Rathore looked away from Chhedi uninterestedly. He needed more whiskey but couldn’t tolerate Chhedi for another hour. He was fed up of the man’s pompous and self-opinionated behaviour. It seemed that there was absolutely no subject that Chhedi could not lecture on.
‘I don’t know about you, but I need a stroll and some fresh air,’ lied Rathore as he got up from their table.
‘We haven’t ordered our dinner yet,’ complained Chhedi.
‘You go ahead and order. I’m taking a walk and will meet you tomorrow morning in the lobby at seven o’clock for our drive to Agra. Have a good night,’ said Rathore, quickly turning around so that Chhedi could not argue.
He walked out of the restaurant and headed towards the Quwwat-ul-Islam mosque bordering the south perimeter of the Qutub Minar. According to a Persian inscription still visible on the eastern gateway, the mosque had been built using parts recovered from the demolition of twenty-seven Hindu and Jain temples.
Further ahead lay the Qutub Minar itself, soaring two hundred and thirty-eight feet into the sky. It had been built as a victory tower to commemorate the defeat of Prithviraj Chauhan, the last Hindu king of Delhi, at the hands of Muhammad Ghori in 1192 CE. Rathore stopped at a kebab joint near the mosque and ordered a kathi roll so that he would be able to eat while walking. He needed to clear his head. The events of the past few days had left him rather disturbed.
He pulled out of his pocket the fax that had been transmitted to him from Jodhpur. It had been sent by Kurkude’s research centre. Rathore had completely forgotten about Radhika’s instruction to check whether any information had been accessed from Professor Kurkude’s secretary’s terminal. He had remembered it that very morning and had picked up a phone to dial the research lab in Jodhpur. ‘Yes, sir, data was indeed downloaded via the terminal’s USB port,’ said the information technology head. ‘It pertained to radioactivity level readings taken across India by our research teams.’
‘Could you tell me, in brief, what those readings were?’ Rathore had asked.
‘Better still, I can send you a map of the locations where we found that the readings were elevated,’ said the IT chief. True to his word, he had faxed to Rathore the map derived from the radioactivity readings—the very same readings stolen by Taarak. Rathore looked at the fax as he ate his kathi roll.
Analysis had never been his strong point and Rathore folded the map and put it back in his pocket as soon as his kathi roll was consumed. He looked at his watch. It was past eleven. Time to head back towards the hotel for much needed sleep. He decided to take a quick round of the Qutub complex before heading back.
In the distance he could see the famous Iron Pillar of Delhi. The pillar that weighed more than six tons had been fashioned sixteen hundred years previously by Emperor Chandragupta Vikramaditya of the Gupta dynasty. The pillar had initially stood in the centre of a complex comprising twenty-seven temples that had eventually been demolished to build the mosque,’ replied Sir Khan name sai and the tower. The pillar had always been a source of fascination to metallurgists who had been unable to comprehend how ancient Indian blacksmiths had succeeding in creating an iron pillar that had stood corrosion-free for hundreds of years.
As Rathore approached the pillar he noticed that a beggar seemed to have fallen asleep within the steel fence that surrounded the pillar. He ignored him and headed over to the Alai Minar—an incomplete tower that Alauddin Khilji, the most powerful of his Turkic-Afghan dynasty, had started to build to rival the Qutub Minar. Rathore turned and took a walk along the perimeter of the Qutub complex, looking appreciatively at the tombs of Muslim rulers of Delhi that dotted the boundary. He was soon back near the Iron Pillar.
Out of curiosity he looked at the base of the pillar where the beggar had fallen asleep. What he saw made his hair stand on end. Lying on the circular wooden platform at the base of the Delhi’s most famous pillar was no sleeping beggar but the lifeless body of Devendra Chhedi. ‘Damn!’ cursed Rathore to himself as he ran forward. ‘I should never have left him alone.’
At this time of night the area was deserted and Rathore called up the number of his counterpart in Delhi to seek assistance. Reaching the pillar, he climbed the steel fence that barricaded it from unruly tourists and knelt down beside Chhedi. He quickly placed two fingers in the hollow between Chhedi’s windpipe and neck muscle. He pressed lightly, praying that there would be a faint pulse but was out of lu taken the leisurely stroll along the perimeter circuit he might have been in time to save Chhedi.
