Kalkoot- The Lost Himalayan Secret Page 4

  Mukhshuddi looked up at Bani quizzically.

  Bani continued. ‘Various accounts exist. One account, in the diaries of a village sarpanch, describes how a heroic young man single-handedly defended the village from a campaign of rape and destruction unleashed by the colonial police; that he “seamlessly alternated between the stillness of a lake and the intensity of lightning”, completely throwing off the opponents. Another account mentions a man who was adept at mechanical devices— from rigging makeshift alarms to wiring an entire village to ward off intruders. Yet another revolutionary describes how this man had probably read “every book of consequence since the dawn of Indian civilisation.” He was supposedly equally well-versed in the Upanishads, the Buddhist treatises, the chronicles of Chinese travellers and the famous European plays.’

  ‘Wow,’ Mukhshuddi exclaimed. ‘This person seems like a cross between Superman, Thomas Edison and Gurudev Tagore!’

  ‘There’s more. Another account, written by a revolutionary from jail, describes a youth who emerged from six weeks’ solitary confinement in a six-feet-by-six-feet cell totally calm and actually looking somewhat healthier and refreshed. When asked what he did all day for those six weeks, he replied that he was meditating all the while. This young man was supposedly well-versed not just in English, French and half-a-dozen modern Indian languages, but also in Sanskrit and Pali. It took me some time to piece together these accounts and realise that they all referred to the same person.’

  ‘Ah, so he was a bit like Swami Vivekananda, too,’ Mukhshuddi said, revelling in his uncharacteristic burst of mental activity. ‘What was this man’s name? Where did he come from?’

  Bani stole a glance at Mukhshuddi, happy that the story was keeping him spellbound. ‘Nobody knows. All that was known was that he learnt yoga, meditation and languages in his teenage years under a guru in the Himalayas, and then proceeded to master both the ancient eastern treatises and the western works on science, art and history. One aging revolutionary wrote that this man represented the “best of Indian civilisation”. In the revolutionary circles of those days, this young man was simply referred to in hushed whispers as Yogyaveer, meaning the Worthy, Brave One, in Sanskrit.’

  ‘Wah,’ Mukhshuddi said.

  ‘And then, sometime in early 1944, these stories abruptly ceased, almost as if this man vanished from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Hold on; what does this story have to do with Manohar Rai and the Imperial Guard?’ Mukhshuddi asked.

  ‘In the unopened letter to his friend, Manohar wrote that he had enlisted the help of a remarkable young man of extraordinary capabilities, a man who “could rival the ancient king Vikramaditya in prowess”. With this man’s phenomenal appreciation of Indian history, Manohar put together this treasure trove of artefacts, manuscripts and sculptures that represented the best of Indian civilisation dating back from the Vedic times. This young man was to go into hiding and preserve this for posterity, just in case the Imperial Guard’s plan to destroy iconic symbols of Indian civilisation came to fruition.’

  ‘Where was this young man to hide?’ Mukhshuddi asked.

  ‘This man—I will simply call him the Yogyaveer—was to hide in “a place no human could penetrate, till the last of the sympathisers of the Imperial Guard were known to be no more”. Manohar referred to this place as the Gupt-Kandara; in the Sanskrit language, this means the Hidden Cave. Manohar was aware that this task demanded enormous inner strength, patience and integrity, and he could think of no better person for the job.’

  Mukhshuddi nodded, slowly comprehending. ‘So, Bani-da, for the last twelve years, you have been trying to trace the hiding place—this Hidden Cave—hoping to find this treasure of priceless artefacts.’

  Bani nodded. ‘Most academics think I am insane.’

  ***

  ‘So, are these manuscripts and artefacts likely to be worth a lot?’ Mukhshuddi asked.

  ‘Priceless to someone like me. But universities, museums or private collectors would pay maybe a few hundred million dollars for it. Maybe even a billion.’

  ‘Really? Do people pay that kind of money for ancient books?’

  ‘Well, a single painting from the ‘The Card Players’ series, by Paul Cezanne, sold for two hundred fifty million dollars in 2011. Another painting, ‘Salvator Mundi’, by Leonardo da Vinci, sold for four hundred fifty million dollars in 2017. In 2010, a sculpture by Alberto Giacometti was auctioned for over a hundred million dollars. And here, we are talking about an entire collection. Easily a few hundred million dollars, if not a billion.’

