Ganesha's Temple: Book 1 of the Temple Wars Read online

  GANESHA’S

  TEMPLE

  GANESHA’S

  TEMPLE

  Book one of the Temple Wars

  ROHIT GAUR

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904070

  Rohit Gaur Studios, Palisades Park, NJ

  Copyright 2016 by Rohit Gaur

  All rights reserved

  Published in the United States by Rohit Gaur Studios.

  www.templewars.com

  Book Cover copyright by Rohit Gaur Studios ©

  Map Illustrations copyright by Rohit Gaur Studios ©

  ISBN: 0692663789

  ISBN 13: 9780692663783

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue A Son’s Promise

  Chapter 1 A Gift

  Chapter 2 Omens

  Chapter 3 Separation

  Chapter 4 Into the Dark

  Chapter 5 Destiny

  Chapter 6 Tasks

  Chapter 7 To Market

  Chapter 8 Companions

  Chapter 9 Climbing

  Chapter 10 A Narrow Escape

  Chapter 11 Emptiness

  Chapter 12 Crossing

  Chapter 13 Down and Out

  Chapter 14 Ring of Fire

  Chapter 15 Diving

  Chapter 16 An Offer

  Chapter 17 Firebird

  Chapter 18 The Wall

  Chapter 19 A New Mission

  For my family and friends.

  Because there is no map for where we are going.

  Prologue

  A SON’S PROMISE

  A long time ago, when the world was young and gods reigned over the land, there lived a beautiful goddess named Parvati, the all-mother, who dreamt of creating a child. Taking up the sands of the ocean, she molded a young boy and breathed life into him, a new soul with the world’s strength, who was eager to prove his love.

  One day, she bestowed upon him the highest honor: to guard her while she meditated in the cosmic ocean. Breaking off a branch from a tall tree, she fashioned it into an ankusha, an elephant goad, and handed it to him. Instructing her son to prevent anyone from disturbing her meditation, she floated into the ocean and disappeared from view.

  However, the boy was not aware that her consort, Lord Shiva, was due to return soon from a long, solitary meditation in the Himalayas. When Shiva arrived to seek Parvati, the boy refused to let him pass. Angered, Shiva struck at the boy with his trident, but the boy blocked it with his goad. An epic battle ensued, one that ranged over the mountains and the seas and the forests of the land, until the boy was defeated. With a final blow, Shiva struck the boy’s head off.

  Parvati, sensing her son’s predicament, had risen from the ocean and rushed to his side just as the boy released his final breath and died. Shiva watched with shock and horror as Parvati began to wail in grief, sending the world into devastating turmoil. Around them, the mountains crumbled, waves of tsunamis wrecked the land, and the heavens roared with thunder.

  Wanting to comfort his consort and atone for his anger, Shiva held Parvati in his arms and promised to restore the boy to life. Rushing off, he found and returned with the head of an elephant, which he attached to the broken body of the boy. Restored to life, the boy rose from the dead, and the grief of the world quieted and returned to joy.

  On that day, Ganesha was born. Remover of all obstacles, the lord of beginnings and of wisdom, he is the son who never forgets his promises, the son who never lets down his guard.

  Chapter 1

  A GIFT

  When the alarm went off, it woke Tarun from a deep and comfortable sleep. Eyes still heavy, he blindly groped for the snooze button. It was the weekend, he thought to himself, why is my alarm going off? As silence returned, he could hear from downstairs the faint blare of a television likely being ignored by his mother as she prepared breakfast. The voice of the newscaster was indistinct, but in the background could be heard music and the noise of crowds. Oh yes, today was the last day of Ganesh Chaturthi, the twelve-day-long festival of the god Ganesha, and revelers had no doubt been gathered on the banks of the Jhelum River since dawn. Of course, his parents had insisted that he, the dutiful son, wake up and attend the festival with them. Did anyone ask if he wanted to attend? No, no one seemed to care about what he wanted. Great Ganesha, remover of obstacles and releaser of bonds, let my family be tolerable today, he thought to himself. Just for one day.

