The Battlefield, End of Kali Yuga
Suddenly, the shots stopped. The enemy soldiers dropped their weapons and looked at each other, bewildered, as if realizing for the first time where they were.
The Avatar looked up at the moon. A small pinhead of orange blossomed in the southern quadrant of the satellite; surely explosions caused by the brothers! They had finally destroyed the moon-base! But at what cost! Of his army once numbering over a million, only two dozen warriors were left standing.
“Victory at last,” shouted Kalki Avatar. A cheer went up. The ferocious enemy that had fought as one now reeled in total disarray. They turned their weapons on their comrades and, killing them, cut off pieces of flesh and started eating. The discipline enforced on them by the pitiless system vanished and they reverted to barbarism. A picture of hellish savageness unfolded—it would have been safer to wade into a pack of rabid wolves than to try saving these unfortunate Raks. By the end of the day, very few, if any, would be left standing. The enemy aircraft veered off and headed back west, for what purpose no one knew.
“Where’s Kallin?” asked Contog. The platform had disappeared.
“He’s escaped!” exclaimed Hanuman. “We need to find him.”
General Contog face lengthened. “If he returns to Kallington, he can try to regain control. A great tree is most dangerous when it is about to fall.”
* * * * *
Kallin’s hands shook and his left eye twitched uncontrollably. His unkempt face sagged and his eyelids hung heavy from a lack of sleep. The bunker, a thousand feet below the International Legislative Exchange, contained a bedroom, a living room, a bathroom and a security control room lined with monitors, computers, and controls. The unadorned concrete walls, illuminated by bare fluorescent lights, displayed no paintings, curios or knick knacks. In the bed lay Jini, her blue eyes open, staring into infinity, her blonde hair spread out like a fan on the pillow. A round, red hole showed on her forehead and blood her dripped from her hand to the floor. On the living room sofa sat the national security advisor, a handgun in his hand, his head blown off.
The Hand of God sat on a chair in the security control room. A picture came up on one of the monitors. Directly above him, flames engulfed the enormous oval building. A huge mob murdered everyone escaping the conflagration, while looters ran out with computers, furniture and anything they could grab.
“This is serious. Now how the hell will I sell my ETAs?” mumbled Kallin. Other cameras confirmed the worst. Airplanes bombed Central Prison and criminals took to the streets. The Raks knew well their tormentors. In huge numbers, they overran the city, destroying any emblem of the elite, killing whoever they caught, and everywhere, turned on each other with knives, guns, and metal rods, smashing, cutting and shooting, just to taste blood and flesh.
He slammed his fist on the desk. “This is the end. If I can’t have it, no one else can. The Raks will get what they deserve, as so will those savages in that valley. No one can ever take what belongs to me. Never.” He punched in some instructions on the keyboard.
* * * * *
At first, the explosions sounded indistinct, like distant thuds, barely heard above the rushing waters. After a while, the sound became more distinct, like a bass drum sounding far in the distance. Kalki Avatar first noticed it. He jumped to his feet and cupped his ear, listening keenly to the disturbing sound for several long minutes.
Parvata Rishi came running to the Avatar. “Dear Avatar, what is this sound that comes softly, closer and closer, but echoes like death itself approaching?”
“I will find out,” exclaimed the Avatar of the great blue-skinned supreme Lord. He quickly mounted his flying steed and stayed suspended in the air for several long moments before swooping down breathlessly.
“I saw explosions, dozens of them, in the great distance, covering the entire horizon. Each looked like a dozen suns rising from the earth at once, followed by gigantic clouds resembling trees growing from the earth to the skies, like enormous mushrooms. I cannot imagine what this dreadful weapon is.”
Contog stood up. “Kallin must be trapped, with no way out. These terrible bombs will destroy all life on this planet. And he will especially destroy Shambala as he cannot own it.”
Kalki Avatar’s eyes flashed angrily. He removed his sword from its sheath.
“What are you doing?” asked Contog.
“This is not an ordinary sword,” replied Kalki Avatar. “Its handle is courage, its hand guard is justice, one side of the blade is truthfulness, the other side is austerity and the tip is mercy.”
“You mean that they represent those qualities?”
“No, the sword doesn’t represent those qualities; it is actually those in reality. This sword embodies these qualities in full.” The Avatar paused momentarily. “Kallin’s heart is lust, his eyes envy, his hands greed, his mind violence and his intelligence, pitilessness. When his body is pierced by this sword, it will destroy not just him, but all his bad qualities.”
The Avatar swung his sword with all his might and let it go. It flew like a lightning bolt, illuminating the battlefield like ten thousand suns exploding instantaneously, and even the Avatar’s hairs stood on end. It flew straight west, across the sky like a meteor, over the bombed and burned cities on the coast. Kallin’s weapons had destroyed everything and not a man nor woman, farm animal, or even a single building stood. The entire earth resembled a scene of utter devastation. The sword flew low over the roiling, churning oceans which hissed and sizzled at the heat of this indestructible weapon. It reappeared at the coast and entered the desert, flying over vast tracts of dry, dead land, scorching the sands black behind it.
It entered the ruined capital of the great dictator’s once powerful empire. The deadly sword slowed down over the egg-like Exchange and elevated itself to a height of a thousand feet, right over Kallin’s bunker. The Raks looked up dumbly, not comprehending its nature or mission.
