Destroyer Of Worlds

Chapter 4

4

Asha heard the beating blades of the helicopter on its approach to the towers and walked to the window to watch as it hovered and then landed on the helipad. From London, the box had been taken to a private jet and flown immediately back to Mumbai, and then brought here from the airport in the fastest time possible. She smiled to think of what had arrived with it. In the midst of the mourning rituals, she was still playing the compliant sister and devoted daughter. Mahesh wouldn't know what she planned until it was too late.

Minutes later, there was a knock at her office door.

"Come in," she said, turning to face the entrance. She wore a white trouser suit today, the Hindu color of mourning. The curves flattered her lithe figure, and she found that being underestimated as a mere desirable woman helped her.

The door opened and the scarred man, one of her favorite bodyguards, stood in the doorway with a bag in his hand. Asha wanted to run across the room and grab it from him, so desperate was she for what was inside. But such eagerness did not become her position.

"Put it on the desk," she said abruptly, her voice giving no sense of her anticipation.

The man walked across the carpeted floor, his boots leaving dirty marks on the plush rug. His face was staunch but she felt his eyes flick over her.

He placed the bag on her desk and pulled the top flap open so she could see the box inside. Her fingers itched to touch it, to finally hold the sacred statue that her father had prohibited her from searching for. She remembered his cautionary words even now. It's too dangerous, Asha. We're not ready for the power it can command.

But she had searched in secret for the last year, tracing her father's history. In his younger years, he had worked on archaeological digs around the world. He had not been religious back then, choosing to call himself Christian or Muslim, Hindu or Buddhist depending on what dig he worked on. He had once been part of a Vatican team excavating in the caves of Ellora. They had found something there, an object of great power.

Now, finally, it was within her grasp.

Asha walked to the desk, her breathing shallow. She rested her hands on top of the bag and looked up at the man.

"Did you look inside?" Her voice was honey soft and smooth. She smiled and let the tip of her tongue touch her lips, wetting them slightly. The man's pupils dilated and he shifted uncomfortably in place. He shook his head, dragging his eyes away from her mouth.

"Of course not, your orders were clear."

She nodded. "Good. Then you may stay and watch."

As Asha pulled the box from the bag, her fingers shook with anticipation. The energy vibrating from it made her heart race. It was painted with bright colors, displaying images of the god Shiva in his various incarnations. In one he was seated cross-legged on a tiger skin, his body painted blue with a snake around his neck. His right hand was raised in blessing and his dreadlocks flowed down to create the River Ganges. The box itself was a priceless work of art, but it wasn't what she sought.

She took a deep breath and lifted the lid.

Her eyes widened. She slammed the lid back down again, the sharp sound echoing in the room. Her eyes blazed and narrowed as she looked at the man.

"There's only one piece in here. Where's the rest?" Her voice was ice cold, sharp as a dagger.

Fear flickered across the man's face, confusion in his eyes.

"I swear it. This was the only box in the vault with that radioactive signature. We didn't look in it, we didn't take anything. I promise."

Asha pressed the call button on her desk. The door opened and two bodyguards entered the room, their meaty hands resting on their guns as their huge bodies blocked the exit.

"No, please," the man cried. "I'll find the other pieces."

He fell to his knees, his hands reaching towards her in supplication.

Asha ignored him. "Take him to the Kali temple."

The two bodyguards grabbed the man by the arms and dragged him out, still screaming his protest.

As his cries faded, she opened the box again and looked down at the single piece of the statue, the semi-circle of fire that was meant to surround the god. The bronze edges had been filed into flames that would burn the world to dust and herald a new age. She could see how it would fit into the base, but she needed the other pieces to complete the weapon. She had pored through the diaries and journals and there had been nothing about this. Her father and the man he had found it with must have broken it apart and hidden the pieces separately. It was too late to discover the truth from her father, but perhaps the team he had discovered it with were still alive. She would find them and they would speak when faced with the chamber of the goddess.

But first, she had to face her own reckoning.

Asha clenched her fists and pounded on the table in frustration. She was so close.

In the corner of her office was a private lift. She walked to it with heavy footsteps and pressed the button. She didn't want to face him now, but she had to.

