part0093

He couldn’t see much. Though he could feel a lot. Heavy rocks brushed against his arm, tearing his skin. And thorns pricked his ankles and knuckles. He heard water somewhere; the steady noise of flowing water. Gashes, bruises and wounds marked his body, his dhoti was scorched.

Flexing his biceps against the ground, he tried to get up.

“KALKI!” Someone called out his name. It was a girl. Damn, wretched girl. He didn’t even talk to her, yet she called for him. But then, it wasn’t her fault, he had fallen ll off his horse from a mountain slope.

Kalki leaned against the rock, watching the skies that were overcast. The voices echoed from behind, but he didn’t care. He remained silent. He wanted to be away from them and hence he welcomed his fall, albeit a result of his clumsiness. He watched the dank forest, with its verdant foliage and canopies. But he was trying to get rid of evil, away from Indragarh, and from Shambala, where the entire chain of events had started.

“KALKI!” It was the man’s voice now. Kripa. What a bloody mess! At least he didn’t drink anymore.

“MAN!” Another voice appeared and this was not familiar. In fact, it came from near him.

His ears strained, head cocked forward, as he saw there was a small cave that led downwards from the slope of the mountains. And from there, a head was peering at him.

Kalki narrowed his eyes. “Uh,” he looked back. He could see Kripa and Padma were descending from the mountains on their horses. The uneven paths were their problems and Kalki hoped they would come fast since the creature that stood in front of him looked anything but tame.

Kalki was frozen at his place. “Man, yes,” he responded.

“Man,” he nodded.

He showed himself and Kalki realized he was wearing a lion-skin over his head. He had a strange furry neck and a hairy chest as well. He had a convoluted frame, with a humped back and slightly misshapen limbs. He looked hungry, and ready to attack Kalki. He walked on four legs like an animal, but when he stood straight, he was taller than Kalki.

“Simha?” Kalki had heard that name somewhere.

“Darooda Simha,” he clapped, with a manic smirk over his face. “You, man,” he poked Kalki. His nails were so sharp that he drew blood.

“Darooda, eh?” Strange name, but then the man had whiskers emanating from his mouth. Kalki was surely in the wrong lands.

“Darooda.” He began to jump lightly over his legs, beating his chest and hooting.

“You don’t need to be so excited, friend.” Kalki mustered a grin. He didn’t like the Tribals, never did. They destroyed his village, killed the love of his life and left his friends to die. The Manavs irked him enough as well, but not as much as a Tribals. And yet, here he was, standing in front of one, trying to be friends with him.

“Food?” Darooda asked. “Hungry?”

“Uh.” Kalki was indeed hungry. By the Gods, he had forgotten when he ate last. Apples perhaps, a few hours back, but they didn’t sustain you for long.

“Mutton, inside.”

“I don’t eat meat, friend,” Kalki said.

Darooda slumped his shoulder in disappointment. “Meat good.”

“Come,” he signalled towards the cave, “food.”

“I wait, for my friends,” he told Darooda, pointing at Padma and Kripa, who managed to appear with their horses at the right time. They had brought Kalki’s horse as well.

“What in the heavens were you thinking about that you fell from the horse, eh, mate? You are an Avatar, but even you should consider yourself lucky that you didn’t die,” Kripa scolded.

Darooda instantly squealed and rushed back, scampering for safety near the cave’s entrance. Kripa got down, grabbing the rein of his horse. He patted Kalki. “What’s with him?”

“Darooda Simha.”

“I asked what’s with him, not who is he, mate,” grunted Kripa.

“Must be your shouting that he got afraid of.”

“I know he is a Simha,” he added.

Simha. The name sounded so familiar that it made his ears stand with curiosity. “Where have I heard this?” Then he recalled. It was at the Gurukul, with Guru Vashishta, where he had read about the ancient tribes.

By this time, Padma had reached down as well, gazing at the creature. She was a short woman, ugly and horrible. But then it was Kalki’s anger that made him see her in that way. In reality, she was tall and slim, had a straight face with kohl-lined eyes and short, cropped silver hair.

“Looks like a Tribal,” she said.

Kalki ignored with a grimace. Padma noticed that, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t like her, and he had every right to hate her since, because of her, Arjan had been kidnapped, and was perhaps dead. Kalki didn’t know what had happened to him and the very thought of it unleashed a maelstrom of hateful and vitriolic emotions within him.

