The Third Eye (11 page)

What was it about this place? It was some kind of building, or temple. Suddenly she remembered that Parvati
used to speak about an abandoned temple in the heart of the forest. Long ago it was used frequently. But something had happened that had caused the villagers to remove the deities of the holy trinity — lords Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva — move them to another location, and abandon this temple. The path to it was overgrown and most had even forgotten it existed.

Tara moved forward cautiously as thorny shrubs tore at her blanket. She rounded the corner, gasped, and ducked behind the temple wall. Her heart was hammering so loudly that she thought he would definitely hear it and come running at her.

She took a few deep breaths and the roaring in her ears lessened. She peered round the corner once again. Sitting on the stone steps was Zarku. He had his head in his hands and was sobbing uncontrollably. Tara shook her head. She closed her eyes and popped them open again, hoping the vision would disappear. But no, there he was. Except that Zarku was not sobbing anymore. He was holding up a silver thread, which glinted in the moonlight. Zarku held it up and watched it sway in the breeze. Suddenly, he made a fist and the silver thread disappeared into its depth.

“Mother, if you could see me now, you would be so proud of me. I am Zarku ... the best healer in all of India ... and I made it, all on my own.”

Zarku opened his palm and the silver thread glistened.

Tara strained to hear what Zarku was saying in a low voice. Maybe if she found out something about him, a
weakness, she would be able to help Prabala defeat him.

“When you died, Mother,” continued Zarku, “you left me with Father, who blamed me for your death. He
HATED
me. Hated me so much that he wished I would die too. He told me so. The only thing he gave me freely and with love were curses and beatings.”

Zarku's voice was hoarse as he said it and Tara felt tears pricking her eyelids. She was feeling sorry for this monster?

“And what did you give me, Mother? An ugly outgrowth on my forehead that people thought was another eye. Everyone teased me about it and beat me up over it.”

Zarku stood up and paced the clearing in front of the temple. Hidden by the stone steps, Tara prayed that he would not sense her presence. She held her breath as he came within a few steps of her and strode away, still ranting.

“I was ready to join you, Mother, tired of the beatings and the jeering. I went to the old well to drown myself ... but then ...,” Zarku giggled.

Tara cringed at the cruelty she heard in that soft giggle.

“Then I met him, my saviour, Kubera, the Lord of the Underworld. He promised me
revenge
. Revenge on all those who had mocked my deformity. He helped me, Mother. He turned my deformity into my greatest strength.”

Zarku caressed his third eye.

“This, Mother, is the eye that can see into the heart
and mind. I can sense strength and weakness in people. And I can make then bow to my will.”

Tara sank to the ground trembling as she continued to clutch the blanket tightly. Now she understood why Zarku was destroying the villagers. He had made a deal with the Lord of the Underworld to avenge himself. They were all doomed unless someone could stop him.

Zarku had stopped pacing and was standing in front of a wooden post directly in front of the temple. He hung the silver thread from a sliver of bark and ran his fingertips along it, still talking.

“Mother, I've missed you. If you'd been here, things might have been different. But there's no going back. I promised Kubera that in return for this gift, I would give him the souls of the undead. Once I had the villagers under my control, they would do my bidding and their souls would be Kubera's. Only if someone turned them back to their human form would they be free. But that's not going to happen, is it? Only one person can stop me: Prabala. And he'll be dead soon.”

“
NO!
” yelled Tara.

Zarku's head snapped in her direction.

Tara was aghast. She had not realized that she had yelled out and stood up at the same time.

Suddenly, she was staring into the deep, dark pools of Zarku's eyes.

“Well, well, well, what have we here? Tara, isn't it?”

Tara stared at him. How did he know her name?

“Yes, I know your name. And who your grandfather is, though he won't be around for long,” said Zarku as he grabbed Tara and dragged her to the wooden post, flinging her against it.

The back of Tara's head cracked with such force that she saw stars. She barely felt something cool slip past her cheek.

“You little busybody. Thought you could hear my secrets and tell everyone?” snarled Zarku.

