Tantrics Of Old Read online

  Neither sibling was too pleased about the other tagging along, but they were temporarily satisfied with the Necromancer’s reply. Fidgety, Gray stood up and moved about the room, eyeing everything suspiciously. Maya watched her brother for a moment before turning her attention to the pile of books Adri had crashed into earlier. Neat, black, leather bound books, all identical. She bent and picked one up. The paper was old—like parchment, but not quite—and the book was surprisingly heavy. She opened it. Untidy scrawls crowded the pages. Maya read a few lines and realised what the books were. Diaries. Adri’s diaries. At least a hundred of them. She picked another one up. A diary again. How much did this man write? Her curiosity got the better of her and without so much as a second thought, she quickly put a few of them into her bag. There were things to be learnt.

  Gray had not noticed. He was busy examining a wooden hand that he had found. He moved the fingers, examining the metal joints.

  Adri came out ready, and picked up his backpack. ‘Let’s go then,’ he said. ‘We have to travel a lot in the—Oi! Put that down!’

  ‘What is it?’ Gray asked, unabashed. ‘Is it dangerous?’

  ‘Valuable,’ Adri said. ‘It’s from Ahmedabad, City of the fabled Warlocks.’

  ‘Far West,’ Maya murmured. ‘Those who make the sun set.’

  Adri nodded. ‘A long, long journey, thankfully nothing we need bother ourselves with. The Old City is mere hours away. No, what is tough is the walk once we enter.’

  ‘What about food? Do we pack food?’ Maya asked.

  ‘Canned stuff,’ Adri replied.

  ‘Can I have a weapon?’ Gray asked.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You know, like a magical weapon or something. It’s going to be dangerous out there, right?’ Gray asked.

  ‘You are not getting a weapon,’ Adri spoke, shaking his head. ‘Let’s go.’

  Gray hadn’t expected a weapon. He just shrugged and stepped out silently with Maya, and they watched as Adri put out the lights and locked the door behind him.

  ‘Why is the key shaped like a frog?’ Gray asked.

  ‘It’s a cursed object, it protects my place,’ Adri replied, irritated.

  ‘What does it do if someone breaks in?’ Gray asked, evidently interested.

  ‘Stop asking so many questions, idiot,’ Maya interrupted.

  Adri felt a tinge of gratefulness, but it did not last as Gray snapped back, and soon enough the siblings were quarrelling again. Adri descended the stairs rapidly, keeping as much distance as he could from the two. They followed, still bickering.

  No one knew much about the old storyteller. He would appear, as was his custom, on the dirt road leading to the Settlement once every month, welcomed by the old people and the children. He would find a place to sit, and the little ones, having spotted him from their windows, would come trickling out of their homes, running to him, surrounding him, fighting for a place close to him. He wouldn’t stay for very long; after sharing a stock of stories he would leave once more. The hardworking folk did not pay him any attention—for them he was simply an old man with too much to talk about; though everyone did admit that his stories had a certain power of drawing in an audience immediately, not all of whom were children

  No one could really remember when he had first appeared in their Settlement, but in the beginning everyone had been wary of his wizened old face, his long white beard, and the sharp eyes beneath those overgrown eyebrows. Every time he visited them, he would be wearing that same white dhoti and kurta, and carrying that same wooden stick as old as he. But over time they had warmed up to him; sure the rumours about him persisted—that he was seen in many places at the same time, that he had been a powerful sadhu once. There were always the more ridiculous whispers that he had the power of prophecy, for which he had traded away his soul, and that he was one of the seven deadliest warriors in the world.

  People knew which rumours to be inclined to believe though. He was definitely harmless, a cheerful old man who loved children and greeted everyone with a smile; and he had never spoken of the future, only of the past. His knowledge in folklore and legends was unparalleled, and a gifted storyteller he was. He was said to roam throughout the burned lands, moving from place to place, Settlement to Settlement. He had been seen as far as Ahzad in the far north, and even at Kanyakumari—the holy communion of the three seas in the south, always in the same white dhoti-kurta, always unharmed.