He stepped back from the body and surveyed the scene of the crime. Chhedi was seated with his back to the pillar and with his legs stretched out before him on the circular wooden platform that surrounded the pillar. Stuck in his left foot was a surgical scalpel from which blood had poured out in copious quantities to form a massive puddle within which Chhedi sat. On his forehead was the impression left by a rubber stamp. It was a mace, the fourth symbol of Vishnu.
Around halfway up the pillar was a Sanskrit inscription in Brahmi script. It indicated that the pillar had been erected as a standard in honour of Lord Vishnu by a valorous king—Chandragupta Vikramaditya. Below the engraved inscription of sixteen hundred years was another Sanskrit one written sixteen minutes previously in Chhedi’s blood—also in honour of Vishnu.
Mleccha-nivaha-nidhane kalayasi karavalam
dhumaketum iva kim api karalam
kesava dhrita-kalki-sarira jaya jagadisa hare.
Rathore continued talking on his mobile phone as he coordinated with the Delhi police to reach the spot. From the distance, Taarak Vakil watched the scene unfold as he dialled Priya’s number on his iPhone.
As Bhishma fell, Arjuna created a bed of arrows on the ground so that Bhishma could rest on them and decide when he would give up his mortal frame. Arjuna shot a couple of more arrows into the ground from which fresh water sprang up to quench the old warrior’s thirst. Karana would now join the war and Drona would take over the command of the Kaurava forces. Unlike Bhishma, who simply wanted to push the Pandavas back without necessarily harming them, Drona wanted at least one of the key Pandavas to fall. The battle strategies became much fiercer in response to this change.
Priya saw her phone sc exploratione is Saini and Radhikareen flash. It did not make a sound as it was on silent mode. She was in Mumbai, seated in the luxurious study of Sir Khan along with her father. She picked up the phone, heard Taarak’s information and put the phone down. Looking up at Sir Khan she said, ‘Chhedi is dead. All four have been eliminated as per your instructions.’
‘This makes it easier to take our quest to finality,’ said Sir Khan.
‘I have done whatever you wanted me to because I thought it would help me find Krishna. I have travelled the length and breadth of this country, including braving the snowy slopes of Mount Kailash, but still have no idea what I’m looking for,’ said Priya. ‘Is it a nuclear Brahmastra or is it ancient DNA left behind by Krishna?’
‘Should I put an end to your confusion? Should I tell you once and for all what it is that I hope to find?’ asked Sir Khan.
‘Please,’ begged Priya. Her face was flushed and her heart was beating rapidly. It was the moment that she had been waiting for.
‘I am searching for a stone,’ replied Sir Khan. ‘It’s not just any stone. In Western literature it has been called the Philosopher’s Stone, but in Hindu mythology, this stone had a very specific name.’
‘What is that?’ asked Priya, breathing heavily in anticipation.
‘It is known by the name Syamantaka,’ declared Sir Khan, releasing a puff of Cuban cigar smoke from his mouth to add dramatic effect to his words.
‘The Syamantaka? But surely that’s just myth,’ began Priya.
‘You are mistaken,’ interrupted Sir Khan. ‘The Syamantaka was not a jewel as claimed in mythological texts. It was a stone that had almost magical properties. It is said in the Vishnu Purana that the Syamantaka originally belonged to Surya—the sun god. The stone had specifi
c alchemic properties and was capable of producing eight bharas of gold daily. The modern equivalent would be around a hundred and seventy pounds of gold each day!’
‘What happened to the Syamantaka?’ asked Sanjay Ratnani.
‘The story about the Syamantaka stone goes like this,’ began Sir Khan. ‘Satrajit, a Yadava chief, prayed to Surya devotedly. When Surya appeared before him and granted him a wish, Satrajit asked for the Syamantaka, which Surya generously bestowed upon him. Satrajit presented the stone to his brother Prasenajit.’
‘So the stone became the possession of Prasenajit?’ asked Ratnani.
‘Only for a short while,’ replied Sir Khan. ‘Prasenajit was attacked by a lion. Having killed Prasenajit, the lion made off with the stone but was himself attacked by Jambavan—the king of bears. Krishna was known to have had his eye on the stone and thus he was suspected of having killed Prasenajit. Krishna was able to track down the bear’s cave and retrieve the stone.’