  ‘A billion dollars,’ Mukhshuddi nodded in comprehension. ‘That’s a lot.’

  ‘That’s not the point, Mukhshuddi. I don’t give a damn about the money. For me, being able to lay my hands on a continuous chronicling of Indian history, dating back all the way from four thousand years ago, would be an “Alice in Wonderland” feeling.’

  Mukhshuddi glanced at the books on Bani’s table as he got up to leave. There was one book titled The Black Death and the Transformation of the West, another titled The Journey to Mount Kailash, and a notepad with the words ‘KaalKoot’ prominently scribbled on it.

  ‘Your work seems very interesting, Bani-da,’ Mukhshuddi said, impressed. ‘Now I know why you have been excited all these years.’

  He adjusted his shawl as he began to walk to the door. ‘But I still think none of this was worth leaving Muneera for.’

  ‘I didn’t leave,’ Bani said tersely, ‘She did.’

  CHAPTER 7

  Kolkata, Sunday, 10.30 p.m.

  Bani spent an uneasy half hour bent over his desk, poring over some old notes.

  At 10.30 p.m., by the dim glow of the lamp, he saw something that made him jump up in alarm. It was the silhouette of a face outside his study window.

  ***

  Bani still retained some of the reflexes from his early soccer days. He got over the shock and dove up to the window within a couple of seconds. But the silhouette was not visible anymore.

  His hands were shaking a little bit as he fumbled with the light switch. When the lights finally came on, he stepped outside the house and took a look.

  No sign of anybody.

  He shook his head, cursed and headed back to his study. He found it difficult to do any work after that.

  Could it be one of his rivals, Bani wondered; somebody who wanted to claim the credit for himself? But then, historians weren’t exactly known for stalking people and taking up positions outside their windows.

  Could it be an antique thief who wanted to sell the treasure trove of artefacts and make some money? But a thief would probably busy himself with something that offered more tangible and instant gratification, such as robbing a bank. Or becoming a politician, Bani chuckled.

  There was a third, and more sinister, possibility. A possibility that made Bani nervous. Very nervous. A possibility that centred around the contents of a scroll hidden in Bani’s bank locker.

  A possibility that revolved around KaalKoot.

  ***

  Bani had discovered the scroll four months ago in Nepal.

  Before hiding the scroll in, of all places, a bank locker, Bani had translated and copied the contents—ten verses in Sanskrit—in his notepad.

  There were only two people he had shared the contents of the scroll with: Steve and Shrikant.

  Shrikant was an expert on Himalayan plant and animal life. He was one of the few eminent researchers who didn’t laugh at Bani on the face. Bani and he had known each other—as close friends and collaborators—for over twenty-five years. With their shared fondness for soccer, Bani and Shrikant called each other Pele and Zico respectively, after their favourite Brazilian stars of the yesteryears.

  Shrikant had come back just the previous week with a very intriguing insight. An insight that opened up the possibility that Bani might be followed, by a bunch more sinister than just historians trying to claim credit or thieves trying to get to the artefacts.

 
Bani quivered a little as he picked up the notepad in which he had jotted down the verses. His eyes darted to the fourth verse.

  The secret shall be revealed only to the Worthy Heir

  That person alone, of supreme faith, courage, stillness and compassion

  Shall be able to conquer the Agonies

  And prevent KaalKoot from striking again.

  Bani’s heart beat faster. He had struggled to find the master key that would enable him to interpret the verses correctly. Something that Steve would hopefully shed light on tomorrow.

  Bani couldn’t bear the wait. He walked up to the telephone and dialled Steve’s mobile phone number.

  It was switched off.

  ***

  Sunday, 11.30 p.m.

  After having unsuccessfully tried Steve’s number a few more times, Bani was worriedly pacing up and down the room when the phone rang.

  Bani dived towards the phone. ‘Ha! I can still do a mean football tackle,’ he thought for a split second.

  ‘Who’s this?’ slurred a seemingly intoxicated voice on the phone.

