Tantrics Of Old (8 page)

‘Are there Dragons around, Dadu?’ a child asked.

‘Yes, can we see a Dragon?’

The old storyteller shook his head. ‘No. He was the only Dragon there was, there have been none others.’

‘Tell us his name, Dadu!’

‘His name is not known. He was the only one of his kind, you see,’ the old man explained. ‘So his name is not needed to remember him.’

‘We want to talk to his spirit!’

The old man laughed heartily. ‘Ah Jyotish! I am not a Necromancer,’ he said. ‘But he was a good Dragon,’ the storyteller continued. ‘I’m sure he would have loved to meet all of you lovely children.’

‘Where are the Necromancers then?’

‘They run the government of New Kolkata, most of them. Do you understand what government means?’

‘Yes, it is what rules us. Isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is called MYTH. Have you heard of it?’

‘Yes we have!’ they replied in unison.

‘If any of you ever go to New Kolkata, it is very important to listen to them and obey them. Them and your parents. Do you understand?’ Some of the children nodded. ‘Good. It is very important that all of you grow up safely and be strong men and women.’

It was afternoon, the streets mostly empty. The sun was up, and the heat bore down on everyone. The old man and the children, in the shade of the giant banyan tree, were comfortable. He continued telling them stories, one after the other, but somewhere in the middle of the fourth one he stopped and looked at the empty street before him. The children were confused. Dadu never stopped in the middle of a story! They urged him to continue, but he did not respond to them, steadfastly peering instead at the street in front of him. Winds blew, scattering leaves and swirling up dust in the afternoon heat and in its midst, the old man saw someone walking down the road towards them.

The figure came closer. A little girl, dressed in a skirt and a top that was a faded white and purple. She was very young, about six, with bright, gleaming skin, and dark black hair. Her face however, was not visible, for she wore a mask. It was a dark brown wooden mask of a grotesque being, a
rakshas
of some sort, with bulging eyes and little eyeholes, and horns and huge teeth carved skilfully. The little girl walked towards them, stopping when she saw the storyteller. She surveyed him silently, and he looked back at her. Then, after a very, very long pause, she turned and walked off into a side alley.

The old man looked at the children. ‘When did Kaveri get that mask?’ he asked them.

‘Some days ago. She wears it all the time now. We’re all scared of her,’ the boy named Riku spoke.

‘How many days has it been?’

‘Two or seven,’ the boy replied confidently.

‘Does she ever take it off?’ the storyteller asked. The children looked at each other, shifty, uncomfortable. No one replied.

‘No,’ Minti answered at length. ‘I used to play with her. Now she doesn’t take off that scary face so I don’t play with her.’

The old man looked down the street wordlessly. It was empty once again. He got up, grabbed his stick, and bid a hasty goodbye to the children. Then he hobbled off towards the headman’s house. The biggest house in the Settlement, it lay in the centre—the old man climbed the stairs to its front porch, his steps slow and painful, and knocked sharply on the door. There was no reply for the longest time, but the old man kept knocking relentlessly until the headman, finally awakened from his afternoon siesta, answered the door.

‘What is it, old man?’ he asked, irritated.

‘Something more important than your afternoon sleep,’ the old man replied.

‘Don’t teach me—’ the headman began, but was cut short by the old man’s next words.

‘Your Settlement is in grave danger.’ The old man’s eyes burned seriously.

‘Danger? From what?’

‘You wouldn’t know if I told you, and you wouldn’t believe me if you knew. But I am sure.’

‘Look, storyteller. I allow you to come here, I allow you to stay, to sleep. I grant you shelter, but that doesn’t mean you feed me your foul legends. I think you’ve been out in the sun too long.’ The headman looked at the old man in disgust bordering on anger.

‘No,’ the old man shook his head sadly. ‘You must send out a messenger in search of a travelling Tantric. If you do not get a Tantric here in time, you are all undone.’

‘Leave this Settlement, old man,’ the headman replied. ‘I have no use for your stories of doom, neither do any of the people here. Leave now. I do not kick you out because I respect your age.’