‘Krishna kept the stone thereafter?’ asked Ratnani.
‘No. Krishna returned the stone to Satrajit who felt terrible for having wrongly accused Krishna. As recompense he offered his daughter Satyabhama’s hand in marriage to Krishna along with the Syamantaka. Krishna accepted the hand of Satyabhama but refused to accept the stone.’
‘What happened next?’ asked Ratnani. a black-masked commando carrying a sal sai
‘Some time later, Krishna was on a journey away from Dwarka when a plot was hatched to kill Satrajit,’ said Sir Khan. ‘Another Yadava by the name of Satadhanwa killed Satrajit, took the Syamantaka and left it with Akroora—the one who had helped Krishna by warning him of Kansa’s intentions. When Krishna heard of it, he tracked down Satrajit’s murderer and killed him. Then Krishna called Akroora and forced him to confess. Akroora told Krishna the truth about the conspiracy. Krishna allowed Akroora to remain the custodian of the stone on one condition: the stone was to always remain in Dwarka.’
‘Did the stone remain in Dwarka?’ asked the old lawyer.
‘Neither the Puranas nor the Mahabharata talk about what happened to the Syamantaka after Krishna’s death and the inundation of Dwarka, but we do know that Krishna and his Yadava clans were in Prabhas Patan—modern Somnath—when Dwarka was inundated,’ said Sir Khan. ‘Krishna was killed accidentally by the hunter Jara in Prabhas Patan. Just think about it, isn’t it possible that the Syamantaka was kept in Somnath after Krishna’s death? More specifically, isn’t it rather likely that it was kept inside the temple for safekeeping?’
‘Let’s assume that you are right, how can we be sure that the Syamantaka was an alchemist’s stone?’ asked Priya.
‘When Mahmud Ghazni attacked Somnath, he took away virtually everything that he possibly could,’ said Sir Khan. ‘There were several solid gold and silver idols inlaid with precious gems. It is said that the estimated value of the loot was twenty million dinars. It’s impossible to calculate the equivalent in modern exchange rates. What we do know is that Mahmud Ghazni and his army carted off around six and a half
tons of gold. Based upon the historical chart of gold prices maintained by the Bank of England, the modern-day value of Ghazni’s gold would have been around two hundred and sixty billion dollars! Before returning to Ghazni, Mahmud demolished the temple and set fire to whatever remained. If we open up our minds to the possibility of alchemy, isn’t it a reasonable hypothesis that much of Somnath’s gold may have come from an alchemical process?’
Priya was stunned into silence.
Sir Khan spoke once again. ‘Isn’t it also possible that the Syamantaka was not really a stone but an ancient alchemical isotope that was capable of nuclear transmutation? Isn’t it conceivable that the Syamantaka was stored within the lingam and that it was this Syamantaka that created the magnetic field that allowed the lingam to hover off the ground?’
‘But a lingam cannot be hollow,’ argued Priya.
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ said Sir Khan. ‘There are some very interesting accounts of Mahmud Ghazni’s attack on Somnath. According to Firishta, a Persian historian who lived in the sixteenth century, Mahmud approached the Shiv lingam with his mace, ready to destroy it. Firishta says that the temple priests offered to put together a huge ransom if Ghazni would spare the sacred symbol of Shiv. Ghazni apparently declared that he wished to be remembered as a breaker of idols rather than as a seller of idols. Having said that, he swung his mace down on the lingam. It is here that Firishta’s account gets really interesting. Firishta says that some stones came pouring out from the lingam when it was shattered.’
‘And it’s your view that Firishta’s account is accurate?’ asked Priya.
‘Most modern historians have dismissed Firishta’s account of this incident because lingams are usually solid stone blocks,’ replied Sir Khan. ‘But what if Somnath was different? After all, there is no Shiv temple anywhere in the world that has a magnetically suspended lingam even today. If Somnath could have one several hundred years ago wouldn’t it have been even more likely that the lingam would have been kept hollow to reduce its weight? Then why is it impossible that the lingam may have yielded the Syamantaka stone that lay inside it?’
‘For one thing, if the Syamantaka was nuclear, then it would have ended up killing its worshippers,’ argued Priya.
‘It wasn’t a nuclear bomb,’ exclaimed Sir Khan. ‘It had nuclear properties, though. And it is precisely because of the radiation produced that the Somnath lingam was always kept covered in the leaves of the bel tree.’
