The Oath of the Vayuputras: Shiva Trilogy 3

Chapter 45

The Final Kill

As she sped towards the battleground, Sati could estimate that there were almost three hundred cloaked assassins. They wore masks, just like the Nagas. But their battle style was nothing like the warriors from Panchavati. They were obviously some other group, being made to look like the Nagas. Nearly half of Sati’s one hundred bodyguards were already on the ground, either grievously injured or dead.

Since the assassins and her soldiers were completely locked in combat, there was no clear line of enemies whom she could ride her horse into and mow down. She knew she’d have to dismount and fight. As she neared the battle scene, she rode towards the area where Nandi was combating three assassins simultaneously.

She heard Nandi’s loud scream as he brutally drove his sword into his enemy’s heart. He turned to his left, easily lifted the diminutive assassin impaled on his sword, and flung the hapless soul’s body onto an oncoming attacker. Another assassin had moved up to Nandi, ready to slash him from behind.

Sati pulled her feet out of the stirrups, jumped up and leveraged herself to crouch on top of her saddle, even as she drew her sword out. As she neared the assassin who was about to slash Nandi from the rear, she flung herself from her horse and swung her sword viciously at the same time, decapitating the assassin in one fell swoop. Sati landed on her side and smoothly rolled over to stand behind Nandi as the quivering body of the beheaded assassin collapsed to the ground, blood bursting through, his adrenalised heart pumping the life-giving fluid furiously out of his gaping neck.

‘My Lady!’ yelled Nandi over the din, slashing hard at another assassin in front. ‘Run!’

Sati stood steadfast, defensively back-to-back with Nandi, covering all angles. ‘Not without all of you!’

An assassin leapt at Sati from the side, as she pulled her shield forward. He reached into the folds of his robe and threw something at her eyes. Instinctively, she pulled her shield up. A black egg splattered against her shield, deflecting its contents – shards of metal – safely away from her eyes. Some of the shrapnel cut through her left arm.

Sati had heard of this combat manoeuvre; it was Egyptian. Eggs were drained of their contents through a small hole and then filled with bits and pieces of sharp metal. These were flung at the eyes of enemies, thus blinding them. Usually the next move was a low sword thrust. Though her vision was blocked by her shield, Sati moved instinctively and swerved to her side, to avoid the expected low blow. Then she pressed a lever on her shield, extending a short blade which she rammed into her opponent’s neck, ferociously driving the blade through his windpipe. As the assassin began to choke on his own blood, Sati ran her sword through his heart.

Nandi, meanwhile, was effortlessly killing all those in front of him. He was a big man, and he towered over the diminutive Egyptians like a giant. Not one of the assassins could even come close as he hacked through anyone who dared to challenge him. They threw knives and the modified eggs at him. But nothing got through to any vital part of his body. With a knife buried in his shoulder and numerous metallic shrapnel pierced all over his body, a bloodied Nandi fought relentlessly against his enemies. But both Nandi and Sati could see that the odds were stacked heavily against them. Most of their soldiers were falling, overwhelmed by the surprise attack and the sheer numbers. Escape wasn’t an option either, as they were now surrounded on all sides. Their only hope was that other Suryavanshis in Devagiri, who were not part of Daksha’s conspiracy, would come to their aid.

An assassin swung at Sati from a high angle on the right. She swung back with vicious force, blocking his blow. The man turned and swerved from the left this time, hoping to push Sati on her back foot. Sati met his strike with equal ferocity. The assassin then attempted to drop low and stab Sati through her abdomen, but he was unaware of her special technique.

Most warriors can only swing their sword in the natural direction, away from their body. Very few can swing it towards their own body, because of a lack of strength and skill. Sati could. Hence, both the inner and the outer sides of her sword were sharpened, unlike the vast majority of swords which only have sharpened outer edges. Sati swung back, and with a near impossible stroke, masterfully pulled her sword arm towards herself with tremendous force. The surprised assassin had his throat cut cleanly before he could respond. The wound was deep, almost beheading the man. The Egyptian’s head fell backwards, dangling tenuously from his body by a shred of tissue, his eyes still rolling in his head. Sati kicked his body away as it collapsed.

