His steps echoed the empty tunnel.

Shit, he is close!!

Mohanlal shut his eyes, heart beating furiously, trying to force this shit out through the sewer lines of bad dreams. But of course this was happening, happening to him of all the people.

The assassin continued to sing, “Dil Dooba, Dil Dooba- neeli aankhon mein yeh dil dooba (My heart has sunk, my heart has sunk- in your blue eyes did it sink)….”

He cursed silently. Sweat was pouring down his forehead profusely, his blue eyes fixated on the assassin’s each movement. He was walking in a cat like stance, agile and ready to pounce. Even at a distance, he looked intimidating- with black overalls and mascara in his eyes.

Mohan knew that he would not last a minute in front of him, nor could he outrun him- a fat paper-pusher that he had been his whole life. He was terrified, to say the least. His shirt was all bloody and he dare not look at his right palm because it has been defiled, rendered incomplete, unholy and impure. The thumb was missing.

“Mohan, where are you?” The assassin croaked. “Why are you hiding from your mommy?”

His shoes clicked loudly on the cement floor

“Come to momma, pleaaaaaaaassee………,” he said, in his greasy voice. “She will make you sleep.”

The assassin stopped, sniffing the air.

Bloody Hell!!

“Come on now, don’t be shy. You naughty boy, you wet your pants,” the assassin continued in his sing-a-song voice. “Don’t lie; momma can smell piss on you.”

Mohan touched his pants with his left hand, without the slightest doubt he knew that it was warm.

There, he saw him, grandson of Frankenstein– twice removed, coming straight at him. Stout, dark, tall and effeminate- the assassin had a white pallor on his face, personifying death itself, walking at a leisurely pace- dead sure that it was no mean feat to catch a puny fatso.

There was no mistaking his Shaitani origin- the black skull shaped tikka on his forehead, the blood shot eyes and his oh-so-famous necklace. Mohan was always sickly intrigued by that multi-thumbed necklace, though it was always in photographs that he came across them- who, in his right mind would like to wear a necklace reeking of slowly decomposing flesh.

But this man is not in his right mind, he argued. He is off his rocker.

And the necklace no longer intrigued him- it horrified him, all the more, when he saw that amongst all the partly decomposed thumbs in that thread, there was one which was still fresh and oozing copious amount of blood – one which had been rightful propriety of his right hand just before some time.

He was glued to his position, unable to act or think- a furry rabbit that he was, unable to get rid of a charging cobra.

The very fabric of space and time had been twisted, and he must say that he was undeserving of the attention that this assassin was showering onto him. He was a pawn in a much larger hyper stellar game of dice. The cosmic balance hung very precariously on his shoulders. He must warn others.

But his Ka was no longer listening to him.

Asshole, you are going to die and still all you can think of are stupid excuses why not to save your own ass.

He still had the Stotra-field. He wasn’t yet dead. He closed his eyes, trying to get rid of all the emotions- love, hatred, jealousy, but fear still dominated his mind.

 It has started, just as the Guruji predicted it will. It has all begun. There would be no escape from the bloody battle that would erupt. The Konti-Kramplas would not be able to help it. Earth will be reduced to a bloody battle-field.

He was on the verge of tears. Being lonely, without his mind-besotted to guide him- he was sure of his certain death.

I do not want to die.

Tears rolled down his eyes- his drive to survive sapping.

It hurts so bad.

He must steel his mind at all cost, he was losing control. He must do one last act of bravery; he must make the last stand.

“My dear Mowgli, I know that you are here. Come to momma,” the assassin said, his voice growing louder.

He was playing with him. He had only moments before the assassin pounced on him.

He forced his mind to clear all the petty electric fluctuations and focus on the Stotra– the Flow. His mind charged up for the contact.

I am with you, Ka. I follow thee on the eternal path.

“Who is hiding behind that looooorryyy?” the assassin asked. He was almost upon his neck.

Let my tongue be thy photo-receptor, my brain thy channel of spiritual electricity in this eternal cosmic saga of boom and bust, life and dust.

“Caught you,” the assassin said, looking from the side of the lorry, his face stretched in a wide grin.

This universe becomes me, I become the universe.

He raised his knife- the blade glinted evilly in the street lamp.

I become the One.

He was ready for him, looking through his mind’s eye. Before the assassin knew what was happening, Mohan grabbed his legs, causing the assassin to lose balance and flopping down on the ground. He brought out the wooden splinter that had been attached loosely with the lorry and hit him with a satisfying thwack across the forehead.

The assassin was disoriented for a moment. That was all the time in the world that he needed.

He sprinted up from his crouching stance, determined to finish the final deed.

Before the befuddled assassin could catch him, he bolted with lightening speed, racing past the tunnel out into the open. He still had his eyes close, though he no longer needed them to sense the never ending railways lines which were running parallel to him, the cat splaying out the dead rat’s gut and pouring its snout inside, the birds overhead preparing to sleep, he easily gave a miss to the anthill that lay in his path, though he wasn’t actually concerned about any of them.

Only a Bang would get their attention, one humungous in size…

He was no longer afraid of the assassin- he did not count on the huge cosmological scale on which he now was operating. He tapped in the necessary spiritual energy needed, from the stars and concentrated in on the dimensionless spot inside his mind.

I cannot do this alone, help me, my besotted.

But he did not feel the warm, affectionate brush inside his mind.

Guruji won’t come. He must do it, alone.

He let the dot inflate and bulge, expanding in its circumference, shimmering in brilliance. Soon, he would be no longer able to control the mind creation. At that point he would unleash it on the world- warning others of the impending doom through the blast of his mind-gong.

He felt a distant pain shoot up from his right calf.

