Prologue

Blinding white heat scorched his bare head. The yellow, cotton kurta stuck damply to his back, dark, wet patches staining armpits. Despite searing needles on the skin, he stood still, staring upwards. A facade, amber, gold in high noon, tall triple gates, cupolas, pillars, spires, a shimmering mirage. Having ascertained that he had reached his destination, the man walked through the wide open gates.

The wide avenue meandered between whispering eucalyptus trees to a mansion rising in splendid chattris, jharokas hardly betraying its true function. The man wiped sweat from his bald head with a large handkerchief before looking at the slip in his hand. The white board above his head proclaimed in big blue letters, CENTRAL LIBRARY and in smaller calligraphy beneath, Banaras Hindu University. His gaze went down to the scrawl on the slip. He nodded and looked around for help. But the grounds were deserted, students gone home or in chai addas after classes. Hesitantly, the visitor pushed the wooden, brass-studded doors.

Inside was cool, dark, desolate. Once his eyes adjusted, they focused on the receptionist at the far desk. Reassured, he approached the desk holding out the slip. The receptionist frowned at it. Anxiously, the visitor noted his thin lips silently forming the syllables of the name. Just as silently, the receptionist pointed to his right. The man turned and noticed a corridor leading from the lobby. Doors pierced it…all of them shut. Uncertainly, he wandered down the stretch peering at names painted on the doors. What the visitor failed to notice was how keenly the receptionist was observing him.

Eventually, the man reached a door with the name on his slip. He knocked tentatively, waited a moment before turning the handle and entering. The moment the door shut behind him, the receptionist pushed back his chair. He had clear instructions: scrutinize everyone visiting the professor.

Rapidly stepping down the corridor, sandals softly slapping the marble, he stopped at the door the visitor had gone through. Bending, he put an eye to the hole he had drilled into the wood some months ago. Even though the library and reading rooms were vacant, the spy darted furtive looks up and down the passage before starting his vigil.

Through the peephole, his single eye rotated around the small room. Most of the space was taken up by the large glass-covered desk. Two men sat on its either side, heads nearly touching, deep in conversation. A lone overhead bulb beamed down a yellow circle on them. The spy noted a curious similarity…both heads were bereft of hair! He knew the professor preferred to shave off his hair though the visitor appeared to be naturally bald. However, the spy shook this oddity off his mind to concentrate on their words. Unfortunately, they spoke in low voices and only snatches of conversation floated to him.

‘Are you sure?’ the professor asked.

A vigorous nod while the eavesdropper strained his ears. ‘…called the mound of death, you know…floating lights seen….’

‘…could be a logical reason…’

‘…the very reason, I want you to come…people terrified…ghosts and spirits…’

The professor suddenly threw back his head and laughed. His words were loud, distinct. ‘My dear man, I am an archaeologist not a ghost buster. What can I do?’

His guest shook his head, unconvinced. ‘You are a religious man …Shiva…trident…’ He was whispering now.

The professor shook his head. ‘Can’t be true…What trident? What Shiva?’

The visitor spread his hands, pleading. ‘I know…but I saw…’

The professor leaned back, contemplating his guest with amused eyes. His words were loud enough to be heard through the door. ‘Do you know what they say when Shiva picks up his trident?’ he asked. The visitor shook his head. ‘That the world will end.’

The eye at the hole saw the visitor’s body stiffen. ‘I know it is in Lothal,’ he insisted. ‘Maybe the trident is bringing in spirits…’ His voice rose and then fell to a whisper. The mole could only guess the words, ‘…to destroy.’

Once again, the visitor spoke rapidly but in so low a voice that the spy did not catch a single word. However, he watched the professor’s eyes narrowing. 

‘What you are saying is impossible,’ he declared. ‘But if Shiva’s trident actually exists…every man, every leader, every nation will be after it. Whoever owns Shiva’s trident has the power to hold the world to ransom.’

The spy pressed his ear to the door to catch more about this astounding revelation.

‘Is it that powerful?’ the visitor asked.

‘If what you say is true, then yes! Amazing tale...intriguing, to say the least,’ said the professor. Suddenly, he smiled. ‘Maybe I should take up your invitation…must see it for myself…’

Back went the eye to the hole. Though the visitor’s back was to it, the way he clasped his hands, bowed his head several times defined his exceeding gratitude.

Frowning, the mole slowly stood up. None of it made any sense. But it was not his job to solve puzzles. He bent to look again and instantly took a step back. Quickly, he dashed around the corner and was out of sight when the door opened.

The two men strolled out leisurely, hairless pates, kurta-pyjama ensembles stressing their likeness. Behind the corner, the mole was chattering urgently into his cell phone. He passed on whatever he recalled of the cryptic dialogue he had heard. Obviously, somebody was writing it down at the other end because he spelled out some words before the call disconnected.

By then, the professor and his guest had reached the grand gate of the university. The visitor folded his hands, bowed again, before walking into the snarl of the evening traffic. The cacophony of two-wheelers, rickshaws, cars, crowds enveloped him instantly. Thoughtfully, the professor began to retrace his steps.

A sudden revving of engine behind him, an ominous loud crash made him halt. Turning on his heel, the professor stared at the man crumpled on the road outside. Mouth agape, stupefied, his eyes swung from the crushed yellow kurta, the darkening tarmac to the black SUV. Horrified, the professor watched the SUV speedily reverse. Its rear wheels bounced over the supine body with a sickening crunch. Then a metallic squeal of acceleration, black car surged forward and roared away.

The professor raced to the injured man, knelt down. Blood pooling into scarlet, muddy puddle, yellow mass spilling from the cracked skull on pebbles. His visitor was no longer breathing. Shakily, the professor backed away from the gory sight.

Curious passersby jostled around the murdered man. Just as the professor was punching the emergency police number on his phone, somebody shouted from the cluster of spectators, ‘Hey, look! Isn’t this the BHU monk-professor who has been killed?’

‘Yes, yes,’ the professor snapped into the phone. ‘At the University gate,’ He nearly sprinted down the avenue. Inside the quiet lobby, he clutched his head with both hands, struggling to work it out. His eyes skittered to shadowy corners of the hall that probed his thoughts.

Did they kill the wrong man?

Was I their real target?