Then suddenly, the roaring weapon swooped right down into the ground and the earth around it blew up like an exploding volcano. It blew open the top of Kallin’s concrete bunker, entered into the mad dictator’s lair, and hung in the air, emanating sparks.
The Hand of God watched the weapon, not comprehending what was happening. He gasped, eyes bulging in his head, sweat rolling down his face, legs shaking, his hands quivering hysterically. For the evil ruler, it came as death itself. He jumped in a futile attempt to escape. In a blink of an eye, the sword descended into his body. The great dictator screamed in agony as fire enveloped him and, within moments, reduced him to ashes.
* * * * *
Shambala, Beginning of Satya Yuga
The next day, as the community cheered, the two bird vimanas hovered a few feet above, deposited Steve and Jack on the ground, and disappeared. The bubble vimana descended, slowly stopped spinning, and then popped. Shanti landed on her feet. Steve rushed over and embraced her.
Parvata Rishi walked to the front of the community. Come, great heroes,” he announced, pointing to them. Before they could move, Hanuman ran forward, grabbed the two brothers with strong arms and hoisted them on his broad, right shoulder and deposited Shanti on his left. The community applauded and showered them with flower petals.
Jack examined the smiling faces of the cheering men, women, and children, feeling completely unworthy of their adulation. These simple people made far greater sacrifices than he ever did. Every one of them lost a son, a daughter, a father or mother. They had trekked through miles of harsh terrain, over endless mountains and caves just to get to Shambala. They remained the great personalities; they carried in their hearts and in their sadhana the secrets of Yoga and the Vedas. They would reestablish spiritual culture in the coming age, whereas he only destroyed some paltry installation. Tears moistened his eyes. He reflected on the irony praise usually goes to those who least deserve it and comes from those who most earn it.
Hanuman, roaring with happiness and pride, brought them in front of Parvata Rishi and, lifting them off his shoulders, dropped them on their feet.
“Brave warriors,” shouted the monkey king. “All three of you deserve the greatest honor we can give. You have saved Shambala!” The rishi embraced them and in his hands he held three garlands fashioned of beautiful blue, yellow and red wildflowers from Shambala’s forests.
“Come,” he said, motioning to Steve and Shanti. They stepped ahead and reverently lowered their heads. The rishi slipped garlands over their necks.
He motioned to Jack. “Now you come.” The final garland adorned his neck.
Jack shook his head. “My dear Rishi,” he started, speaking in passable Sanskrit, “I am completely unworthy of your praise. I have led a useless life and done all manners of sinful things. So many heroes greater than me exist, like those brave young men who accompanied my brother and me to the moon, who gave their lives so we may all be saved, and all of you who lost a loved one in this war. You are the real heroes.” Tears flooded the eyes of the villagers as they remembered their terrible losses.
“One more thing,” said the rishi. “Let us honor not just the living, but also the dead.” He paused. “From both sides.”
Jack felt nonplussed. “You mean the enemy?”
“Of course,” said the Avatar, joining the conversation. “All of them. The enemy soldiers, the Raks, the generals, and even Kallin.”
“How can you say that,” retorted Jack, his hackles raised. “That man created so much destruction, so much pain, so much death!”
“All souls are equally precious to me, even Kallin’s. From the perspective of this life only, you see a very evil man. But I see all of his lives, just as I see all of yours. From my point of view, from the point of view of the absolute, I see the world as a stage, with actors from both sides. But the real world is the spiritual world, not this one. There is no doubt that Kallin is a very evil man and he will pay the price for that. He will have to work through his karma, but in the end, his soul’s place is in the spiritual world as are all others. No enmity, no quarrels, occur there. All souls in the spiritual world exist only in loving relationships with the Supreme Lord. God doesn’t play favorites. To him, all are equal.”
Jack nodded his head. It made sense. “I need to do one more thing.” He turned to the rishi. “Can I have a blank piece of parchment?”
“Of course,” replied the old man, surprised. Jack tore the page in half, picked up a piece of charcoal from the cooking fire and started sketching. Steve looked at him curiously as the rest of the community gathered around.
“This is Maya,” said Jack, hanging the portrait on a tree branch. He removed the garland from his neck and placed it around her picture. He winced, remembering the hurts, the betrayals and the sexual games he played that brought pain to both of them. The arrogance, the bitterness, the regret, the wounding passions—he had enough of it.
Jack took the other parchment and, with fingers moving quickly, drew the outline of another woman. Steve eyes knotted questioningly. He stared as the sketching filled with detail, until it showed the familiar curls, the warm eyes and the round glasses. Jack got up, found a stump and rested the portrait of his mother on it.
Then a wonderful thing happened. The other villagers brought out their own parchments. Soon, small portraits of loved ones adorned tree stumps, hung from branches or stood on stone surfaces.
Steve took his garland and invited Jack to place it around their mother. It encircled the portrait and hung in front on the stump. The rest of the community came by and, one by one, offered a petal, a blossom, or a flowery vine to the memorial.
Jack stopped and wiped his eyes. “Mom, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and I always will. I never had a chance to say bye to you. But I want to tell you that I always loved you and that you will always be with me. And I hope that I will become the man you always wanted me to be.”