Not now.

But the deed was done, he lost his concentration, that cast him off balance and he lost control of the globe prematurely before he could let go.

He was not that spiritually evolved. He was capable of focusing his entire brain to maintain the telepathic network, but that only for sometime and without any major distraction. But pain was the largest hurdle which still he hadn’t been able to leap across. So he lost his focus, giving Pain the necessary wedge through which to drive through and in that process it engulfed his entire brain.

He shrieked, as the pain picked up pace- having lain dormant for quite sometime during the meditation.

He opened his eyes and turned to look at his leg. A knife stuck out from the calf. He hit the ground as his legs buckled, unable to bear the load due to rising pain, hitting the ground head first.

He tasted dirt in his mouth and felt infinite pain-centres yelling for attention, though the pain in his leg was paramount. Already his hands were reaching instinctively to do something to ease the agony.

Oh God.

He hands treaded the right leg carefully, trying not to touch it prematurely when he wasn’t ready. He touched the cold protruding metal. He gripped it firmly.

1…2…3…

But before he could gather strength to pull it out at one go, someone kicked at his leg, bending the knife, thus tearing the skin further apart. Blood gushed out, staining his pants in a web like continuity.

He screamed.

“How many times did I tell you, not to run away from Momma,” the assassin said. “You give me jeepers when you do so.”

He hunched down, driving the knife further inside his leg.

“STOPPPPPPPPPP………..” he cried in agony.

“Momma won’t stop. You deserve the punishment,” the assassin said, giggling. With one sudden jerk he brought out the knife (while Mohan gasped in extreme pain) and drove it deep down the gash, again.

Mohan tried to flay his arms, trying to squat the assassin off- but the asshole had complete control over him. He twisted his hands and pinned them down behind his back.

From far away, he heard a train coming.

“Look, your Chook Chook Gadi has arrived,” the assassin said, pulling Mohan by his hairs to look at the oncoming train.

Oh God, stop this pain.

He yelled as loud as he could. “Help, someone help,” he hollered, hope rising as he saw the train approaching towards them. It was a narrow chance that someone in the jam-packed train would notice them in the dark, but he wanted to grope on whatever hope there might be.

The assassin laughed. “God helps those who help themselves,” he said, once again pulling out the knife from his leg. Warm blood oozed out, spurting out in small fountains now.

Then suddenly understanding dawned.

“No, please no,” he begged, tears gushing down his eyes, horrified beyond imagination.

“You committed a felony, you deserve the punishment,” the assassin jeered, his voice mock solemn.

He felt himself being lifted and dropped in between the tracks, the pain rising to an unbearable hilt.

“KUUUUUUU…CHOOK CHOOK CHOOK CHOOK……” the devil whistled, his palm raised vertically up, flattened and touching his lips at the centre.

All Mohan could see was the rising cone of light.

“PLEASE, NOOOOOOO…” he wailed helplessly. But the assassin once again started working on his body. With ferocity, he brought down the knife on his left leg, pushing it deeper and deeper still, till it hit bone…

Mohan was too weak to resist, all he did feel was the ground shake beneath his body.

He had to warn them, anyhow. He tried to muster his concentration, but before he could move a nanometer down the neuron pathway, the assassin pulled out the knife, pushed it down just above his waist- breaking the spinal cord.

He felt himself losing consciousness, and he battled with himself to keep his eyes open. The ballast stones beneath his belly were trying to wiggle free, the bolts of the rail shaking.

Relief!!!

He thanked his stars- he no longer could feel the pain in the lower portion of his body. It was dead now.

But the assassin was unstoppable, driven by blood lust- he jabbed at his legs again and again, unflagging in his quest to reduce his legs to a bloody mess inspite of their utter paralysis.

The train hooted the horn; the driver must have realized that someone lay in the track. But it was too late.

The assassin snapped out of blood-reverie immediately. Someone was looking at him drive the knife. It was time to run.

But he was not finished yet. He brought out the bloody knife from his legs, blood dripping from its steel. He brought Mohan’s palms together behind his back, he was in no condition to resist, and with ruthless efficiency he drove the knife down all the way through.

Mohan screamed.

Ascertaining that Mohan had no chance of unclasping his hands now and try, in a desperate bid to escape, he looked up and grinned evilly at the train. Then moving out of harm’s way, he scampered down out into the trees and made his way through the bushes.

So this is how it ends, Mohan thought- battling nausea, unconsciousness and biting pain.

He knew that he won’t be able to pull himself out of the way of danger- but that no longer depressed him.

For long, he had avoided facing situations head on. He lost his wife, his son and also his soul-sharer as a result. He had always ducked responsibility.

He craned his neck, looking at the zooming cone of light. The train drove itself to a noisy screech.

Bless his soul, the driver was making a futile attempt to stop but he must have known that he could not stop it in time, without letting the train to derail from the tracks.

He must decide whether to save one life or lose hundreds trying to save a lost cause. Mohan knew what he would choose, and he did not regret it. He would have done the same.

He could make out the outline of the engine as it pounded towards him.

He smiled. He would at least face his death head-on.

Farewell. Blurry eyed, he imagined a Godly presence riding on a buffalo and mace in his hand coming down from the sky, to take him away.

Yamraj extended his hand. Gazing one last time at the train, he gladly took it…

The train ran him over, crushing every bone inside his body to powder, his brain squelched, his heart burst- blood sprouting out in a huge fountain that mostly lubricated the train’s wheels, his lungs imploded, his guts flattened- in short he was later found in bits and pieces.

But the old fart was lucky, he was already dead by the time the train hit him.

 

To Be continued in Chapter 1: Gumnaam Engineer