  ‘Prof. Bani Bhattacharya. Who’s on the line?’

  ‘Look . . . erre . . .’ the voice continued, ‘I got a laddie ‘ere who is muttering your number.’

  It was not an Indian accent. Probably British, though Bani could barely make out the words underneath the wheezing and slurring.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Says name’s Steve. ‘as given your number.’ The man coughed and sputtered violently. Bani could practically feel the man’s phlegm through the phone lines.

  Bani registered that this was not a man who was high on alcohol. Or even marijuana. He was probably on stronger stuff.

  But Bani didn’t care about that. He just wanted to make sure the guy did not hang up the phone.

  ‘Can I talk to Steve?’ he asked. ‘Please,’ he added as an afterthought.

  For a second, the line seemed to have gone dead. Bani’s heart skipped a beat. ‘Hello?’ he asked apprehensively.

  ‘I don’t want no trouble. Here I was, good old Jeff, peacefully smoking me joints and doing my mantra chants, and now this bloke got me all messed up. He seems like a decent bloke, so I’m doin’ it for him. But I don’t want no trouble.’

  Bani sighed. At least he had a name now. ‘Jeff, I’m just a professor. Can I talk to Steve?’

  ‘Him?’ the man slurred. ‘He’s knocked cold. Badly bruised all over. My buddy, he’s with the Red Cross, he’s fixed him up for now, but Steve ain’t gonna talk for some time. Just wheezed out your number before he conked out.’

  Oh gosh! So Steve was hurt. Badly. ‘Tell me where you are and I’ll see you,’ Bani was desperate.

  ‘I’m heading to Goa now. With him. If you bring any cops, I’m gonna vanish as sure as the sun sets every day.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I, too, hate cops.’

  ‘Goa. The rave party at Lotus Café. See me ‘morrow at 10 after sundown.’

  ‘How do I identify you?’

  ‘I’m not gonna tell ya. I’ve had enough trouble already. I will find ya. I can spot a guy who duhn’t belong in the rave the way y’all can spot a white bloke in a bazaar.’

  ‘Where in Goa is Lotus Café?’ Bani asked, his anxiety rising to a shrill pitch. ‘Is Steve hurt? Is he even fit to travel from Mumbai to Goa?’

  But the slurring man had hung up the phone.

  ***

  The Mansion, Sunday, 11.35 p.m.

  The tall, heavy-set man at the ebony desk at the Mansion dialled a phone number as soon as he finished listening in on Bani’s phone conversation. He had been instructed to call this number only in exceptional circumstances, and this one qualified.

  A deep voice emerged from the other end of the phone. It had a mildly echoing quality to it, and it sounded somewhat sinister, as if it had emerged from the depths of darkness itself.

  ‘Tell me.’

  The tall, heavy-set man at the desk was a hardened thug who had seen, and inflicted, more than his fair share of horrors. Yet, every time he heard that voice, it sent an involuntary shudder down his spine.

  ‘Sir, Steve seems to be with some doped-out hippy who has made contact with the Professor. They are going to meet in Goa tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Coordinates?’ The man at the other end liked to keep things brief.

  ‘It seemed like a public phone booth. My guess is that he’s taking a train from Mumbai to Goa. We’ll try to intercept all possible train combinations. But our best bet is the rendezvous point in Goa tomorrow.’

  There was a pause as the man at the other end contemplated this for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice exuded an eerie chill.

  ‘We have had one goof-up already with Steve’s escape. Tail the Professor, and move to Plan B. This time, Bruce, you handle it.’

  ‘What about Andy, Doc?’ Bruce blurted out, then bit his lip. He should have kept his trap shut.

  ‘Andy is out of play,’ the person at the other end, whom Bruce called the Doc, said calmly.

  Bruce’s heart fluttered mildly as he realised what that meant. Andy had goofed up with Steve, and he was now history.

  Just as Bruce would be if he goofed up with Plan B. Especially now that KaalKoot was imminent.

  ‘I will handle things in Goa tomorrow, sir,’ Bruce said, somewhat tamely.

  But the man at the other end had already hung up.

  ***

  Alipore, Kolkata, 11.35 p.m.