“He is one, indeed. Simha,” Kripa added jovially, “once a grand tribe like the Suparns. Simhas were the unknowns, the proud beings, the heroes. Narasimha, as the legends say, had defeated an Asura, whom no one could defeat. But Simhas are generally devotees of lions, and wear their skin as protection and grow their hair on their face like a lion. Most went missing after a while, and it was presumed they were extinct.”

“What led to their extinction?” Kalki asked.

“It was the battle with the Manavs, where the Tribals lost. But this was during the Mahayudh.”

“Simhas are that old?” Padma asked.

“Simhas existed far before these present times. Back then, the Ancients fought with each other, and a plague had ravaged the land, known as Breaking, which was an aftermath to the Mahayudh.”

All of it was clear for Kalki, but it only made him wonder how old Kripa was, since he had claimed to be a hundred years old. But then the Mahayudh happened earlier than that, But this was Kripa’s chronology, and he didn’t trust him a lot. History was convoluted and confusing and he had better not dwell on that; otherwise he’d end up with a headache.

“Very,” he nodded. “They were warriors, worshippers of sun, and now look at them, gone mad. He must be a descendant,” he signalled at Darooda, “who has forgotten his heritage. Poor fellow.”

Kalki asked, “How did they go mad?”

“During the Mahayudh, there were radiations used…”

“Bombs,” he snapped at Padma, glaring at her, “the one you took for your personal cause.”

Kalki saw her looking at her pouch, which she perhaps still carried.

“They were used in heavy quantities, while the ones I gave you, lass, are ordinary. The ones used during the Mahayudh were horrible, causing many to go crazy. The Kings came after that, but none survived. Even the participants of the war left for the mountains and died horribly after starving for days on end.”

It would have sounded too dark and grim to Kalki earlier. Now he was used to it. “What should we do then?” Kalki asked, concerned about Darooda. The man must have seen enough wrongfulness in the world.

“Do? We go for the north, as we were supposed to.” Kripa reached for the horses, trying to manoeuvre them on the opposite side, to go back from where they came.

“What about him?”

“It’s raining,” Padma intervened.

“We go back,” Kripa said. “Mate, we aren’t helping every crazy we meet on the road, just so you know.”

“Do you plan to help anyone at all, or will you just let everyone die in the process of making me a warrior?” Kalki blurted.

“It’s going to rain hard,” Padma intervened again, and Kalki could hear the rolling sounds of thunder.

Kripa flared his nostrils. “What do you mean by that?”

“You know what I mean by that.” Kalki came forward. “Arjan told me, before leaving, about something he had heard.”

“What did he hear?”

It was raining torrentially by now. But none of it mattered to Kalki, as he had squared up to Kripa and was glaring at him.

“YOU TWO!” yelled Padma. “It’s raining, we need shelter.”

“We go in the rain,” Kripa announced solemnly. Kripa was an old chap, with nerves pushing out from his fragile skin. He had a stinking mouth and dark hair that was greasy and matted.

Kalki shook his head. “No, we stay and we stay with Darooda.”

“I’m not staying with a madman.”

“Food,” cawed Darooda, quietly from the corner.

Padma pushed both the men forward towards the cave. “While you two imbeciles quarrel, I’ll rest in the shelter. Hello, Darooda,” she grinned, while inching the three horses inside the cave, away from the rain.

Kalki stayed there for a moment until he shrugged. “We both know you are more than what you show. I don’t expect answers, Acharya. But I seek to know the limits you will cross in order to make a warrior out of me.” And with that, he left the old man in the rain. He’d surely not die of cold or rainwater, since he was an immortal, blessed by the last Avatar himself.

Kalki had the power to make someone immortal as well, but he didn’t want to face the moral conundrum of doing the same. Endowing someone with immortality could be a gift or a curse, and in this case, Kripa surely had a curse. He had gone mad like Darooda, but at least the Simha seemed to be nice.

Shuko, his parrot, sat down over his shoulder and began to chirp, “Pisach! Pisach!” which Kalki didn’t understand. He had sent his bird to see if any danger was lurking around and the foolish bird was just uttering gibberish. Kalki entered the cave to find Padma standing at the entrance, frozen at her place. He looked at her dark, dilated pupils when he realized, there was something he was missing. He looked up at the cave, which was like any cave up in the mountain. Empty, desolate and filled with dirt and mud.

And yet, unlike the other caves, this one had real people, tied up, with their mouths gagged by ropes and cloth. They were whimpering, tears lining their faces. They had bruises all over their knees and torso. Two of them were woman, and the third was a bald man, with a strange tattoo over his left eye, in the shape of an arrow. Perhaps a Manav, but Kalki couldn’t make out clearly.