Samsara Enter The Valley Of The Gods

SAKSHAM GARG

SAMSARA

Enter the Valley of the Gods

PENGUIN BOOKS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Contents

Prologue

PART I

1. Aman

2. Upasna

3. Idhika

4. Aditya

5. Nandana

6. Prithvi, Ujal and Fayza

7. Adwaita

8. Maidaan

PART II

9. Bazaar

10. Suryast

11. Sangram

12. Kamandalu

13. Varunasmati

14. Kirtimukha

15. Sanaka

16. Angithi

17. Airavata

18. Vritra

19. Chaturanga

20. Pankh

21. Hathi-Paun

22. Yagya

23. Sarp-poonch

PART III

24. Atmayog

25. Pandayam

26. Sabha and Samiti

27. Chayan

28. Eka

29. Indra

30. Atman

Epilogue

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Copyright

EBURY PRESS

SAMSARA

Saksham Garg is an editor at Penguin Random House India. For seven years, he studied at Woodstock School, Mussoorie, from where he could see the snow-capped Seven Hills of this story. He currently spends his time between New Delhi and Jaipur, and, outside of work, is often found on the football field or practising the violin.

He loves to interact with his readers; connect with him on Instagram, Facebook or LinkedIn @sakshamgarg94. To get updates on upcoming book events and workshops on writing and editing, log on to www.sakshamvgarg.com.

Advance Praise for the Book

‘This book will define the Indian fantasy genre for years to come’—Akshat Gupta, author

‘Samsara is a fresh and fantastic read with epic-level world-building and unforgettable characters. Finally, India’s answer to Harry Potter’—Krishna Udayasankar, author

‘Samsara takes you on an amazing voyage. This is magic, mythology and mysticism, all rolled into one delicious Hinduism-inspired story. Narrated beautifully, the plot and pace are gripping. What a fantastic debut novel by a young writer whose talent shines out on every page’—Harish Bhat, author, marketer and columnist, and brand custodian, Tata Sons

‘Absolutely fascinating creation of a new world and imagination at its best’—Anand Neelakantan, author

‘Samsara is a unique and intriguing story that takes us to the hidden heart of the Himalayas, where mountains and mythology meet. Saksham Garg has a compelling story to tell, and he conjures up an exciting, thought-provoking tale’—Stephen Alter, author

‘Samsara is the newest addition to India’s growing fantasy fiction genre. It’s an unputdownable read where you encounter demons and gods’—Stuti Changle, author

‘Samsara introduces its readers to a never-seen-before world of mythology. Every part of it is so visually powerful’—Kevin Missal, author

‘Saksham’s pen whispers incredible, fantastical tales to you in your grandmother’s voice. Finally, a Harry Potter in India’—Ayush Gupta, author

‘Samsara is the kind of mytho-fantasy that is so jaw-droppingly brilliant that it leaves you wide-eyed with wonder and begging for more! A phenomenal new talent has arrived!’—Anuja Chandramouli, author

‘Saksham Garg’s Samsara brings to life a world of Indian mythology and fantastical adventure. A creative and entertaining read’—Shashi Tharoor

To Grandad, who recently returned from Vanyasa

To see the map in detail and colour, log on to www.sakshamvgarg.com

The hut grew silent and people turned towards the man who had entered, carrying a musical instrument. He sat right beside the sleeping boy, tuned his veena, cleared his throat, and swept into the Song of the Valley. Everyone knew better than to sing along—at least not before the last Adwaita of the valley.

‘Tucked within brambles that may,

Shielding boughs and keeping at bay;

Every dashak centres a blue rose,

Scent of which dale invariably knows;

Watered, it riots by the nights,

Sheeny, eliciting awe from sights;

But in the valley fortified by the one that slithers,

For the sake of home, that flower must wither.’

The Souls

Aman

Idhika

Fayza

Prithvi

Ujal

Aarti

Payal

Dhara

Jagrav

Savitri

Yuvan

Prologue

More than anything, what you hold is a map—a guide that will allow you to find the mythical valley of Vanyasa. But know that this book will only help you as far as Nandana, the tree that keeps the valley a secret. Once you get there, you’re on your own.

You may have heard of Vanyasa, or you may be wondering what it is. If you have ever chanced upon some mention of it, you probably think it is fictional. But I assure you that Vanyasa exists. In fact, even today, there are many who spend years—sometimes entire lives—meditating, hoping to be led to this valley that exists only for the enlightened.