The sobbing little boy was gone. In his place stood Zarku, the monster who only lived for revenge. Tara stared at him, unable to speak. His third eye started to open. She cringed and hugged the post for support, waiting for the searing heat that would turn her to a mound of ash.

Nothing happened.

She turned to look at Zarku, who was staring at her with those whiteless eyes.

“My third eye won't open,” he breathed. “
I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS!
”

Tara released a deep and shaky breath.

For a moment, they stood staring at each other in the silent moonlit clearing. Tara stood frozen while Zarku studied her with his eyes narrowed. Suddenly, she turned and ran. Zarku did not follow.

As she disappeared behind the temple, she heard him call out.

“My Vetalas will find you, Tara, and they will complete the job I was not able to do. Watch your back.”

•••

It was more luck than anything that guided Tara back to where she had left her things. She felt as if she was in some kind of weird dream and unable to make sense of anything. Tara stumbled to the bedding, lay down, and fell into an exhausted sleep.

She awoke once more to the cacophony of bird calls and sunlight glinting through an undulating green ceiling. And she was still alive. She sat up and clasped her knees to her chest, deep in thought. The sun was still shining, the birds still singing. She had been through so much in the last day and night. She had lost her beloved brother and then discovered Zarku's past. What was more shocking was that he had been unable to kill her.
I wonder why?
she asked herself.

Tara stood up and shook out Suraj's blanket to put it away. Something dropped out of the folds and sparkled in the morning sunlight. Tara bent to retrieve it. It was the silver thread Zarku had been talking to last night: an anklet. It was heavy and the beaten silver was in an intricate design. It must have been his mother's and when it had fallen into her blanket, it had protected her. That seemed to be the only reason she was still alive. Tara said a prayer to his mother, slipped the bracelet into the bundle, and finished packing.

She sat down to think. It was now more important than ever to find Prabala before Zarku and the Vetalas did.
But could she do it alone? Suraj and she had set out on this journey believing that their mother and grandfather were alive. She
would
carry on alone and find them. Suraj's death would not be in vain.

Tara headed north. She gathered edible roots and berries to munch. The food she had packed was long gone but she still had a bit of water left. She would manage till she reached a village.

Tara was deep in thought as she continued walking. She hated doing anything alone, always seeking out Suraj's companionship. Now she had no choice. And she found that she was not as scared as she thought she might be. A small frisson of pride shot through her.
I can do this
, she thought. She marched on, keeping a sharp eye on the moss-covered forest floor. Then she saw it: a small path made by bare feet. She hurried along it. The trees started thinning around her and sunlight poured through in large patches of liquid gold.

All of a sudden she stopped. She heard a faint chant in the distance. The voices came closer ... still closer ... and her heart started thumping. She stepped off the path and cautiously dodged from tree to tree. Had Zarku sent his Vetalas? But she knew they only came out at night. Had her wicked stepmother sent a search party to haul them back home? It couldn't be; she was miles away from Morni. Was her father searching for them? Not possible — he did not care about them at all.

Who could it be?

“Ram Nam Satya Hai.”

“Ram Nam Satya Hai.”

The chant for the dead. Now she understood, and her heart slowed its frantic beat. A group of villagers were carrying one of their dead to the burning ground outside the village. She had never seen a funeral pyre and she was curious. Children were normally not allowed to watch a Sati ceremony, though she had heard about it in the stories that their father had told them. Most of the villagers believed that cremation purified the soul of the dead. The ashes were then scattered by the eldest son of the family into the holy Ganges River so that the soul would be one with the Gods.

As the voices drew nearer she hid behind the trunk of a large tree. The procession passed her by and she saw four men holding the legs of a cot, on which lay a body covered in white cotton from head to toe. Many men followed the cot and its bearers, calling out the chant of the dead. A lone woman followed, dressed in a dazzling white saree. Her long, black hair framed a pale face. She seemed to be completely oblivious of her surrounding and was half dragged, half carried by two villagers.