  Forcing his eyes open, Tarun took stock of the day ahead: shower, breakfast, then a forced march through the city visiting every pandal, the miniature temples set up to house freshly cast statues of Ganesha. Later, they would join the mass of revelers on the banks of the river. Although Tarun enjoyed the sights and sounds of the festival—the brightly colored clothes of the worshippers, the shimmering notes of the wandering musicians, the scents of saffron and roasting lamb—he dreaded the inevitable chiding of his mother for his lack of piety, his father’s disappointment at his ignorance of mythology, and the smug superiority of his brother Kumar, who always had the right answers. Today had the potential to be a long and miserable day.

  Rising from the bed, Tarun walked over to the mirror. His hair was tousled from sleep and his eyes still drooping with fatigue. In the next room, he could hear Kumar also rousing himself for the day. Better get in the shower, he thought, or I’ll have to wait for him to finish. Kumar had lately found himself interested in—and the object of interest for—the girls at school. Tarun was not sure why that required Kumar to spend an extra thirty minutes in the bathroom each day, but he showed no signs of recognizing Tarun’s annoyance. Better to just hurry and get in there first.

  After showering and dressing, Tarun padded down the stairs toward the scent of dosas and halwa puri. His mother, nowhere to be seen, had left the food in covered dishes on the table. Both of his parents were often too busy for meals, so they frequently ate in shifts. It was just as well, thought Tarun. Pulling up a chair to the table and serving himself, he glanced over at the television. The newscaster was now reporting on a fight that had broken out between army and rebel forces high in the mountains of Kashmir, maybe a hundred miles from Tarun’s home in Srinagar, the capital of the region. Suddenly, they played a clip of the chief minister of Kashmir condemning the violence and calling on the Kashmiri people to stop aiding the rebel forces. Tarun knew the conflict was officially about who owned the land, the Indians or the Pakistanis, and as an Indian he knew he was expected to oppose the rebels, but still he felt sorry for them. Tarun had lived in Kashmir his entire life, dwelled among the people who were now in rebellion, drank their water, ate their food. On the television, the chief minister reminded viewers that his proposed legislation to construct a wall across the Indian-Pakistani border would help to keep the rebel forces in the mountains and away from the major cities and villages and Kashmir. The construction, he promised, would begin soon.

  Around the corner, Kumar appeared and took a seat at the table. Without speaking, he helped himself to a plate of food. Tarun could see he also looked tired.

  “Hi, Kumar.”

  “Mn.”

  Kumar never had much to say in the morning. At sixteen, he was only two years older than Tarun, but treated him like a much younger child. At school, Kumar was popular, while Tarun was shy; excelled in classes, while Tarun had average grades; and played on sports teams, while Tarun felt weak and ungainly. For the most part, Kumar ignored Tarun at school. Years ago, things had been different. Then,
Tarun and Kumar had been close friends, often playing together in the thick woods that surrounded their home and feeling joined by the common bond of being part of the same, strange family. At some point, their interests just diverged: Kumar got into football and listened to loud rock music, while Tarun preferred reading quietly or playing video games alone. One time, Kumar had brought some friends home from school, but when they saw Tarun sitting in their playroom, Kumar quickly turned and led them back out. Quietly he had whispered to his friends that they had better find another place or else Tarun might try to join them. He’s such a nerd, he had heard Kumar say to his friends. C’mon, let’s go. Tarun had shrugged it off, trying not to feel upset. He didn’t even want to join Kumar and his friends. But, he admitted to himself, it was nice to be asked.

  Shuffling back into the kitchen, their mother, Parvati, greeted them. Her long hair was pulled back from her face and plaited into a braid that swayed as she walked. In her arms she held woven garlands of red and gold marigolds, no doubt to be offered at one of the shrines.

  “Are you two ready for today? We have a lot to do. Eat up.”

