Chapter 4: Red against White - a Mukt & Jia scoop

June 09, 2023

Dear Diary,

Will you still love me if I make a confession? Actually, it doesn’t matter even if you don’t for now. I am sure you will come around soon so here goes!

I love it when they cry, when they beg me for mercy, especially when their tears get mixed up with their blood. The colors…red against white! The sounds…whimpering remonstrations and those screams, one louder than the other! The look on their faces…terrified and yet unbelieving of what’s happening to them! The smell…a mix of involuntarily passed urine, even faeces and the deep stink of their innards as they get exposed to the steel of my knife!

I love it when I take my time with them, ever so slowly allowing the passage of the hands of the clock, denoting the endlessness of time that will slowly but surely lead them to their makers. I am the harbinger of their fate, whether it be their salvation or their lowly rebirth. I love it when they want me to sit in judgment of their crimes and good deeds, pleading with me as though I were God, recounting to me how good they have been and how they don’t deserve what they know is coming for them.

I love their beady eyes as they stop being able to differentiate between tear drops and those of blood and other bodily fluids. I love their hands folded in complete submission and prayer, the nails and skin chipping away from the acid I use to purify them before I gut them.

I know, my dear diary, that I have told you who I am to think myself capable of delivering this justice upon the earthly scum. They think they are the same as me. They are not. I come when all has gone and I go where none has ever ventured.

I am The Destroyer! I am The Creator! I am The Preserver!

I am what Krishna could have been; what Achilles could only strive for…my heel is cast in stone.

I have what Zeus didn’t have; what Indra didn’t manage to control…I am the True King and my lightning bolt can’t be defeated by any trinity.

I don’t need to wait for what Sita prayed for; what Helen of Troy had to yearn for…I don’t need a savior waging wars for me; I am war.

I am not undermined by the limitations of Hades; Yamraj doesn’t have my freedom…I own the Underworld; I am its unchallenged master.

You know, dear diary, how restless I get when they struggle initially, when they try to fight back, when they look at my physical form and feel that they can overpower me. I could pity them but I don’t. I hate them for it. I hate their lack of wisdom, their lack of comprehension, that they can’t relate to the strength in my divine form. My lust isn’t confined to that for their blood, it is an obsession for justice that gives me celestial strength, a true reason for my actions and not just a forced justification.

Dear Diary, you know how I operate but they don’t. They are not your friends and they don’t know you the way I do. You know how deep I can lie when I am preparing for a prey, how quiet I can be before I roar. I have to be in their midst, one of them, till I can give them a glimpse of my Godly avatar. I get to be their friend before I become the owner of their souls.

But why, oh diary, do they struggle so? Their beautiful hair that I have to drag them by, their exquisite jawline that I have to destroy, their slender limbs I have to dismember…could they not bleat around a little less and simply wait patiently, like the sheep they are, for the deliverance I shall surely bestow upon them?

As I write to you today, my darling diary, I can see the smoke coming out of the bodies being cremated at the ghats of the river. They call her the mother, Ganga, Ganges, believing that she will wash away all their sins. Even after they die, they pollute her with the ashes of their bodies, the smell of their burning fats. I see the funeral pyres lined up in this holy city of Varanasi (an amalgamation of Varuna and Assi, the two tributaries of Ganges) and wonder about the limits of the river. How much can she take and what will she leave behind once she dries up, as she surely will?

I have spent a lot of time here, looking at the same images, thinking of the same things, but perhaps in another life. I can’t remember that life any more. I can’t remember the person I was then. Was it in this yug or the one before this one…this millennia or another much earlier…this birth or another cycle of births?

Half my face is burnt today, but it wasn’t so then, and I am glad for the change. I am black and white, yin and yang, the nar and the nari, the God and the Devil, fury and compassion...Life and Death. I must thank them for giving me my identity today for they are as much a part of me now as I am of them…especially those two.

Oh Jia, my sweetest darling, how I love you…what will I do without you? I am your ultimate destination and you complete me. I am coming for you!

Oh Mukt, what will I not do to you when I meet you! You will be at my mercy and I won’t stop and you will beg, beg me for more and I will give you more…much more!

The glory of old

Banaras Hindu University is in deed, a great institution. Despite the four years that I stayed there for my engineering degree and even during the course of my two later visits to the place, the very grandeur of BHU's mansion-esque buildings have never ceased to amaze me. The sprawling hostels, the tree covered pathways, and the vast stretches of lush green fields play their own roles in enhancing the face value of this astonishingly beautiful and huge university.