She saw movement on her left and realised her mistake too late. She tried to block the sword stroke from the second assassin but it glanced off her sword, and went up into her scarred left cheek, cutting through her eye and grating off her skull. Her left eye collapsed in its socket, and blood poured from the wound, obscuring the vision in her other eye. Blinded, she executed a desperate defensive block, hoping to ward off any blows while she tried to wipe the blood from her face. She heard a woman panting, almost sobbing and realised that it was she herself. She braced as the man moved forward for a second attack.

She detected a movement from the right, and through her pinkish blurred vision, she saw Nandi swing from his massive height, beheading the assassin in one fell swoop.

‘My Lady!’ screamed Nandi, pulling his shield forward to protect himself from another assassin’s blow. ‘Run!’

The world had slowed around her, and his voice came to her as if from a great distance. She could hear her own heart beating; hear her breath gasping as she gazed at the carnage. The bodies of her guards lay bloodied and broken at her feet. Some of the fallen still lived, reaching and clawing at the legs of the attackers in desperation, until they were kicked aside in annoyance, their lives finished with half-distracted sword-strokes of irritation.

My arrogance, a voice whispered in her head. I have failed them. Again.

Her brain had blocked out the throbbing in her mutilated eye. She spat out the blood streaking down her face and into her mouth. Using her good right eye, she swung back into battle. Stepping back to avoid a brutal stab from another assassin, she slashed her sword from the right and sliced through his hand. As the Egyptian howled in pain, Sati rammed her shield into his head, cracking open his skull. She stabbed the staggering assassin in his eye, pulled her sword back quickly and turned to face another.

The assassin flung a knife across the distance. It cut through Sati’s upper left arm, getting stuck in her biceps, restricting the movement of her defensive limb. Sati snarled in fury and swung her sword viciously across the assassin’s body, cutting through the cloak and slashing deep into his chest. As the man staggered back, Sati delivered the killer blow, a stab straight through his heart. But the flow of assassins was unrelenting. Another one ran in to battle Sati. Using sheer will to overpower her tiring body, Sati raised her blood-drenched sword once again.

Swuth was observing the battle from a short distance away. His orders had been to ensure the death of the one they called Neelkanth. Surely he was the tall one, the powerful warrior, cutting down all his opponents with such ease. Swuth moved into the fray, striding towards the embattled Nandi.

Nandi looked up and turned to face his new opponent, swinging his sword fiercely at Swuth’s blade. The Egyptian stepped back, his hand stinging with the force of Nandi’s blow. Swuth dropped his sword and drew out two curved blades, something he kept for special occasions. Nandi had never seen swords such as these. They were short, a little less than two-thirds the length of his own sword. They curved in sharply at their edges, almost like hooks. The hilts of the swords were also peculiar, since most of it was made of uncovered metal, instead of being enveloped in leather or wood. A sword fighter would have to be very skilled not to cut himself while holding such swords, for the handles were also unsheathed sharp metal.

Swuth was no amateur. He swung both swords in a circular motion skilfully and with frightening speed. Nandi, never having seen swords and a battle style such as this, was naturally cautious and kept his shield held high. He waited for the Egyptian to move in, while keeping a safe distance at the same time. Using the attention that Nandi had focused on Swuth, and Sati’s distraction with battling the assassin on her side, an Egyptian moved in suddenly and slashed Nandi’s back viciously with his sword. Nandi roared with fury as his body lurched forward in reaction to the excruciatingly painful wound.