  Looking back at the television, Tarun saw another clip of the chief minister as he touted the proposed wall as a solution to the conflict in Kashmir. “The recent upsurge in violence makes the construction of this wall a necessity. There’s no need to be afraid, however. The wall will not prevent freedom of movement within Kashmir. It will not be used to harass or intimidate our citizens. Its sole purpose is to keep out those who would do us harm. The wall will keep us safe. It will protect our children.” Tarun could see his mother watching the television out of the corner of her eye. She was biting her lip. Turning quickly to the table, she began clearing the dishes.

  “We should get ready to leave,” she said. “Go brush your teeth.”

  As he finished getting ready, Tarun wondered if he would see his classmates at the festival. Most of them had, like him, been raised in Kashmir, but few of them were also Hindu. Most of Tarun’s classmates were Muslim. They might come to watch the festival, but they wouldn’t perform pujas or offer gifts to Ganesha. At school, they sometimes teased him and made jokes about believing in animal gods and talking statues. Sometimes Tarun wished he had been born someone else or could just leave this life behind. If he said any of this aloud, of course, his parents would be furious. They were the ones who had forced him to read the Ramayana, the Hindu epic, and learn the lore of the gods. They dragged him to the temple every week for lessons in Sanskrit, music, and dance. Sometimes it could be fun, but most of the time it was boring or embarrassing. Tarun especially hated performing in temple plays depicting the stories of the gods. Thanks to his unathletic stature and quiet demeanor, he was never assigned to be Shiva the destroyer or Krishna the warrior prince. Instead, Tarun was often made to be Ganesha, the elephant-headed god with a large potbelly. Another reason to dread going to the festival.

  Pushing down another wave of resentment, he came back down to the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the table with Kumar and another man. Tarun recognized him as the chief minister, the man who had just been on television vowing to build the wall across Kashmir.

  “Tarun,” the man said, taking a sip of his morning coffee.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Politicians in Kashmir were like politicians anywhere, but with one important difference: if you made an enemy here, or you said the wrong thing to the wrong person, you could wind up under six feet of Pir Panjal granite. Most people in Kashmir, of course, whether Muslim or Hindu, lived average and conventional lives devoted to farming and trading and raising families. But pockets of resistance to Indian rule still smoldered in the remote regions of the state. High up in the mountains that flanked the Kashmir valley, Islamic militants engaged in skirmishes with Indian forces that had been sent to root them out. Occasionally they crept into the cities to leave blood-red messages to the government of India: We will never stop until we are free of you. We will never stop until you are gone.

  Growing up in the household of Arjun Sharma, a decorated lieutenant of the Indian army, former representative of the Jammu district, and now the first Hindu chief minister of Kashmir, Tarun had led a guarded existence. A high fence surrounded the family compound on the outskirts of the city, where they had opted to live instead of the more vulnerable residence in downtown Srinagar. Every day Tarun and Kumar were driven to school by Tejinder and Jay, the security agents assigned to them by Kashmiri special protection, who were there again at the end of the day to pick them up. In public, Tarun would be followed closely by Tejinder, always on the lookout for trouble. Tarun liked Tejinder, who smiled at him when his mother was nagging and gave him comic books on his birthday, but he still hated feeling tethered to his watchful eyes whenever he was out of the house. Today, at the festival, Tarun knew that Tejinder would stay especially close amid the crowds of people celebrating together.

  Two small boxes wrapped in colorful paper sat on the kitchen table. Tarun eyed them warily as he leaned against the counter. Gifts usually came with lessons.

  “Come here, beta,” his mother said, smiling at him. “Before we leave, you should open your presents. Kumar, you go first.”

  Kumar grinned and tore open the box. He pulled out a pendant on a long silver chain that glinted in the morning sun. Tarun recognized the ornately carved symbol on the pendant: the Sanskrit word OM, a sacred sound used to begin and end a prayer. It was meant to evoke prana, the cosmic energy that animated everything in the universe. Figures they would give an OM necklace to Kumar, Tarun thought. He’s the center of everyone’s universe.

  “I hope you like it,” Parvati said. “It’s a thank you for all your help in getting ready for the festival today.”

  “You’ve been a good boy for helping your mom prepare all the garlands for today,” his father added.

