Age of Shiva (The Pantheon Series) (46 page)

“You revere us, you resent us,” said Vishnu, as though reading our thoughts. “We understand.”

“You regard us as your enemies,” said Brahma, “yet you know you owe us your allegiance as well.”

“Conflict and confrontation,” said Shiva. “Such has been your lives. But what if there is another way?”

Rama levelled his bow accusingly. “You have done unspeakable things,” he said. “You would do worse if we allowed you.”

“That
was
us,” said Brahma, all four of his heads nodding at once. “But that
is
not us. We have transcended what we were. We have become so much more. You know that. You see it.”

The Trimūrti moved closer together. They didn’t so much walk as float.

Hovering in a triangle formation, back to back, the soles of their feet inches off the carpet, they began to revolve in the air like a child’s bedroom mobile turning in a breeze. When they talked, their voices joined together, overlapping, finishing each other’s sentences. It was hard to tell which one was addressing us. Sometimes all three of them were moving their lips but only one voice could be heard.

“We regret what has transpired.”

“The past is past.”

“We have sown confusion and pain.”

“Gain was our watchword.”

“Discord our legacy.”

“The world teeters.”

“Kali is unleashed.”

“Cycles turn.”

“The axis pivots.”

“What brought ruin once may bring ruin again.”

“We feel no joy over that, only sorrow.”

“If you were to seek revenge on us, to punish us for our misdeeds when we were mere men, we would not stop you.”

“It is deserved.”

“We would submit.”

“We are capable of erasing you from existence with but a thought.”

“We choose not to.”

“You continue to live because we will it.”

“We are not vengeful. There is no hatred in us.”

“Only compassion. Only understanding.”

“Our deaths would be just another part of the tapestry of existence.”

“Meaningless and acceptable.”

“We place our fate in your hands.”

“We are at your mercy.”

“But what purpose would it serve, killing us?”

“When there is good we can do.”

“Hope we can bring.”

“Peace we can restore.”

“Wait, whoa, hold on, what?” I said. “Peace you can restore? What’s that mean?”

“We can end what we began,” said the Trimūrti in pure unison. “We can return order to the world. Kali Yuga can become Satya Yuga, the age of harmony between men and gods. It is within our power. You know this. As easily as breathing we can halt the march of war and re-establish equilibrium, undo what has been done. We can make these words deeds with no more effort than it takes to say them. On condition that we live, we can guarantee that the world lives too. All will be as before, but better.”

“You’re willing to save the world? You can do that?”

“Have we not just said so? Do you not believe us?”

The thing was, I did. As the Trimūrti twirled uncannily before us, exuding sheer omnipotence, I believed firmly that they could make everything right again. At that very moment billions of people were praying for divine intervention, fearful of apocalypse. All that faith was crackling in the atmosphere like spiritual lightning, and these three could catch it and channel it and use it.

“We promise a future where the human race accepts our guidance,” they said, “where their worship sustains us, where we influence all that happens. There will be peace and accord and all manner of fine things.”

“Ah,” I said. “So there’s a catch. Quid pro quo. This is in fact a deal. All this talk of transcending, but you’re still businessmen after all.”

“A deal in which nobody is the loser. A deal to the benefit of all parties.”

“You get blind devotion. The world gets a golden age.”

“Precisely. With us overseeing the transition from hostility to tranquillity.”

“At a price.”

“What price peace? Peace is surely priceless. You cannot put a value on it.”

“But the alternative is we kill you, right here, right now,” I said, “and the human race gets to muddle along as before, making its own way, its own mistakes.”

“Our survival is mankind’s survival. But if that is not your wish...”

Simultaneously, all three made a gesture of submission, heads lowered, hands held out to the side.

Parashurama’s battleaxe hung heavy in my grasp. Its blade dripped blood onto the carpet, as did Nandaka and Rama’s bow.

The Trimūrti were presenting us with a very simple, take-it-or-leave-it choice. End them, and the human race could go on its merry way, perhaps continuing to stumble down the short rocky path that led to extinction. Let them live, and there would be no more dissent or hatred. People would be as one under the Trimūrti. It would be an age of Vishnu, an age of Brahma, an age of Shiva, where independence of thought, free will, would take a back seat to the dictates of gods.

I could only stare at Rama and Krishna, wondering what the solution was. The pair of them looked as nonplussed as I felt. Such a responsibility. Such a decision. What was the right thing to do?

Minutes ticked by.

The Trimūrti patiently awaited.

Their surrender, or ours?

52. DEICIDE?

S
O ALL-OUT THERMONUCLEAR
war was averted. You know that. It didn’t happen. India and Pakistan pulled back from the brink. They managed to settle their differences by negotiation, with the UN gamely egging them on.