Swuth used this moment to suddenly hook his left sword onto his right blade, thus extending its reach two-fold, and swung hard from a low angle, aiming a little below Nandi’s defensive shield. The sharp edge on the metallic hilt sliced through Nandi’s left arm, severing it cleanly, a few inches above his wrist. The Suryavanshi bellowed in pain as blood burst from his slashed limb, the shock of the massive blow causing his heart to pump furiously. Swuth stepped close to a paralysed Nandi and slashed at his right arm, hacking the sword-bearing limb just below the elbow. The mighty Suryavanshi, with blood bursting forth from both his severed limbs, collapsed on the ground. Swuth spat as he kicked both of Nandi’s hacked hands away.

‘Damn!’ cursed Swuth as he wiped some of his spittle that had got stuck on the Naga mask that he wasn’t used to wearing. But he was careful enough to curse in Sanskrit. He had strictly forbidden his people from speaking in their native Egyptian tongue. The charade of their being Nagas had to be strictly maintained.

‘Nandi!’ screamed Sati, as she swirled around and thrust her sword at Swuth.

Swuth moved aside, easily avoiding her attack. Another assassin swung his sword from behind Sati, cutting through her upper back and left shoulder.

‘Wait!’ said Swuth, as two of his men were about to plunge their swords into her heart.

The assassins immediately held Sati’s arms, awaiting Swuth’s instructions. The leader did not want to sully his tongue by speaking to a woman; a sex that he believed was far beneath men, only a little better than animals.

‘Ask her who the blue-throated Lord is.’

One of his assistants looked at Sati and repeated Swuth’s question.

A shocked Sati did not hear them. She continued to stare at Nandi, lying prone on the ground, losing blood at an alarming rate from his severed limbs. But the unconscious Suryavanshi was still breathing. She knew that since the wounds were only on the limbs, the blood loss would not be so severe as to cause immediate death. If she managed to keep him alive for some more time, expert medical help could still save him.

‘Is this the blue-throated Lord?’ asked Swuth, pointing at Nandi.

Swuth’s assistant repeated his question to Sati. But Sati was looking towards the gates of Devagiri from the corner of her eye. She could see people at the top of the platform running towards her. They would probably reach in another ten to fifteen minutes. She had to keep Nandi alive for that much time.

Swuth shook his head when he did not get any response from Sati. ‘A curse of Aten on these stupid baby-producing machines!’

Sati stared at Swuth, catching on to his mistake in swearing in his own God’s name, sure at last of his identity. He was an Egyptian; an assassin of the cult of Aten. She had learnt about their culture in her youth. She knew immediately what she had to do.

Swuth pointed at Nandi and turned to his men. ‘Behead this fat giant. He must be the blue-throated Lord. Leave the other injured alive. They will bear witness that they were attacked by the Nagas. And collect our dead. We’ll leave immediately.’

‘He’s not the blue-throated one,’ spat Sati. ‘Can’t you see his neck, you Egyptian idiot?’

The Egyptian holding Sati hit her hard across her face.

Swuth sniggered.

‘Leave the giant alive,’ said Swuth, before turning to one of his fighters. ‘Qa’a, torture this hag before you kill her.’

‘With pleasure, My Lord,’ smiled Qa’a, who was not the best of assassins, but an expert in the fine art of torture.

Swuth turned to his other men. ‘How many times do I have to repeat myself, you putrid remains of a camel’s dung? Start gathering our dead. We leave in a few moments.’

As Swuth’s assassins started implementing his order, Qa’a moved towards Sati, returning his blood-streaked sword to its scabbard. He then pulled out a knife. A smaller blade always made torture much easier.

Sati suddenly straightened up and shouted loudly, ‘The duel of Aten!’

Qa’a stopped in his tracks, stunned. Swuth stared at Sati, surprised beyond measure. The duel of Aten was an ancient code of the Egyptian assassins, wherein anyone could challenge them to a duel. They were honour-bound to engage in the duel. It could only be a one-on-one fight; multiple assassins could not attack or they would suffer the wrath of their fiery Sun God – an everlasting curse from Aten.