On the twelfth day, Drona noticed that I was making a determined effort to keep Arjuna away from Karana. There was a reason for this. On the morning before entering the battlefield, an old beggar had sought alms from Karana. The generous Karana had said, ‘Ask for anything and it’s yours.’ The beggar had asked for Karana’s armour that used to be part and parcel of his body, like an impenetrable sheath. Karana was unaware that the old beggar was Indra—the father of Arjuna. Karana immediately took a knife and surgically removed his armour. Seeing this magnanimity, Indra was moved and gave him a spear in return—a spear that could only be used once and would never miss its mark. I was simply protecting Arjuna from Karana’s spear—a spear presented to Karana by Arjuna’s own father, Indra.
‘Bel leaves? But offering bel leaves to Shiv is an old Hindu tradition. It has nothing to do with science,’ said Priya.
‘Ah, you are wrong,’ said Sir Khan softly. ‘Yes, the Bel tree is considered sacred by Hindus and the usual offering to the Shiv lingam is its leaves. But the choice of this offering is lost in antiquity.’
‘I’m lost myself,’ said Sanjay Ratnani helplessly.
Sir Khan laughed. ‘The botanical name for Bel is Aegle marmelos. Some years ago, an article appeared in the Oxford Journal. Three scientists had discovered that Aegle marmelos had a radio protective effect. Their study demonstrated that it protected human peripheral blood lymphocytes against radiation, DNA damage and genomic instability. They concluded that it achieved this through “scavenging of radiation”. Isn’t it possible that the Syamantaka was indeed a radioactive substance and that the Somnath lingam needed to be kept covered with bel leaves in order to inhibit and absorb the radiation that it emitted, so that it would be safe for others to visit?’
‘You think that the lingam was a floating one due to a magnetic field created by the nuclear isotope—the Syamantaka?’ asked Priya.
‘Sure I do,’ replied Sir Khan. ‘Isn’t it surprising that Ghazni invaded India seventeen times and survived, but died within a few years of attacking Somnath? Ghazni lay dead due to a lethal strain of tuberculosis at the age of explorationsis Saini and Radhika fifty-nine. It is a well-known fact that Ghazni took pieces of the lingam to be installed as foot scrapers on the steps of the public mosque and his palace. Isn’t it possible that Ghazni had unwittingly signed his own death warrant by carrying off irradiated material that affected his lungs?’
‘He could also have died of battle wounds or fatigu
e. Ghazni was attacked by Indian warriors on his way back to Afghanistan,’ said Priya.
‘True. On his way back to Ghazni, Mahmud was attacked,’ said Sir Khan. But who do you think attacked him? The Jats. I find that very interesting indeed, and I’ll tell you why in just a minute. First, let me tell you a little about the Jats.’
‘What is so interesting about the Jats?’ asked Priya.
‘Patience, Priya,’ admonished Sir Khan, taking a break and pouring himself some water. He took a sip of it and settled down in his usual armchair.
‘When Krishna departed for Dwarka after the eighteenth battle with Jarasandha, it is said that Krishna founded a federation of his Yadava clans. It was known as the Gyati-sangh. Each member of the sangh was called a Gyat. Over hundreds of years, the word Gyat morphed into the word Jat. The Sanskrit grammarian Panini uses the sutra, Jat jhat sanghate, indicating that by Panini’s time, the word Gyat had indeed evolved into Jat. Doesn’t it make sense that when Ghazni was carting off treasures from Krishna’s Somnath—possibly including the Syamantaka stone—he was attacked by Jat warriors who could trace their lineage thousands of years earlier to Krishna himself?’
‘Are you saying that the Jats attacked Ghazni because they wished to recover the Syamantaka?’ asked a wide-eyed Priya.
‘Yes. What they did not realise was that Ghazni was doing precisely the same thing!’ exclaimed Sir Khan.
‘What?’ asked Priya incredulously. ‘You mean to say that Ghazni was not after riches? That he did not attack because of his hatred for idol worship? That his objective was only to take away the Syamantaka?’
‘Well, he certainly wanted those other things too. But he specifically wanted the stone. After all, Ghazni himself was a descendant of Krishna,’ said Sir Khan, smiling.