There was no specific reason for this particular visit of mine. It was just that I was in Varanasi and had to meet my cousin who stays near the university. Since I was in the vicinity, I decided to drop in. My cousin had some work and could meet me only in the afternoon. I had started from my uncle's house in Chowka Ghat early in the morning right after my breakfast, and so I thought it better to complete my BHU visit first in the schedule. An auto rickshaw from the Cantt. railway station dropped me at the gates of BHU and I could see Mahamana Pandit Madan Mohan Malviyaji standing there, watching and blessing the university's hallowed portals.

I decided in favor of a regular rickshaw instead of the auto for my journey inside the campus as the latter would have hardly given me any time and space to watch any and all changes. I was right but wrong, too. I had not really thought of any change in particular but just had the impression that some things would certainly have changed since the last time I was here. However, the changes that I had expected were nowhere to be seen.

BHU was still the same old campus that I (and all my batch mates, I am sure) have been familiar with. Mahila Maha Vidyalaya (WC for the IT-ians) still had the guys waiting patiently for the ever-elusive girls who were busy chatting up elsewhere in the famous phone booth there. Madhuban still had that odd couple sitting there, holding hands and sipping the Pepsi they had bought from the Madhuban Cafe. Faculty of Performing Arts (FOPA) had some enthusiastic people discussing a forthcoming event in full earnest. Although I could catch only a few words, they were enough to fuel my somewhat dormant memories of the college festivals. I could also see the students lining up in front of Maitri Jalpaan Grih for their morning breakfast.

The biggest of the memories came flooding back when I reached the Vishwanath Temple (VT for the IT-ians). The temple was standing, as usual, in all its glory, the benchmark of all buildings in BHU and the guiding tower of the institution. The bevy of shops surrounding VT had no new faces and the lassi shops, the studio, the paav-bhaaji shop, the juice corners, and especially the samosa-tea shops including Bihari's shop were all there, waiting for their customers. Before enjoying a sip of the old days through the mouth-watering delicacies, I decided to pay obeisance to Vishwanath Bhagwan whose blessings have made all that I ever wanted possible.

As has been the norm more often than not, the shoe stall had the phoren maal sitting there, adjusting their cameras and talking some gibberish in their language. It did seem a little odd when I had to pay for keeping shoes in the stall. The BHU Identity Card used to be my only ticket and payment during all my previous visits to the temple. The temple, too, had its share of couples holding hands and there were even a couple of guys in jeans and stylish tees which told me that their probability of belonging to IT-BHU were quite high. My thoughts were vindicated when I saw them vanish round the back gates of the temple.

The special tea and samosa at Bihari's stall were the most exciting part. Sitting at the same place that all of us friends used to make merry for four years made me all nostalgic. The feeling was special not just because this place was a part of my institute. It was special because of the memories that it carried, of the discussions that took place, the plots that were hatched, the people we made fun of, the birthday parties we had...so many memories that I really can't do justice to all of them.

My return journey was through the hostel road (Raja HarishChandra Road for the quizzing enthusiasts). Limbdi Corner (I made a detour), DG Corner, Morvi Hostel were all the same, though a little silent because of the vacations. Birla and Broacha were still as menacing as they have always been in the stories we have all heard at IT-BHU. IMS had a new lecture theatre and auditorium in their name (I could almost imagine the efforts by IT Cultural Wing guys to book it for their events).

Nothing had changed BHU over the past two years and as I was leaving the place, I realized that most probably, nothing would have changed BHU over even longer periods. The institution is so historic that it absorbs any and all changes that its current occupants decide to bring about. The situation was a little different, however, when I moved outside the campus. There were quite a few shops that had mushroomed all over the place. The most notable ones (keeping in mind the latest developments, even amongst the student community) were a number of ATMs and an equally big number of mobile phone shops that littered the Lanka landscape.

Host restaurant had finally lost the battle for survival despite somehow managing to break even in spite of getting milked dry in sponsoring the numerous festivals of IT-BHU. Our branch was the beginner of the Host downfall. How can I ever forget the way we sold the idea to Host owner that two 50% concessions are equal to one 100% concession and how can I ever forget all that followed the Housie stall in the Valentine's Day fete??? The poor guy might not even have got a flat in the high-rise building that has come up in the place where the restaurant used to exist in its entire sponsoring splendor.

Having met my cousin for lunch and a little stroll to the Assi Ghat later, (the weather was exceedingly pleasant owing to the intermittent showers that have been visiting Varanasi over the last few days) I was ready for my next stop, Sankat Mochan. The temple has gained special importance for me ever since I started my Tuesday fasts at the end of my third year in college. I had been thinking of visiting the place for quite some time and after the IIM results and my sister Priya's amazing success in her B.Com examinations, it sure was high time I bowed my head at the temple. The red 'sindoor' and the chants of Hanuman Chaleesa created the mood as the sticky red 'teeka' cemented my ties with this historic Varanasi city yet again.