Qa’a turned towards Swuth, unsure.

Swuth stared at Qa’a. ‘You know the law.’

Qa’a nodded, throwing his knife away. He drew his sword, pulled his shield forward, and waited.

Sati wrenched herself free from the assassins who were holding her. She bent down and ripped out some cloth from a fallen assassin’s cloak, tying the strip of cloth across her face, covering her mutilated eye in an effort to stem the blood from flowing across her face. She hoped this would give her unimpeded vision and not disturb the good eye. Then she slowly pulled out the knife buried in her upper arm and tied another strip of cloth around the injury, using her teeth to tighten the bind.

She then drew her sword and held her shield high. Ready. Waiting.

Qa’a suddenly threw his shield away. All the assassins standing around burst out laughing and began to clap. Clearly, Qa’a was taunting Sati, suggesting that he didn’t even need his shield to combat a stupid woman. Much to Qa’a’s surprise, Sati threw her shield away as well.

Qa’a bellowed loudly and charged, swinging his sword at a high angle. Sati smoothly leaned back and swerved to the left as she avoided the strike. Qa’a turned swiftly and swung his sword high again, catching Sati by surprise. The Egyptian’s sword cut through Sati’s left hand, slicing off four fingers. Much to his surprise, Sati didn’t flinch from the injury but swung her sword from a height at Qa’a. Qa’a swerved and defended Sati’s blow with an elevated strike.

Sati, meanwhile, had surmised that the swinging strike was Qa’a’s standard attack. She played to that as she kept swinging at Qa’a from a high angle and the Egyptian kept striking back. Both of them kept changing the direction repeatedly to surprise the other, but the strikes were almost typical and therefore, no serious injury was caused. Suddenly, Sati dropped to one knee and swung hard. The strike hit home. Her blade hacked brutally through Qa’a’s abdomen, cutting deep. He collapsed as his intestines spilled on to the ground.

Sati stood up, towering over a kneeling Qa’a, who had been paralysed by the intense pain. She held her sword high vertically, and thrust it through Qa’a’s neck, straight down, deep into his body right up to his heart, killing him instantly.

Swuth stared at Sati, dumbfounded. It wasn’t just her skill with the sword that had surprised him; it was also her character. She hadn’t beheaded Qa’a when she could easily have done so. She let him keep his head. She gave him an honourable death; a soldier’s death. She had followed the rules of the duel of Aten, even though the rules were not her own.

Sati pulled aside and ran her bloodied sword into the soft muddy ground. She bent over and ripped another piece of cloth from the now dead Qa’a’s cloak and tied it around her left palm, covering the area where her fingers had been amputated.

She stood tall, pulled up her sword from the ground and held it aloft, careful not to look at Nandi. Just a few more minutes.

‘Who’s next?’

Another assassin stepped forward, reached for his sword and then hesitated. He had seen Sati battle brilliantly with the long blade. He drew out a knife from his shoulder belt instead.

‘I don’t have a knife,’ said Sati, putting her sword back in its scabbard, wanting to fight fair.

Swuth pulled out his knife and flung it high in Sati’s direction. She reached out and caught the beautifully-balanced weapon easily. In the meantime, the assassin had removed his mask and pulled back his hood. He didn’t want to suffer the disadvantage of a restricted vision against a skilled warrior.

Having lost four fingers of her left hand, Sati couldn’t battle this assassin the way she had battled Tarak in Karachapa many years ago, where she had hidden the knife behind her back with the aim of confusing her opponent about the direction of attack. So she held the knife in front, in her right hand. But she kept the hilt forward with the blade pointing back, towards herself, much to the surprise of the gathered assassins.