‘I am bringing the first Tantric I might be lucky enough to find,’ the old man spoke, turning around and hobbling out. ‘And if you are fortunate,’ he said, his back towards the headman, ‘then it might not be too late.’

The headman said nothing. Leaning against his doorway, he watched the old storyteller walk the lonely deserted road for a couple of minutes. Then he shouted out loud, ‘What should I watch out for, storyteller? What threatens us?’

The storyteller slowed down and turned halfway. ‘Do not approach the little girl in the mask,’ he said with finality, and continued walking.

The headman watched him go in silence. No one needed to know any of this—and he would be damned the day he let a dead-talker cross the gates of this Settlement. Little girls were not what he was afraid of. It was magic, something he did not understand.

‘Magic is everywhere,’ Adri spoke. ‘In the air you breathe, inside the ground your boots are stepping on. Inside that statue, to the brim’ —he pointed—‘pretty much everything you see around you has magic. And the thing about magic’ —Adri paused as he, Maya, and Gray crossed a busy road and continued walking—‘is that it is
chaotic
. This is what most Necromancers and Sorcerers do not grasp. Magic is not out to help you; it’s there to make things go wrong. It’s a powerful, destructive force. There is
nothing
good to be found in magic in its purest form.

‘We try to wrestle with something that isn’t rightfully ours, and in all our hypocrisy, we trivialise it. Sorcerers and Necromancers have tried to control and channel magic the most. Their work has led to the channelling of magical artefacts as energy sources, of all things, in day-to-day life, in things you see everywhere and use every day.’ He stopped. In front of him was an arch, white marble like everything else, with steps leading down. The passage was illuminated in bright neon. METRO—broad letters declared at the head of the passage. ‘The Metro, for example, runs on magical energy,’ Adri said, descending the stairs. Maya followed, and so did Gray, hanging on to every word.

The Metro was almost empty; the last train was due in a few minutes and there were no more trains to be caught after that. A few people lingered here and there, the occasional beggar sleeping on the landing. They walked past the ticket counters and Adri vaulted over the ticket machines. Maya looked around for Guardians and Law-keepers, only to realise that Adri would have sensed them before her. Gray had already vaulted over the machines, copying Adri, and without so much as a glance at her. She followed.

They headed down to an empty platform. Clean, white marble, with the occasional wall-mounted television broadcasting films; news channels had been down for years. There was no one else on the platform. Adri took a seat. Maya followed suit, while Gray preferred to remain standing, taking off his backpack.

‘So it’s a Metro train?’ Maya asked.

‘Yes,’ Adri replied. ‘They will never open the gates of New Kolkata for anyone. This is how people travel in and out.’

‘When does this train come?’ Gray asked.

‘One hour after the last one,’ Adri replied.

‘One hour to kill, then,’ Gray said.

The siblings had packed fast without complaint, while Adri sat in their apartment and played with Maya’s kittens. He had not seen either of their parents in the house and he did not ask. His only objection, though, was to Gray’s violin case. ‘Wait, wait. You’re taking a
violin
along?’ he had asked, his head swimming.

‘I thought we could do with some good music at times,’ Gray had replied.

‘I’m sure the Demons will love it.’

‘Look, I need practice. It’s been a really short while since I started.’

‘Which means you probably play horribly,’ Adri had sighed.

Gray had slung the damn thing alongside his bag, while Adri had been left to rethink his decision of taking these two along. Maya, meanwhile, had been trying to decide what books she should carry. Finally they wore their boots, ready for the journey.

The nearest subway station was only a little far off, and they had to change two buses and then walk a bit, avoiding Guardians all the while. Adri had explained to Gray how Guardians functioned. Maya had spent her time wondering how much of the information was true, whereas Gray drank everything in.

Adri looked around the deserted platform once again to make sure there was no danger, even though he didn’t really expect any until they reached the Old City. Seeing no one, he leaned back with a tired sigh and put a cigarette to his mouth. Maya and Gray looked at him, their faces blank.