  Right now he was in the realm of Old Kolkata, in the Settlement of Barasat, a Settlement that fell in the shadow of the Shongar Ruins. He had hobbled into the Settlement as he usually did—the peacekeepers lowering their customised weapons to let him pass without a second thought—and he had found himself a place beneath one of the old surviving banyan trees of the area. The kids gathered around him immediately.

  ‘Story, Dadu!’ they shrieked. ‘Story!’

  The old man laughed with delight, keeping his stick on his lap as he sat cross-legged among the children. ‘You want a story, huh, Mira? And you too, eh, Jyotish? A story you shall hear, then!’

  He always remembered all the children’s names. Never did his old age slip up his memory, not unless it was a deliberate act in his storytelling when he did not want to give something away. The old storyteller scratched his beard and looked up, his eyes unfocused as he recollected.

  ‘Story, Dadu, story!’ the children chattered excitedly.

  The old man began: ‘Back in the days when the sky was blue, there lived a Dragon. Not a shape-changer, but a true Dragon of the Earth, hatched from an egg blessed under the seven constellations of the powerful. His name was as old as the Earth itself, a name carved in granite and gold—a name we still whisper in our dreams to protect us from nightmares. Dhananjay, the greatest hunter to have ever lived, was closest to the Dragon and a very good friend. They used to hunt together, and cook, and talk about things old and forgotten.

  ‘The Serpent of the Ondhokaar was born soon, fuelled from all the hate and the deceit in the world at that time—growing up stealing cows and goats from herds, it soon grew powerful and strong. The Serpent of the Ondhokaar hated the Dragon, and challenged him to many fights, all of which it had to escape from for fear of its dreaded life. The Dragon never pursued it back to the Ondhokaar—he let it live, partly out of pity for the corruption that fuelled its existence, and what his other reasons were we will never know, as he was a great and powerful creature, and is said to have only shared his thoughts with the Hunter.

  ‘The Serpent hated the Dragon, and knew it would never equal the Dragon. So, it conspired. With several creatures of shadow, it hatched a plot to claim the great being’s life.

  ‘On that day of great sorrow, while the Dragon slept, they covered his earth-brown hide with black shadow. Meanwhile, Dhananjay, having heard so many complaints about the Serpent from the people he protected, was tracking it—and the Serpent led him to the cave where the Dragon blissfully slept. The black skin clouded the hunter’s judgment and mistaking the Dragon for the snake, he let loose a well-aimed arrow of such power that it claimed the Dragon’s life in three breaths it took. The Dragon had time to open his eyes, however, and see the face of his killer. Eyes wide open in shock, he gazed upon Dhananjay and then his eyes closed forever, his giant body an unmoving heap.’

  The children listened, caught in the story, their young faces betraying both wonder and fear. A dead silence descended on the little group.

  The old storyteller began again: ‘Dhananjay realised the treachery involved. Devastated, he wept and he wept beside the body of his oldest friend until he could take it no more. Taking out a dagger, he was about to plunge it in his own heart when he was stopped by a voice. A sage, a sadhu had been meditating in the same cave and he had sensed everything that had happened. “Take not your life for this sin, Hunter,” he said. “The guilty are still free, and they will be capable of many such acts if your arrows do not stop them.” Dhananjay faced the sadhu and asked for his means of redemption.
“You have slain an innocent,” the sadhu replied, “and for that you must pay the price with your own death. But death comes in many ways, and in that you have a choice. For now, avenge the great creature before you and put an end to the sly Serpent, for it is as responsible for his death as you are.”

  ‘Dhananjay broke off a single scale from the Dragon’s body, and sawed off a single fang from its mouth, and then, working for months, he fashioned a sword out of the fang, and a piece of armour from the scale. He wore the armour and took the sword in hand and went into the Ondhokaar to find the lair of the beast. He killed it after a long battle, finding his redemption through the Dragon tooth that pierced its black heart, and the Dragon scale that protected him from the Serpent’s venom.