Tara squeezed her eyes shut. The woman was the widow of the dead man and was being forced to perform Sati.” Her blood ran cold and she clamped her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from crying out to stop them. Sati was the destiny of any girl or woman who had the misfortune to become a widow. It was an age-old tradition where the
woman was forced to burn herself on her husband's funeral pyre. It was such a terrifying ordeal that most women (and sometimes mere girls) had to be drugged into submission so that they did not rebel, or so that they wouldn't realize what was happening till it was too late. Tara shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon sun.

She turned back to look at the procession, which was moving away rapidly. Suddenly, she noticed a tall, thin boy trailing behind, desperately trying to push through the men to get to the woman. He seemed to be twelve or thirteen, slightly older than Tara. He wore a muddied white kurta and his pyjamas were torn at the knee.
She must be his mother
, Tara thought. And it was evident he was trying to prevent her from committing Sati.

“Mother, wake up! MOTHER, it's me, your son Ananth. Please, Mother, look at me,” he sobbed in a hoarse voice.

“Go away,” growled a ferocious-looking villager. “This is your mother's destiny. No one can change it and it's no use throwing a tantrum. Now behave, or you will incur the wrath of Lord Yama.”

He shoved Ananth hard, and Ananth fell to the side of the road, struck his head against a rock, and lay there dazed. The procession sped on and disappeared round a bend.

The boy sat up, hugged his knees, and sobbed quietly. Tara dropped the bundles and ran to him, wondering what to say. She had never seen a boy his age cry and was unsure of how to deal with it. Finally, she sat next to him and
patted his shoulder.

For a few moments, the boy was completely unaware of Tara. After a while, his sobs subsided. He looked up and noticed Tara. Brown eyes looked into black ones.

“I've lost my father and my mother,” said Ananth without any preamble.

“I know,” said Tara, squeezing his shoulder.

Ananth started sobbing again, soft low sobs that seemed to rise unbidden from deep within him.

“Get her back. Please, save her,” he wept.

Tears welled up in Tara's eyes and cascaded down her cheeks. She wiped them away. She left the bundles near Ananth and raced after the funeral procession. Maybe she could squeeze through the crowd and grab his mother just before the men set her on fire. She did not even know how they went about it, but she had to try.

“Aaaaargh,” someone yelled out from the head of the procession.

Everyone came to an abrupt halt. Tara froze. She peeped out cautiously from behind a tree and turned icy cold at the sight. A huge tiger crouched in front of the procession. Saliva dripped from his bared fangs and his tail flicked from side to side in agitation.

The men holding the cot threw it down so quickly that the body almost rolled off. They scattered into the jungle like shards of a smashed pot, one villager passing so close to Tara that she felt his warm breath on her skin. Within seconds, the road was empty except for the widow and her
dead husband. The woman stood in a trance, unaware of the danger that faced her.

The tiger advanced toward her with a menacing growl. The chilly air and the growls of the tiger finally penetrated the widow's stupor. Tara saw her eyes widen in shock as she shuffled backward and collided with her husband's cot. She sat down at the head of his body, quivering. Tara was unable to move. Horrified, she continued to watch.

The tiger took one step forward and then another. Tara could see every whisker on its face; all its yellowed teeth were bared as it advanced on Ananth's mother, and then it roared. The widow screamed in terror and fell back on the cot.

Tara could not watch anymore. She ran back to Ananth, trying to wipe out the image of the tiger and his mother.

Coward
, a voice inside her said.

But what could I have done?
she argued back.
Give the tiger another juicy tidbit?

I can't tell Ananth about this, she thought. He has enough to deal with already.

She reached Ananth, panting hard. He looked up at her, a question in his moist eyes.

Tara shook her head.

“I could not catch up. They were too far ahead.”

Ananth's head sank back onto his chest.

Tara reached out, took his hand in hers, and gently tugged it. She helped him to his feet and led him to where the bundles lay. Once she was sure he was steady on his
feet, she stooped to pick up the bundles.