  Bani’s heart was beating so fast it felt like a sledgehammer. The image of the face silhouetted outside his study window, the memory of his last conversation with Shrikant, and the thought of a badly injured Steve were all coming together to form an unholy potpourri in his head.

  The only thing Bani was clear about was that he needed to head to Goa at the earliest. Everything else was a muddle.

  He needed to clear his mind. Fast. Maybe over a walk. Or else he, too, might end up like Steve.

  Bani loved walks. Every morning, he would head to the Kolkata Maidan, taking in the sights and sounds of the city. For a person who didn’t watch TV, didn’t carry a mobile phone and spent most of his day absorbed in books, this was one way of staying sane.

  But it was almost midnight, and the Maidan was no place to go to in the dark.

  Bani decided, on a whim, to head to Park Street. At least the party-hopping crowd would lend the place a cheerful vibe at this time of the night.

  Before leaving for Park Street, he called his friend Shrikant’s office phone number in Mumbai. As with Bani, Shrikant didn’t carry a mobile phone, and he did not even have a phone at his residence.

  It went to his voice mail. Bani left him a message with the nicknames that they used for each other.

  ‘Hey, Zico, Pele here. Drop everything and meet me in Goa. 8.30 p.m. tomorrow, Monday. In front of the band at Ephesus Hotel. And watch out for people following you. This is getting dangerous. Very dangerous.’

  ***

  Park Street, Kolkata, 11.55 p.m.

  Bani had got off his cab on Park Street, a few steps from the iconic hotel ‘The Park’, when he spotted them.

  There were two of them, in a nondescript grey Honda City which had been maintaining a dubiously close-yet-not-too-close distance from his cab.

  No sooner had Bani spotted them than the Honda City accelerated towards his cab. Bani involuntarily quickened his steps, until he realised that he needed to break into a run. This was a do-or-die situation.

  Bani’s mind moved in a hundred different directions as he ran. He did not know whether his pursuers were armed. Staying out in open view at Park Street was not a good idea.

  It would be better to get to a place where he could mingle with the crowd.

  An idea flashed through Bani’s mind.

  Tantra, the booming nightclub at The Park, opposite the main hotel entrance, was the partygoers’ paradise, and the hub of Kolkata’s nightlife. It would be shutting down at midnight, and the crowds would be streaming out.

/>   There was no time to waste. Bani ran towards Tantra, his footballer’s muscles swinging back to life, even as he secretly thanked his brisk morning walks for keeping him agile and fit.

  The Honda City had screeched to a halt at the place where Bani had disembarked from the cab moments ago. The two men got off and started running towards him, the distance between them and Bani only around thirty metres. One of them had taken out a revolver.

  ***

  Bani rushed headlong into the swarm of people streaming out of Tantra. The crowd was spread out in haphazard ways, slowing Bani’s progress. He ploughed his way right into the sprawling nightclub, fervently hoping that he was not committing a blunder by entering an enclosed space.

  He could hear the spontaneous howls of protest from outside the nightclub, probably his pursuers running into the crowd or maybe brandishing the revolver. The sounds grew louder and nearer, and Bani knew they were steadily gaining on him.

  He panicked. Should he run back out of Tantra and try to enter the main hotel? Maybe his pursuers would hesitate to shoot in a hotel lobby?

  But he knew he could not bank on that.

  The yelps from near the Tantra entrance were much louder now.

  There was only one way to go. Bani ran towards the kitchen, hoping that it would lead on to the rear exit.

  ***

  Something drew him to a small door to his right.

  Bani could not resist a second glance at it. It was an inconspicuous door that was hidden in the shadows.

  Bani rushed closer and peered in, his heart still pounding.

  Inside, there were empty crates of drinks, a mop, and a table with a few chairs piled on top. Towards the leftmost corner of the room, there were stacks of old newspapers, along with boxes of provisions.

  A storage room.

  That was when he saw it.

  There was a small loft in the leftmost corner, hidden in the shadows, built into the upper wall, with a few small boxes of cardboard on it, but otherwise ripe to accommodate any person who was foolish—or desperate—enough to squeeze into it.

  Would this loft escape the attention of prying eyes? Bani did not know, but there was no time to think. He moved a chair to use as a base to hoist himself up into the loft.