‘I know it’s not allowed here,’ Adri said. ‘A lot of things aren’t allowed in New Kolkata. Both of you, for instance, are not allowed to go to the Old City, but here you are, waiting for the train to Old Kolkata, and here I am, smoking in the new.’

‘You said you have been banned,’ Maya said.

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re not supposed to be here in this city?’

‘Correct.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘I wonder about that myself,’ Adri murmured.

‘Pardon?’

Adri did not answer, and continued smoking. Maya looked at him, and then looked the other way, her hair covering her eyes with the sudden movement. Adri let the silence brew for a few moments more before he spoke.

‘Maya.’

She turned to look at him.

‘What’s your branch of study?’ Adri asked. ‘In college,’ he added, clarifying. Maya remained silent. Adri did not prod again, and Gray, looking up and down the Metro tunnel, got steadily uncomfortable about the silence. No one spoke for the next half-hour or so, and Gray’s footsteps echoed through the empty platform as he walked its length. They heard the sound of the metal shutters clattering shut at the entrances. It was time, and the maintenance people never checked the platforms. One never knew who, or
what
, was bound for the Old City.

‘Will the lights go?’ Gray asked Adri. ‘Cause, you know, I kind of hate the dark.’

‘The lights should stay on,’ Adri replied.

And they did. The silence maintained itself as well, and Gray wondered if he should get some violin practice done. He hated complete silence almost as much as he hated darkness. He tried making conversation with his sister, but she was taciturn. Giving up, he finally sat down next to Adri.

‘This will not be easy, Gray,’ Adri said.

‘I know. She’s really mature, but extremely moody at times.’

Adri looked slightly annoyed. ‘I wasn’t talking about your sister.’

‘Oh.’

‘Old Kolkata is not what you are expecting it to be. I have no expectations from the both of you, but you will see things magical, unbelievable. Remember your sanity, and hold on to it like a precious thing. You might see things that will catch your beliefs by the collar and throw them right out of the window.’

Gray looked a little uneasy. ‘Things like what?’ he asked.

‘I can’t prepare you for it, believe me,’ Adri replied. ‘Old Kolkata is a city that does not forgive. Neither does it forget. It is dark.’

Gray felt a tiny buzz start in his tummy and make its way up to his brain. Anticipation. His life in New Kolkata had been more eventful than his sister’s, but it had never been enough for him. He had always wished to see the much spoken about Old City. He wanted to breathe in its secrets, to understand how his ancestors had lived there. His city of dreams, unapproachable in its distance, its silence, its invisibility in the city new. Until now. And yet he was apprehensive. His sister’s safety was important, and perhaps it was the nudge he needed to embark on this journey—he asked himself if he would have gone otherwise. He did not find an answer. ‘Can one photograph magical beings?’ he asked Adri after a moment.

‘Yes, most of them.’

‘Good. I’ve taken my camera along. I’m a student of photography, actually,’ Gray ranted on. ‘And being able to photograph the Old City . . . well, it’s something I’ve thought about often.’

MYTH had banned all visual representation of Old Kolkata; and the citizens of New Kolkata had never gotten to see the city. Of course, there were the occasional rebel photographs that leaked out; but no one could confirm whether they were really of the Old City. Speculations, therefore, ran amok.

Adri raised an eyebrow. ‘Photographer? I took you for a musician. With your white hair and everything.’

‘I was born with the white hair. It is random genetics, nobody’s been able to explain it. The violin is a hobby.’

Adri nodded. Most curious. But then he didn’t have any friends or acquaintances of his own age. People he knew were much older, some a few centuries old; he couldn’t remember the last time he had tried talking to a college-goer. He didn’t understand this generation, neither did he want to, for that matter. But it was interesting nonetheless. He hoped he could keep both of them alive while they negotiated the Old City. Adri lit another cigarette. This was going to be stressful, this whole affair. Had to happen to
him
, of all people. If the Fallen ultimately confirmed that all of this wasn’t a conspiracy of some kind and that he had been chosen randomly by Death, he wouldn’t be surprised. Not at all. He’d only be angry at his typical dumb luck.