Vanyasa is known in different cultures by a multitude of names: Gyanganj, Shambhala, Swakipur, even Shangri-la. Nestled within the hidden folds of the Himalayas—on the roof of the world—the valley is completely inaccessible. However, every ten years, for its own survival, Vanyasa opens its doors to let in ten new Souls from the plains of the Indian subcontinent. They must take to the valley, its ancient ways, its sacred lessons, and know that they have no more than one year to prepare for the Mahayatra, the ultimate journey. They must survive the Mahayatra in order to join the ranks of the immortals that live in the valley.

Aman is one such Soul. Although his life is one in which few choices happen to be his own, he goes on to determine the fate of a nation. This is his story.

PART I

1

Aman

‘How about you,’ the teacher asked, ‘you in the back?’

The boy to whom these words were sternly directed did not react. Seated in the last row, he continued to look in his textbook, rhythmically shaking his leg and tugging at a red thread around his wrist.

The teacher cocked her head in a dramatic gesture. ‘Excuse me? I’m talking to you!’

‘Ma’am, he can’t hear you,’ a girl said, trying not to laugh. The entire class sniggered and began muttering under their breaths. The commotion finally stirred Aman, who looked around, not realizing he was the target.

The substitute teacher quickly checked the register to figure out the boy’s name and asked again, louder this time, ‘Aman Chandra?! Can you hear me? Did you get a chance to read the first three chapters as Kulkarni Sir had instructed?’

What are the odds that I’m picked? Aman thought, feeling cornered. Time was running out. Everyone was probably staring at him.

Aman cleared his throat. ‘Umm—’

‘No, it’s not that he can’t hear you, Ma’am,’ another boy interrupted him. ‘He just can’t spe-spea-speak, but he can . . .’ He looked around for approval. ‘He can surely cry.’

Aman stiffened. Are you kidding me? Cry? That was more than ten years ago!

He had always been a quiet kid, but it wasn’t like Aman wanted to be tongue-tied at such a moment. His reticence had festered over the years as he’d backed himself further and further into a corner. The silence in his world had enveloped him completely after the loss of his father back in 2009, thirteen years ago. His father, the infamous Avi Chandra, had been an army officer. When Aman was five years old, an official letter had arrived at their home in Delhi, informing him and his mother, Upasna, of Avi’s death. But it wasn’t accompanied by any of the outpourings of poignant glory reserved for the deaths of soldiers. No gun salutes. No badge of honour. No eulogies in the press. In fact, there was no state funeral for him—the army had said disobedience and abandonment of duty lay behind Avi’s death.

With little time offered to grieve, Upasna and her son were thrown out of the army staff quarters. She had tried looking for work, but even when the hope of a job glimmered, any inquiry about her family and husband put an end to it. She had no alternative but to take the low-paying job of a dishwasher at a local canteen.

It wasn’t long before the consequences of this unfortunate situation spilled over into Aman’s life. In the second grade, he was called ‘son of a traitor’ by a classmate for the first time, and he ended up sobbing in front of his class. That event bred new bullies who continued to torment him the entire year. The taint of his father’s disrepute seemed to be the only thing people spoke about when it came to him. But changing schools was out of the question—this was the closest public school to where he lived, and they couldn’t afford anything else.

Aman’s survival mechanism had become all about avoiding attention. First, he started watching his actions and weighing his words. He called in sick as often as possible. In the third grade, he completely stopped engaging in any discussions, and from the fourth grade onwards he only spoke when called upon by a teacher.

By the sixth grade, Aman Chandra had sidelined himself to the extent that the older students appeared to have forgotten about him. He was also careful to never engage with the new students, and even went to extraordinary lengths to hide his last name.

By the seventh grade, he had succeeded in his mission to be invisible. His classmates avoided him and the teachers—the regular ones, not the substitutes—clearly knew better than to ask him questions, whether out of pity or sheer weariness. Aman kept a poker face and would admit to no one that he wished he had a friend. Just one person to talk to honestly. But one day rolled into the next, and time went on.

So imagine Aman’s surprise when the substitute teacher addressed him directly. Of course, he wasn’t going to answer. Other than the occasional ‘yes, ma’am’ or ‘yes, sir’, Aman’s voice was scarcely heard by others. So if he was going to speak—if there was no other way out of it—then it had to be done early.