The Egyptian adopted the traditional fighting stance, and pointed the knife directly at Sati. He moved forward and slashed hard. Sati jumped back to avoid the blow, but the blade sliced her shoulder, drawing some blood. This emboldened the assassin to move in further, swinging the knife left and then right as he charged in. Sati kept stepping back, allowing the assassin to draw closer into the trap. The assassin suddenly changed tack and thrust forward with a jabbing motion. Sati swerved right to avoid the blow, raising her right hand. She now held the knife high above her left shoulder. But she hadn’t moved back far enough. The assassin’s knife sliced through the left side of her abdomen, lodging deep within her, right up to the hilt.

Without flinching at the horrifying pain, Sati brought her hand down hard from its height, stabbing the Egyptian straight through his neck. The blow had so much force that the knife cut all the way through, its point sticking out at the other end of the hapless Egyptian’s throat. Blood burst forth from the assassin’s mouth and neck. Sati stepped back as the Egyptian drowned in his own blood.

Swuth was staring at this strange woman, the sneer wiped off his face. She had killed two of his assassins one-on-one, in a free and fair fight. She was bleeding desperately, and yet she stood tall and proud.

Sati, meanwhile, was breathing slowly, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. She had been cut up in too many places. A pulsating heart would work against her, pumping more blood out of her body. She also needed to conserve her energy for the duels that were to come. She looked at the knife buried deep in her abdomen. It hadn’t penetrated any vital organ. The only danger was the continuous bleeding. She spread out her feet, took a deep breath, held the knife’s handle and yanked it out. She didn’t flinch or make any sound of pain while doing so.

‘Who is this woman?’ asked a stunned assassin standing next to Swuth.

Sati bent down, ripped a part of the bloodied cloak of the assassin she had just killed, and bandaged it tightly around her abdomen. It staunched the blood flow. While doing so, she’d seen from the corner of her eye that the Meluhans who were running towards her were probably a third of the way through. She knew she couldn’t stop the duels now. She had seen the killers. They couldn’t leave her alive. Her only chance was to continue duelling and hope that she would still be breathing when the Meluhans reached her.

Sati drew her sword. ‘Who’s next?’

Another assassin stepped forward.

‘No!’ said Swuth.

The assassin stepped back.

‘She’s mine,’ said Swuth, drawing one of his curved swords.

Swuth didn’t approach Sati with both his curved swords. That would have been unfair according to the rules of Aten, since Sati had only one sword hand. He held the sword forward in his right hand. As he neared Sati, he started swinging the sword around, building it into a stunning circle of death just ahead of him, moving inexorably towards her. Even as Swuth’s sword whirred closer, Sati began to step back slowly. She suddenly thrust her sword forward quickly, deep into the ring of the circling blade of Swuth, inflicting a serious cut on the Egyptian’s shoulder. She pulled her sword back just as rapidly, before Swuth’s circling blade could come back to deflect her sword.

The wound must have hurt, but Swuth didn’t flinch. He smiled. He’d never met anyone with the ability to penetrate his sword’s circle of death.

This woman is talented.

Swuth stopped circling his sword and held it in a traditional sword-fighter stance. He stepped forward, swinging viciously from the right. Sati bent low to avoid the blow and thrust her blade at Swuth’s arm, causing a superficial cut. But Swuth suddenly reversed the direction of his blade, slashing hard across Sati’s shoulder.

Sati swerved back just in time, reducing the threat of what could have been a devastating blow. Swuth’s sword grazed her right arm and shoulder. Sati growled in fury and stabbed with such rapid force that a surprised Swuth had to jump back.

Swuth stepped back even further. This woman was a very skilled warrior. His standard tactics would not work. He decided to keep his distance, pointing his sword forward, thinking of what could be a good move against her. Sati remained stationary, conserving her strength. She couldn’t afford to move too much for fear of increasing the blood loss from her numerous wounds. Also, she was playing for time. She didn’t mind a few moments of reprieve.

