Suddenly, he saw Sati bending over him. There was no blood on her. No wounds. No scars. She looked just like she had on the day he’d met her, all those years ago at the Brahma temple. She bent forward and ran her hand along Shiva’s face, her smiling visage suffused with love and joy; a smile that always set the world right for him.

She touched the crown of Shiva’s head. The sharp sensation receded and was replaced by a calm that was difficult to describe. He felt like he had been set free. Strangely, his blue throat was not cold anymore. Equally strange was the realisation that his brow had stopped burning from within.

Shiva opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. So he thought of what he wanted to say.

Take me with you, Sati. There’s nothing left for me to do. I’m done.

Sati bent forward and kissed Shiva lightly on his lips. She smiled and whispered, ‘No, you are not done yet. Not yet.’

Shiva kept staring at his wife. I can’t live without you...

‘You must,’ said Sati’s shimmering image.

Shiva couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore. Sati’s beautiful and calm face began to blur. He collapsed into a peaceful dream-like state. As he was descending the depths of consciousness though, he thought he heard a voice, almost like a command.

‘No more killing from now on. Spread life. Spread life.’

Chapter 54: By the Holy Lake

Chapter 54

By the Holy Lake

Thirty years later, Mansarovar Lake (at the foot of Mount Kailash, Tibet)

Shiva squatted on the rock that extended over the Mansarovar. Behind him was the Kailash Mountain, each of its four sides perfectly aligned with the four cardinal directions. It stood sentinel over the great Mahadev, the one who had saved India from Evil.

The long years and the tough Tibetan terrain had taken its toll on his body. His matted hair had greyed considerably, though it was still long and wiry enough to be tied in a traditional bun with beads. His body, honed with regular exercise and yoga, was still taut and muscular, but the skin had wrinkled and lost its tone. His neel kanth, the blue throat had not lost colour at all over the years. But it didn’t feel cold anymore. Not since the day he had been hit by the neutron blast from the Pashupatiastra that had destroyed Devagiri. The area between his brows didn’t burn or throb either; perhaps also due to the neutron blast. But it had taken on a darker hue, almost black, that contrasted sharply with his fair skin. It wasn’t an indistinct, indeterminate mark either. It looked like the tattoo of an eye; an eye with the lids shut. Kali had named it Shiva’s third eye, which stood vertical on his forehead, between his natural eyes.