  “Thanks, mom and dad,” Kumar replied. “It’s great! I’ll wear it right now.” He slipped the necklace over his head and placed the OM underneath his shirt. Tarun felt a twinge of jealousy in his stomach. He wanted an OM necklace too, but he knew he didn’t deserve it. He’d pretended to be too busy with algebra homework to help string the garlands for the festival.

  “And for my little Ganesha,” his mother teased, sliding the other wrapped box across the table to Tarun. He ripped the paper and opened the lid to find an old-fashioned but ornate pen and a slim book bound in heavy red paper.

  “A pen? And . . . a book?” he asked, disappointment creeping into his voice.

  “A journal. So you can be just like Ganesha when he wrote the Mahabarata with his tusk,” his mother replied with a smile. “You’ll like using them. I promise.”

  Tarun frowned. Kumar got a brand-new necklace and he got an old pen. The unfairness was obvious and painful to consider. Tarun knew his parents loved him, but that didn’t stop him from feeling sure that they loved Kumar even more.

  “It may not look like it, but a pen has magical powers,” his father said with laughter in his eyes.

  “Sure, Dad. Okay.”

  “I’m not joking. There’s great power in writing. Writers can change the world. The journal is to write down your thoughts, what happens to you. Maybe one day you can turn them into a book.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Well, thanks for the present,” Tarun responded, smiling tightly. He put the pen and journal back in the box and slipped it into his pocket. He felt angry and ashamed. Why did he have to be so condescending? What did he even know about writing or writers? Tarun thought about the Indian, Pakistani, and Kashmiri writers he had been made to read in his history of Kashmir course in school. They made eloquent and passionate arguments for peace, but what good had that done?

  “Okay, boys, it’s time to leave. Help your poor mother and carry the garlands and Ganesha statues to the car. Those four boxes right there.” Parvati pointed to a small pile in the corner of the room. “Tell Tejinder and Jay to put them in the car. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  When the boys had left with a
box under each arm, she turned to Arjun.

  “Do you really have to work this morning? It’s Ganesh Chaturthi and you’ve been working so much lately. You should be allowed to take a break.”

  “I know, Parvati, I’m sorry. Believe me, I’d rather be with you. But after last night’s attack it’s important that I be there. We’re finalizing the language for the legislation authorizing the wall to be built. Once we get that passed, I’ll have more time to be with you and the boys. I promise. And I promise to attend the festival this afternoon. I’ll meet you at the riverbank by two at the latest.”

  “You make a lot of promises.”

  “Here’s another one: I promise to love you always.”

  She smirked as he pulled her in close. “I love you too.”

  Outside, Tarun and Kumar put the boxes on the ground beside the long black SUV that would take them to the festival. A voice behind them shouted.

  “Hey, you two! Get away from my car!”

  They spun around to see Tejinder sauntering down the driveway. “Gotcha,” he said with a broad smile. Tejinder had always reminded Tarun of a sturdy tree, tall and broad. Behind his dark sunglasses, he could make himself appear stern and imposing, which he often did when they were out in public. But at home, he was always playful and fond of jokes.

  “Oh, this is your car, huh? I don’t see your name on it!” Tarun kidded back.

  “Not yet, boss, not yet. Maybe one day. You ready for the festival? Those the statues?”

  “Yeah, Mom said to put them in the backseat.”

  “Well, well. Let’s get to it then. Oof, they’re heavy.”

  While waiting for Parvati, they chatted for a few minutes about the previous year’s festival. Almost four thousand clay statues of Ganesha had been placed in the Jhelum River for good luck and prosperity. Most of them were allowed to dissolve into the water, returning the clay along with the hopes and prayers of the people back to the earth. Since he had taken office, Chief Minister Sharma had made it a point to bring statues and decorations to the riverbanks to be distributed to the festivalgoers, especially those too poor to purchase and bring their own. In one of the boxes, Tarun could also smell laddu, the sweet delicacies that they would offer at the temples before visiting the river. Last year, Tarun remembered that everywhere they went people had wanted to shake hands with his mom and dad. They took photos of them and shouted their names as they walked by. At least ten security guards had been with them, though, keeping the crowds at bay.