  ‘But the Ondhokaar was a maze, and by the time Dhananjay could find his way out, years had passed. He made his way back to the cave and buried the Dragon, burying the sword and the armour along with him. The sadhu was still there, and Dhananjay first sought his blessings and then asked for his permission to seal the mouth of the cave from prying eyes so that his great friend could rest forever. The sadhu granted him the permission to do so, and Dhananjay did, sealing the sadhu in as per the sadhu’s wishes. But he left a back door to this tomb, one to which he alone had the key, this entrance prepared for a specific reason.

  ‘For hundreds of years Dhananjay hunted, but his mind was not at peace. He missed his old friend, but that was not what plagued him—no, what bothered him was the thought of what the Dragon had seen in his dying moment. He had seen the hunter, holding his bow tight, the freshly released arrow now deep within his own heart. The Dragon had not said anything. Dhananjay was proud of their friendship, and could not bear the thought of what had gone through the Dragon’s mind as he died. Was it the horror of betrayal? Dhananjay screamed to the skies in agony of this thought, and the very gods were scared—they sent storms and rain to calm him down, they sent great and vicious monsters for him to hunt. But nothing seemed to quench this thirst of the Hunter. He travelled the earth, hunting and looking for something he didn’t realise. Until he heard of them.

  ‘Dhananjay had been hunting frost giants in the North when he heard about a curious trio of men. They were called Necromancers, Talkers to the Dead. A village shaman told the hunter what he needed to know—they were powerful and secretive, and would not divulge their art to anyone; all three had ascending levels of power in their art.

  ‘Dhananjay went to where the three lived, in the depths of a forest surrounded by graveyards, called Pai-jinoshk. Dhananjay had been warned by the same shaman that the graveyards were infested with revenant, but they were nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, and he cut hundreds down as he made his way deeper into the forest. Finally he did meet the three, and he had to answer three questions for them before they would talk to him. He answered the questions correctly, and the Necromancers asked him what he wanted. “I want to talk to a dear old friend,” he replied. “Someone who is already dead.”

  ‘It was not an easy task to recall a Dragon’s spirit into the world of the living, but that was the power of the Necromancer, as it is to this day—they were the ones who could see spirits and talk to them, and the most powerful among them could even command them. So first, the Doresh el ha Metim, the man who questioned corpses, tried to call the spirit, but it did not reply. Next was the Yidde’Oni, the second Necromancer, the gainer of information from ghosts. He too was unsuccessful. Then it was the Ba’al Ob’s turn. The master of spirits held a powerful summoning that lasted for months, and finally the spirit found the doorway it needed and appeared, its spirit form face to face with its old friend. Tears came to the hunter’s eyes, and he explained what had happened that fateful day, and how the Serpent was now dead.

  ‘The Dragon heard everything and then in his eyes, Dhananjay saw him smile. The Dragon shared its thoughts with Dhananjay again, like times gone, telling Dhananjay that he had forgiven him the instant he had died—and the proof of course was the fact that the hunter still breathed, for a Dragon’s death curse is always fatal. Dhananjay, moved, reached out to hold his old friend’s head, but his hand passed right through the silvery creature. The Dragon smiled then and told him to come to the other side when he would. There were many creatures there for them to hunt together. And then the Dragon was gone. Dhananjay stood rooted to the spot of the summoning for the next three days—tears fell from his eyes, freely, and he breathed in old memories of their time together. Then, he turned to the three Necromancers.

  ‘He was very happy with them and he demanded of them that they take apprentices so that the art may be passed on to others. As the Necromancers considered this in the dead of night, a Cyclopidian chimera attacked their camp. It was intent on devouring all three of the dead-talkers; but luckily, after it had killed and eaten the Doresh el ha Metim and the Yidde’Oni, Dhananjay woke up and fought the beast. It was one of the hunter’s toughest fights, the chimera being one of the strongest that roamed the ancient lands. The remaining Necromancer, the Ba’al Ob, summoned a thousand and one spirits and sent them to help the hunter, and together they finally slew the chimera. “I fought not for myself, not for you, but for your art,” Dhananjay told the Tantric after the battle was over, and with these words the dead-talker realised that he must pass on his art. And so he did. With the help of the hunter, the Necromancer spread his art through the ancient lands. Necromancy, the Art of the Tantric, became better known, better respected. It was much later that Dhananjay died, peacefully, as an old man, and rejoined his friend in the spirit world. They hunted together once more, and their great friendship is seen in the stars even today.’