An idea struck Swuth. Sati was primarily injured on her left side. This would impair her movements in that direction. He quickly took a giant step forward and swung viciously from his right. Sati twisted to the left and swung her blade up to block Swuth’s strike. The Egyptian could see that the movement had made blood spurt out of her wounded abdomen. As Sati stabbed at Swuth again, she stepped a little to the left to improve her angle. But Swuth had anticipated her move. He stepped further to his right and kept on swinging again and again from that awkward angle.

The intense pain of continuously turning leftwards forced Sati to take a gamble. She pirouetted suddenly and swung her sword in a great arc from her right, hoping to decapitate him. But this was exactly what Swuth had expected. He ducked low and stepped forward rapidly, easily avoiding Sati’s strike. At the same time, he brought his sword up in a low, brutal jab. His curved sword with its serrated edges went right through Sati’s abdomen, ripping almost every single vital organ; her intestines, stomach, kidney and liver were slashed through viciously. A paralysed Sati, her face twisted in agony, lay impaled on Swuth’s curved sword. Her own blade fell from her hand. The Egyptian bent back, used the leverage and rammed his sword in even further, till its point burst through to the other side, piercing her shattered back.

‘Not bad,’ said Swuth, twisting his blade as he pulled it out of Sati, ripping her organs to ribbons. ‘Not bad for a woman.’

Sati collapsed to the ground, her body shivering as dark blood began to pool on the ground around her. She knew she was going to die. It was only a matter of time. The blood flow couldn’t be staunched now. Her vital internal organs and the massive numbers of blood vessels in them had been mortally damaged. But she also knew something else very clearly. She wouldn’t die lying on the ground, slowly bleeding to death.

She would die like a Meluhan. She would die with her head held high.

She lifted her quivering right hand and reached for her sword. Swuth stared at Sati in awe, transfixed as he watched her struggling to reach her blade. He knew that she must know she was going to die soon. And yet, her spirit hadn’t been broken.

Could she be the final kill?

The cult of Aten had a belief that every assassin would one day meet a victim so magnificent, so worthy, that it would be impossible for the man to kill ever again. His duty would then be to give his victim an honourable death and give up his profession to spend the rest of his life worshipping that last victim.

As Sati’s arm flopped to her side after another vain attempt to reach her sword, Swuth shook his head. It can’t be a woman. This cannot be the moment. The final kill cannot be a woman!

Swuth turned around and screamed at his people. ‘Move out, you filthy cockroaches! We’re leaving!’

The man standing next to Swuth didn’t obey his order. He continued to stare beyond Swuth, stupefied by the awe-inspiring sight.

Swuth whirled around, stunned. Sati was up on one knee. She was breathing rapidly, forcing some strength into her debilitated body. She had dug her sword into the ground and her right hand was on its hilt as she tried to use the leverage to push herself up. She failed, took quick breaths, fired more energy into her body, and tried once more. She failed again. Then she stopped suddenly. She felt eyes boring into her. She looked up and locked eyes with Swuth.

Swuth stared at Sati, dumbstruck. She was completely soaked in her own blood, there were cavernous wounds all over her body, and her hands were shivering with the tremendous pain she was in. Her soul must know that death was just minutes away. And yet, her eyes did not exhibit even the slightest hint of fear. She stared directly at Swuth with only one expression. An expression of pure, raw, unadulterated defiance.

Tears sprang into Swuth’s eyes as his heart felt immeasurably heavy. His mind grasped his heart’s message instantly. This indeed was his final kill. He would never, ever, kill again.

Swuth knew what he had to do. He drew both his curved swords, held them high by the hilt and thrust them in a downward motion. In a flash, the swords were buried in the ground. For the last time, he looked at both the half-buried, bloodied swords that had served him so well. He would never use them again. He went down on one knee, pulled his shoulders back to give himself leverage and then slammed the hilts with his palms in an outward motion, snapping both blades in two.