Neither country owned up to the obliteration of Srinagar, and there are compelling arguments for guilt on either side, and for innocence. Lately we’ve seen the incident classed as an “accident” in several quarters, a catastrophic blunder rather than a deliberate act. A rogue commander in the field, a misinterpreted order, an itchy finger on the button, the fog of war, all that. It doesn’t bring back the many hundreds of thousands of dead, it doesn’t console their grieving relatives, it doesn’t mend the scorched, irradiated disaster zone that lies at the heart of Kashmir, but what it does do is help ease the process of reconciliation. The wound heals more quickly and less painfully when there is no recrimination to salt it.

The Dashavatara continue to exist, but severely depleted. They’re down to Narasimha, Vamana, Rama and Krishna. Not forgetting Kalkin, of course; the Horseman’s battle with Kali was long, drawn-out, gruelling, but victory ultimately was his. He still bears the many scars inflicted by Kali’s scimitars, even after treatment with amrita. He wears them with justifiable pride. Vamana and Narasimha bear their own scars too. Vamana limps with every step. It doesn’t do much to improve his temperament. He’s still the same insufferable little twerp he always was. But he’s
our
insufferable little twerp.

Aanandi says it was Kalkin’s destiny to slay Kali, just as it was Kali’s destiny to be slain by Kalkin. According to the Vedas it happened before, so was due to happen again. What was poetry became reality – and it was a fairly messy reality, let me tell you. The
Makara
’s atrium looked like a slaughterhouse when Kalkin was finished. That huge dog demon had a lot of blood to shed.

We’ve retreated to Mount Meru, we devas, while we debate our next move. We lost much of the trust we’d gained when we took part in the Indo-Pakistan conflict. People are treating us with a great deal of scepticism now. We are less than we first seemed, is the general feeling. In the media, in the online forums, in the bloggers’ opinions, we’re not spotless idols any more. We’re tarnished.

That’s fine. We accept that.

It started out as superheroing, but then it changed and became darker and more complicated. Murkier. A game of lies and compromise.

Such is life. Like a tube of toothpaste, everything starts out orderly, the stripes all in neat rows, but by the end, when you get down to the dregs, it’s a mixed-together colourless mess. The Dharma Bull begins life with all its legs, then in due course it’s lying on its side in the mud with four stumps. Austerity, cleanliness, compassion and truthfulness have vanished one by one.

Some of us reckon it’s time to ’fess up. Tell the world everything. I’ve spent the past few weeks writing this book for that very reason: an honest, first-person account of the strange, traumatic months we’ve just been through, telling how a noble dream turned out to be a corrupt nightmare. Publishing it would explain a lot. It would, I hope, humanise us and enable others see us in a fresh light.

If we make a clean breast of it, maybe we’ll be forgiven. Then we could start over, put our siddhis to use again, do some genuine good. We could – I don’t know – obtain a UN mandate to assist with rescue and relief work. Humanitarian stuff. Help out in trouble spots. Escort aid convoys into volatile regions and disaster zones. Protect Red Cross officials from harassment and intimidation like super-powered minders.

As long as we’re never seen to take sides, we never ally ourselves with one country or other, wouldn’t that be all right?

It’s an idea. Our discussions on the subject are long and in-depth. Aanandi leads them. She is our conscience, our compass. I think, if we listen to her, we are unlikely to go wrong.

In the meantime, we guard the secret of the stone lotus and theogenesis. Meru is abandoned, unoccupied except by us. Half of the technicians and domestic staff scarpered off home when everything went to hell in Kashmir. The rest quit shortly afterwards when their salary payments abruptly and mysteriously stopped and it became apparent that the Trinity Syndicate was no longer a viable going concern. Sand drifts between the complex’s seven rings, rattling against the windows on breezy days. It’s still our secret lair, but it’s a sun-bleached ghost of itself, once bustling, now all but deserted.

Tyler Weston and Klaus Gottlieb are still with us, still on the team, and if we can figure out how Professor Korolev’s theogenesis machines work, perhaps Parashurama and Matsya will one day be reborn. Perhaps we can find other willing volunteers, too, and the Dashavatara can become ten again; there can be a full complement of Avatars.

So far, since India and Pakistan signed their peace agreement in Moscow, the world has been a remarkably calm and sanguine place. It’s as though the horror of Srinagar has sobered everyone up. Moves are afoot to implement a freeze on all weapons of mass destruction, a moratorium paving the way to a worldwide ban that will see stockpiles systematically decommissioned until there are none left. There is even talk of all standing armies being demobilised, troops put out to pasture. War no more.

Will that come to pass? Anything’s possible, I suppose.

Is this the dawning of a new Satya Yuga? Are we taking the first steps towards an age of true enlightenment?

If so, could that be because there be supreme beings currently circling the oceans in the giga-yacht
Makara
, exerting their influence on us? Are people’s actions being determined by them, as yet without anyone being aware of it? Are all mortals their unwitting thralls, in return for a guaranteed future of co-operation and nonviolence?

Or did Rama, Krishna and I raise our weapons and kill the Trimūrti, as they offered?

What did we choose? Did we decide to commit deicide? Or did we, by doing nothing, submit to a higher authority on your behalf?

What do
you
think?