The lift took only seconds to get to the roof garden and Asha walked out into the verdant space beyond. The smell of tropical flowers and the patter of a waterfall filled the air. Up here it was possible to forget that the slums of Mumbai jostled below, crammed full of those millions who eked out a living on the edge of abundance. It was said of India that you could throw away a mango stone and a tree would grow, and up here, that was true. Vishal had planted the garden many years ago when he had first made his fortune and now Asha tended it in his memory.

Palm trees overhead created dappled shade on a stone path made from rocks gathered from all corners of the Kapoor empire. Pebbles from the beaches in Bangladesh where ships were broken up and sold. Glass from the south of Kerala and even precious stones from the forts of Rajasthan.

Huge glass panels high above could be opened and shut electronically, regulating the atmosphere and heat levels. Solar energy gathered from the roof was used throughout the building. The garden was a fusion of modern technology and the inherent natural power of the gods harnessed together, a fitting metaphor for what Asha intended.

But the statue was the key, and she had failed to get it.

She walked on.

A space had been cleared in the corner of the verdant garden in recent months. As her father lay dying, his position weakened, Asha had taken control of the area, making the changes necessary so her guru would come here. She took tentative steps towards the place now.

She stepped out of the greenery into a bare sandy area strewn with sharp stones and ash from cremation grounds. The smell of flowers dissipated, replaced by the stink of human waste and the tang of blood. The trees had been cleared so he sat under direct sunlight, cross-legged, eyes closed, fingers resting on his knees in the chin mudra position, thumb and forefinger touching.

He was naked except for a tiny loincloth, his matted dreadlocks hung to his waist, his bushy beard untrimmed. His dark skin was covered in ash dotted with beads of sweat. In front of him was a human skull fashioned into a kapala bowl, its interior stained with red and black from blood and rotten flesh.

Asha slipped off her shoes on the edge of the sand and walked barefoot towards him, each step soft and silent even as the sharp stones pricked her feet. Pain and blood only brought her closer to the goddess. She barely breathed and her heart pounded, as it always did when she approached him. She sank to her knees with no regard for her fine clothes. They meant nothing here. She was no longer a desirable woman, heiress to one of the biggest companies in India. Here she was just an acolyte in front of her guru. She rested her hands upon her knees and bowed her head.

"You do not have it."

His voice was rough and guttural and it grated across her skin. There was disappointment in his tone and Asha felt his judgement like the stripe of the whip. She shivered a little even under the hot sun. This man had a direct line to the gods. He was a sadhu, a holy man, an Aghori, considered the most extreme of their kind and renounced by other sects for their use of the dead in ritual.

The Aghori believed that by transcending social taboo, they could pierce the illusion of reality. If Shiva was perfect and created everything, even those things considered disgusting and rotten must also be perfect and therefore brought the devotee closer to God. Being near the dead allowed the living to understand what really mattered.

Asha had met the Aghori a year ago, when she had attended a Hindu pilgrimage with her father. But they had brought a luxurious tent, fine linen and ample food with them. As Asha had watched the beggars calling out to the gods, she realized that they were closer to the divine than she could ever be in her rich lifestyle.

She had found him while wandering the pilgrim's camp one day, wearing only a simple cotton sari, no makeup, her hair loose about her face, disguised as a woman of simple means. His rejection of material things drew her to him and his devotion to the goddess Kali made her his disciple. Her father had hated the Aghori and while he was alive, her guru was banned, but now she kept him close.

"I have one piece," she said softly. "And I will find the others."

He opened his eyes, the dark pupils ringed with ash, flakes of blood dusting his eyelashes. Asha felt convicted in his gaze.

"You must hurry," he whispered. "The ritual must be performed on the most auspicious day, when the sacrifice will be the greatest, and the power of the weapon will demonstrate the might of Shiva."

"I will have the pieces in time." Asha's voice was strong and she met his gaze with an unblinking stare. "The statue will be whole. I promise."

The Aghori reached for the kapala skull and turned it over. He pulled out a sharp knife, then held his hand out and sliced his palm. He drew the blade slowly across his flesh so the blood welled and dripped into the skull.

Asha could hardly breathe as he clenched his palm and let the drops fall. The sight of blood excited her, reminded her of what awaited in the temple of Kali.

But that would have to wait.

The Aghori dipped his finger in the blood and then leaned forward. He pressed it against Asha's forehead, marking her with the crimson liquid. She smelled the coppery tang over the sweat of his body and she closed her eyes as he touched her. He was the only one who anchored her to what was real, and through him she would see God.