Seeing their Lord down, the Naga’s platoon ran in with a resounding yell.

‘My Lord!’ cried Vishwadyumna, as he tried to support the Naga back to his feet.

‘Who the hell are you?’ screamed the cruel Magadhan leader, retreating towards the safety of his platoon, before turning back to the Naga’s men.

‘Get out of here if you want to stay alive!’ shouted one of the Naga’s soldiers, livid at the injury to his Lord.

‘Bangas!’ yelled the Magadhan, recognising the accent. ‘What in the name of Lord Indra are you scum doing here?’

‘It’s Branga! Not Banga!’

‘Do I look like I care? Get out of my land!’

The Branga did not respond as he saw his Naga Lord getting up slowly, helped by Vishwadyumna. The Naga signalled Vishwadyumna to step back and tried to pull the arrow out of his shoulder. But it was buried too deep. He broke its shaft and threw it away.

The Magadhan pointed at the Naga menacingly. ‘I am Ugrasen, the Prince of Magadh. This is my land. These people are my property. Get out of the way.’

The Naga did not respond to the royal brat.

He turned around to see one of the most magnificent sights he had ever seen. The mother lay almost unconscious behind his soldiers. Her eyes closing due to the tremendous loss of blood. Her body shivering desperately. Too terrified to even whimper.

And yet, she stubbornly refused to give up her son. Her left hand still wrapped tight around him. Her body protectively positioned in front of her child.

What a mother!

The Naga turned around. His eyes blazing with rage. His body tense. His fists clenched tight. He whispered in a voice that was eerily calm, ‘You want to hurt a mother because she is protecting her child?’

Sheer menace dripped from that soft voice. It even managed to get through to a person lost in royal ego. But Ugrasen could not back down in front of his fawning courtiers. Some crazy Branga with an unseasonal holi mask was not going to deprive him of his prize catch. ‘This is my kingdom. I can hurt whoever I want. So if you want to save your sorry hide, get out of here. You don’t know the power of...’

‘YOU WANT TO HURT A MOTHER BECAUSE SHE IS PROTECTING HER CHILD?’

Ugrasen fell silent as terror finally broke through his thick head. He turned to see his followers. They too felt the dread that the Naga’s voice emanated.

A shocked Vishwadyumna stared at his Lord. He had never heard his Lord raise his voice so loud. Never. The Naga’s breathing was heavy, going intermittently through gritted teeth. His body stiff with fury.

And then Vishwadyumna heard the Naga’s breathing return slowly to normal. He knew it instantly. His Lord had made a decision.

The Naga reached to his side and drew his long sword. Holding it away from his body. Ready for the charge. And then he whispered his orders. ‘No mercy.’

‘NO MERCY!’ screamed the loyal Branga soldiers. They charged after their Lord. They fell upon the hapless Magadhans. There was no mercy.

Chapter 3

The Pandit of Magadh

It was early morning when Shiva left the guesthouse for the Narsimha temple. He was accompanied by Bhagirath, Drapaku, Siamantak, Nandi and Veerbhadra.

Magadh was a far smaller town than Ayodhya. Not having suffered due to commercial or military success and the resultant mass immigration, it remained a pretty town with leafy avenues. While it did not have the awesome organisation of Devagiri or the soaring architecture of Ayodhya, it was not bogged down by the boring standardisation of the Meluhan capital or the grand chaos of the Swadweepan capital.

It did not take Shiva and his entourage more than just half–an–hour to get across to the far side of the city where the magnificent Narsimha temple stood. Shiva entered the compound of the grand shrine. His men waited outside as per his instructions, but only after scoping the temple for suspects.

The temple was surrounded by a massive square garden, a style from Lord Rudra’s land, far beyond the western borders of India. The garden had an ingeniously designed gargantuan fountain at its heart and rows of intricate waterways, flowerbeds and grass spread out from the centre in simple, yet stunning symmetry. At the far end stood the Narsimha temple. Built of pure white marble, it had a giant staircase leading up to its main platform, a spire that shot up at least seventy metres and had ornately carved statues of gods and goddesses all across its face. Shiva was sure this awe-inspiring and obviously expensive temple had been built at a time when Magadh had the resources of the entire Swadweep confederacy at its command.

He took off his sandals at the staircase, climbed up the steps and entered the main temple. At the far end was the main sanctum of the temple, with the statue of its god, Lord Narsimha, on a majestic throne. Lord Narsimha had lived many thousands of years ago, before even Lord Rudra’s time. Shiva mused that if the Lord’s idol was life size, then he must have been a powerful figure. He looked unnaturally tall, at least eight feet, with a musculature that would terrify even the demons. His hands were unusually brawny with long nails, making Shiva think that just the Lord’s bare hands must have been a fearsome weapon.

But it was the Lord’s face that stunned Shiva. His mouth was surrounded by lips that were large beyond imagination. His moustache hair did not flow down like most men, but came out in rigid tracks, like a cat’s whiskers. His nose was abnormally large, with sharp eyes on either side. His hair sprayed out a fair distance, like a mane. It almost looked as though Lord Narsimha was a man with the head of a lion.

Had he been alive today, Lord Narsimha would have been considered a Naga by the Chandravanshis and hence feared, not revered. Don’t they have any consistency?

‘Consistency is the virtue of mules!’

Shiva looked up, surprised how someone had heard his thoughts.

A Vasudev Pandit emerged from behind the pillars. He was the shortest Pandit that Shiva had met so far; just a little over five feet. But in all other aspects, his appearance was like every other Vasudev, his hair snowy white and his face wizened with age. He was clad in a saffron dhoti and angvastram.

‘How did you...’

‘That is not important,’ interrupted the Pandit, raising his hands, not finding it important to explain how he discerned Shiva’s thoughts.

That conversation... another time... great Neelkanth.

Shiva could have sworn he heard the Pandit’s voice in his head. The words were broken, like the voice was coming from a great distance. Very soft and not quite clear. But it was the Pandit’s voice. Shiva frowned, for the Pandit’s lips had not moved.

Oh Lord Vasudev... this foreigner’s...impressive.

Shiva heard the Pandit’s voice again. The Pandit was smiling slightly. He could tell that the Neelkanth could hear his thoughts.

‘You’re not going to explain, are you?’ asked Shiva with a smile.

No. You’re certainly... not ready... yet.

The Pandit’s appearance may have been like other Vasudevs, but his character was clearly different. This Vasudev was straightforward to the point of being rude. But Shiva knew the apparent rudeness was not intended. It was just a reflection of the mercurial nature of this particular Pandit’s character.

Maybe the Pandit was a Chandravanshi in another life.

‘I’m a Vasudev,’ said the Pandit. ‘There is no other identity I carry today. I’m not a son. Or husband. Or father. And, I’m not a Chandravanshi. I am only a Vasudev.’