He then got up, pulled back his hood and removed his mask. Sati could see the tattoo of a black fireball with rays streaming out on the bridge of his nose. Swuth reached behind and pulled out a sword from a scabbard tied across his back. Unlike all his other weapons, this sword was marked. It was marked with the name of their God, Aten. Below that had been inscribed the name of the devotee, Swuth. The blade had never been used before. It had but one purpose alone: to taste the blood of the final victim. Thereafter, the sword would never be used again. It would be worshipped by Swuth and his descendants.

Swuth bowed low before Sati, pointed at the black tattoo on the bridge of his nose and repeated an ancient vow.

‘The fire of Aten shall consume you. And the honour of putting out your fire shall purify me.’

Sati didn’t move. She didn’t flinch. She continued to stare silently at Swuth.

Swuth went down on one knee. He had to give Sati an honourable death; beheading her was out of the question. He pointed his sword at her heart, holding the hilt with his thumb facing up. He pressed his other hand into the back of the hilt to provide support.

Ready in every way, Swuth stared back at Sati, at a face that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his life, and whispered, ‘Killing you shall be my life’s honour, My Lady.’

‘NOOOOOOOO!’

A loud scream came wafting in from the distance.

An arrow whizzed past and pierced Swuth’s hand. As his sword dropped to the ground, a surprised Swuth turned to find another arrow flying straight into his shoulder.

‘Run!’ screamed the assassins.

One of them picked up Swuth and started dragging him along.

‘Noooo!’ roared Swuth, struggling against his people, who were bodily carrying him back. Not killing the final victim was one of the greatest sins for the followers of Aten. But his people wouldn’t leave him behind.

Nearly a thousand Meluhans had reached Sati, a desperately distraught Daksha and Veerini in the lead.

‘S-A-T-I-I-I-I-I,’ screamed Daksha, his face twisted in agony.

‘DON’T TOUCH ME!’ bellowed Sati as she collapsed to the ground.

Daksha buckled, crying inconsolably, digging his nails into his face.

‘Sati!’ screamed Veerini as she lifted her daughter into her arms.

‘Maa...’ whispered Sati.

‘Don’t talk. Relax,’ cried Veerini, before frantically looking back. ‘Get the doctors! Now!’

‘Maa...’

‘Be quiet, my child.’

‘Maa, my time has come...’

‘No! No! We’ll save you! We’ll save you!’

‘Maa, listen to me!’ said Sati.

‘My child...’

‘My body will be handed over to Shiva.’

‘Nothing will happen to you,’ sobbed Veerini. The Queen of Meluha turned around once again. ‘Will someone get the doctors?! Now!’

Sati held her mother’s face with surprising strength. ‘Promise me! Only to Shiva!’

‘Sati...’

‘Promise me!’

‘Yes, my child, I promise.’

‘And, both Ganesh and Kartik will light my pyre.’

‘You’re not going to die!’

‘Both Ganesh and Kartik! Promise me!’

‘Yes, yes. I promise.’

Sati slowed her breathing down. She had heard what she needed to. She blocked out the weeping she could hear all around her. She rested her head in her mother’s lap and looked towards the peace conference building. The doors were open. Lord Ram and Lady Sita’s idols were clearly visible. She could feel their kind and welcoming eyes upon her. She would be back with them soon.

A sudden wind picked up, swirling dust particles and leaves lying around her on the ground. Sati gazed at the swirl. The particles appeared to form a figure. She stared hard as Shiva’s image seemed to emerge. She remembered the promise she had made to him; that she would see him when he returned.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

The wind died down just as suddenly. Sati could feel her vision blurring. Blackness appeared to be taking over. Her vision seemed to recede into a slowly reducing circle, with darkness all around it. The wind burst into life once again. The dust particles and leaves rose in an encore and showed Sati the vision she wanted to die with: the love of her life, her Shiva.

I’ll be waiting for you, my love.

Thinking of her Shiva, Sati let her last breath slip quietly out of her body.