Here goes nothing, loser. He readied himself to speak. But time had already run out. It no longer mattered that he had indeed read the chapters last night and knew the answer to the teacher’s question. He knew that even if he tried to speak, he wouldn’t get past the dryness in his throat. So instead, like always, he offered his classmates a callous smirk, hoping they would mistake it for indifference.

The boy sitting right in front of Aman turned around and snapped his fingers in Aman’s face. Then, deftly manoeuvring his hands so that the teacher couldn’t see, he pulled out a device from his pocket and clicked on its screen. Sneers formed on all the faces looking at Aman as he recognized the tune of ‘Lonely’ by Akon.

That moment shook him out of the belief that he had recovered from the trauma of elementary school. He had been a fool to think that the strategic planning and distancing of so many years had washed away all the stains of the past and insulated him in his cocoon. Aman felt undone. Broken. That old feeling came rushing back into his veins, and he felt like he was back at his desk in classroom 2B—instead of 12B—when it had all started.

He felt heat travel up from his belly and his eyes well up with tears. But he would not, could not, give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He tilted his head back and blinked the tears away.

‘Is that a phone?!’ the teacher barked.

Aman bit his lip, gathered whatever belongings he could from his desk and stood up. Everything seemed to be happening at lightning speed, and yet it felt as if time stood still. The atmosphere in the room was heavy with expectation—everyone was waiting to see what he would do next. He felt all eyes on him. When he finally stepped into the corridor, he heard the entire class burst into laughter.

Where’s Prakash when you need him? Clutching his bag, Aman walked hurriedly to the administrator’s office, where he was told that Prakash hadn’t come to school in the last two days.

I don’t care; I will go to him.

Since he had no idea where Prakash lived, Aman pretended he had an urgent assignment to hand-deliver to him. The office staff disclosed his address.

Prakash was the only person in school with whom Aman exchanged words that didn’t involve insults. But it wasn’t as if he was a friend. It was just fate, or more likely the fact that no one could stand Prakash’s company either—the ill-mannered individual that he was—which meant they were often grouped together for projects.

When Aman reached Prakash’s doorstep, Prakash happened to open the door.

‘What the hell, man! What are you doing here?’ Prakash said.

‘It’s nice to see you too, Prakash,’ Aman said, rolling his eyes. ‘What’s keeping you from school these days? Are you up to the usual—’

‘How’d you find my place?’ Prakash nervously looked past Aman and then put his arms on Aman’s shoulders to steer him towards the lane beside his house.

‘Quit it.’ Aman shrugged off Prakash’s hold. ‘Why are you trying to get rid of me?’

‘Am not!’ Prakash looked cross. He paused and then, after a moment, smiled anxiously. ‘Okay, fine! It’s just that . . . How do I put this . . .? Umm . . . My parents are old-fashioned.’

‘So . . .?’ Aman asked. Of course! How could I have been so stupid? Even scum-of-the-earth Prakash is embarrassed to be associated with a traitor’s son.

Aman felt like turning his back on Prakash and running home. Or maybe yelling at Prakash, maybe even smacking him. But he couldn’t. He’d been conditioned to weigh his words, watch his actions and be as passive as possible. There was no way he could make an enemy of the one person who provided him company. He swallowed his pride and said, ‘Nothing really, Prakash. Rohan and gang were extra desperate for attention, and today I became their muse.’

Prakash nodded. ‘Yeah man, listen . . . that all stinks . . . Like I said . . . I’m going to have to go back inside. But I wanna leave you with a gift . . . And I know you said last week that you weren’t interested, but THIS-IS-IT, Aman. I repeat, this is the solution to all your problems . . . Wait right here. No closer though. I’ll get it. Be right back,’ he said. Before Aman could respond, Prakash was already walking away.

He returned shortly and handed Aman a book. ‘Just give it five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.’

Aman looked at the rare hardback edition of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho and put it in his backpack. ‘Yeah . . . Five minutes sounds reasonable . . .’

Engulfed in the ghosts of stale bidi smoke outside the apartment on the first floor, where he and his mother lived, Aman could still hear the voices of his classmates—He just can’t speak . . .! But he can surely cry! Those words had torn open old wounds and snatched away the last shred of his dignity. The moat he’d built brick by brick had been breached. His meticulous planning before every move, his scrutinization of each situation for possible pitfalls, his overthinking every decision—it had all been for nothing. His armour had been undone.

But since he was the male child of an army family, his mother would not look kindly on his tears, so he wiped his face before knocking on the door. Aman told himself it would never get better for him. Society would never let him escape the ghosts of his father’s sins.