an ostentatious yet tasteful ceiling of blue marble. The architect obviously knew that Lord Ram’s favourite time of the day was the morning. For on the ceiling, the morning sky, as it would have been seen in the absence of the temple roof, had been lovingly painted. On top of the ceiling, the temple spire shot upwards to a height of almost one hundred metres, like a giant namaste to the gods. The Swadweepans, to their credit, had not forced their garish sensibilities on the temple. Its restrained beauty was in keeping with the way the sober Lord Ram would have liked it.

Shiva did not notice any of this. Nor did he look at the intricately carved statues in the inner sanctum. Lord Ram’s idol at the centre was surrounded by his beloveds. To the right was his loving wife, Sita, and to the left was his devoted brother, Lakshman. At their feet, on his knees, was Lord Ram’s most fervent and favourite disciple, Hanuman, of the Vayuputra tribe, the sons of the Wind God.

Shiva could not find the strength to meet Lord Ram’s eyes. He feared the verdict he would receive. He crouched behind a pillar, resting against it, grieving. When he couldn’t control his intense feelings of guilt anymore, his eyes released the tears they had been holding back. Shiva made desperate attempts to control his tears, but they kept flowing as though a dam had burst. He bit into his balled fist, overcome by remorse. He curled his legs up against his chest and rested his head on his knees.

Drowning in his sorrow, Shiva did not feel the compassionate hand on his shoulder. Seeing no reaction, the hand squeezed his shoulder lightly. Shiva recognised the touch but kept his head low. He did not want to appear weak, be seen with tears in his eyes. The gentle hand, old and worn with age, withdrew quietly, while its owner waited patiently until Shiva composed himself. When the time was right, he came forward and sat down in front of him. A sombre Shiva did a formal namaste to the Pandit, who looked almost exactly like the Pandits that Shiva had met at the Brahma temple at Meru and the Mohan temple at Mohan Jo Daro. He sported a similar extensively flowing white beard and a white mane. He wore a saffron dhoti and angvastram, just like the other pandits. The wizened face had the same calm, welcoming smile. The only difference was that this Pandit bore a considerably more generous waist.

‘Is it really so bad?’ asked the Pandit, his eyes narrowed and head tilted slightly, in the typically Indian empathetic look.

Shiva shut his eyes and lowered his head again. The Pandit waited patiently for Shiva’s reply. ‘You don’t know what I have done!’

‘I do know.’

Shiva looked up at the Pandit, his eyes full of surprise and shame.

‘I know what you have done, Oh Neelkanth,’ said the Pandit. ‘And I ask again, is it really so bad?’

‘Don’t call me the Neelkanth,’ glared Shiva. ‘I don’t deserve the tide. I have the blood of thousands on my hands.’

‘Many more than thousands have died,’ said the Pandit. ‘Probably hundreds of thousands. But you really think they wouldn’t have died if you hadn’t been around? Is the blood really on your hands?’

‘Of course it is! It was my stupidity that led to this war. I had no idea what I was doing. A responsibility was thrust upon me and I wasn’t worthy of it! Hundreds of thousands have perished as a result!’

Shiva curled up his fist and pounded his forehead, desperately trying to soothe the throbbing heat on his brow. The Pandit stared in mild surprise at the deep red blotch on Shiva’s forehead, right between his eyes. It didn’t bear the colour of a blood clot. It was a much deeper hue, almost black. The Pandit controlled his surprise and remained silent. Now was not the correct time.

‘And it’s all because of me,’ moaned Shiva, his eyes moistening again. ‘It’s all my fault.’

‘Soldiers are Kshatriyas, my friend,’ said the Pandit, a picture of calm. ‘Nobody forces them to die. They choose their path, knowing the risks. And the possible glory that comes with it. The Neelkanth is not the kind of person on whom responsibility can be thrust against his will. You chose this. You were born for it.’

Shiva looked at the Pandit starded. His eyes seemed to ask, ‘Born for it?’

The Pandit ignored the question in Shiva’s eyes. ‘Everything happens for a reason. If you are going through this turmoil, there is a divine plan behind it.’

‘What bloody divine reason can there be for so many deaths?’

‘The destruction of evil? Wouldn’t you say that is a very important reason?’

‘But I did not destroy evil!’ yelled Shiva. ‘These people aren’t evil. They’re just different. Being different isn’t evil.’

The Pandit’s face broke into his typically enigmatic smile. ‘Exactly. They are not evil. They are just different. You have realised it very quickly, my friend, a lot earlier than the previous Mahadev.’

Shiva was perplexed by the Pandit’s words for an instant. ‘Lord Rudra?’

‘Yes! Lord Rudra.’

‘But he did destroy evil. He destroyed the Asuras.’

‘And, who said the Asuras were evil?’

‘I read it…’ Shiva stopped mid—sentence. He finally understood.

‘Yes,’ smiled the Pandit. ‘You have guessed it correctly. Just like the Suryavanshis and the Chandravanshis see each other as evil, so did the Devas and the Asuras. So if you are going to read a book written by the Devas, what do you think the Asuras are going to be portrayed as?’