  The old man pointed at the skies and all the children followed his gaze. ‘Next Wednesday, children,’ he spoke. ‘Look to the skies at night and you will see the constellation we call the Twin Hunters. Man and Dragon.’

  ‘Are there Dragons around, Dadu?’ a child asked.

  ‘Yes, can we see a Dragon?’

  The old storyteller shook his head. ‘No. He was the only Dragon there was, there have been none others.’

  ‘Tell us his name, Dadu!’

  ‘His name is not known. He was the only one of his kind, you see,’ the old man explained. ‘So his name is not needed to remember him.’

  ‘We want to talk to his spirit!’

  The old man laughed heartily. ‘Ah Jyotish! I am not a Necromancer,’ he said. ‘But he was a good Dragon,’ the storyteller continued. ‘I’m sure he would have loved to meet all of you lovely children.’

  ‘Where are the Necromancers then?’

  ‘They run the government of New Kolkata, most of them. Do you understand what government means?’

  ‘Yes, it is what rules us. Isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. It is called MYTH. Have you heard of it?’

  ‘Yes we have!’ they replied in unison.

  ‘If any of you ever go to New Kolkata, it is very important to listen to them and obey them. Them and your parents. Do you understand?’ Some of the children nodded. ‘Good. It is very important that all of you grow up safely and be strong men and women.’

  It was afternoon, the streets mostly empty. The sun was up, and the heat bore down on everyone. The old man and the children, in the shade of the giant banyan tree, were comfortable. He continued telling them stories, one after the other, but somewhere in the middle of the fourth one he stopped and looked at the empty street before him. The children were confused. Dadu never stopped in the middle of a story! They urged him to continue, but he did not respond to them, steadfastly peering instead at the street in front of him. Winds blew, scattering leaves and swirling up dust in the afternoon heat and in its midst, the old man saw someone walking down the road towards them.

  The figure came closer. A little girl, dressed in a skirt and a top that was a faded white and purple. She was very young, about six, with bright, gleaming skin, and dark black hair. Her face however, was not visible, for she wore a mask. It was a dark brown wooden mask of a grote
sque being, a rakshas of some sort, with bulging eyes and little eyeholes, and horns and huge teeth carved skilfully. The little girl walked towards them, stopping when she saw the storyteller. She surveyed him silently, and he looked back at her. Then, after a very, very long pause, she turned and walked off into a side alley.

  The old man looked at the children. ‘When did Kaveri get that mask?’ he asked them.

  ‘Some days ago. She wears it all the time now. We’re all scared of her,’ the boy named Riku spoke.

  ‘How many days has it been?’

  ‘Two or seven,’ the boy replied confidently.

  ‘Does she ever take it off?’ the storyteller asked. The children looked at each other, shifty, uncomfortable. No one replied.

  ‘No,’ Minti answered at length. ‘I used to play with her. Now she doesn’t take off that scary face so I don’t play with her.’

  The old man looked down the street wordlessly. It was empty once again. He got up, grabbed his stick, and bid a hasty goodbye to the children. Then he hobbled off towards the headman’s house. The biggest house in the Settlement, it lay in the centre—the old man climbed the stairs to its front porch, his steps slow and painful, and knocked sharply on the door. There was no reply for the longest time, but the old man kept knocking relentlessly until the headman, finally awakened from his afternoon siesta, answered the door.

  ‘What is it, old man?’ he asked, irritated.

  ‘Something more important than your afternoon sleep,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Don’t teach me—’ the headman began, but was cut short by the old man’s next words.

  ‘Your Settlement is in grave danger.’ The old man’s eyes burned seriously.

  ‘Danger? From what?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know if I told you, and you wouldn’t believe me if you knew. But I am sure.’