hub for pursuing water sports such as boating, yachting and water skiing.
Upon reaching the lake, Taarak steered the car towards the Lake Reserved Forest—a wide expanse of dense woods. He parked the car and got out. He opened the rear door for Kurkude and said, ‘We’ll need to spend fifteen minutes here. Luckily this area is secluded and it should be possible to get back to Chandigarh Corporate Plaza from here in another ten.’
The professor got out of the car and the two men strolled along the Jungle Trail that led to the Lake Reserved Forest. Kurkude did not notice that his driver was wearing a special belt pack around his waist.
Five minutes into the Jungle Trail, all human presence vanished and it became evident that the two men were alone. Taarak missed a step, allowing Kurkude to overtake him along the narrow pathway. The good professor was unaware that a chloroform-soaked handkerchief was about to be clamped around his nose and mouth. As Taarak’s handkerchief made contact with Kurkude’s face, the professor registered a look of terror as he struggled to avoid the fumes—but it was of no use. He was no match for Taarak’s years of training.
No sooner had Kurkude passed out than Taarak picked up his comatose frame and placed him under a large peepal tree. Taking out his duct tape he quickly bound Kurkude’s hands and gagged his mouth. He searched inside his waist pouch and found the self-inking rubber stamp that he had kept ready especially for this occasion. He carefully placed the rubber end on Kurkude’s head. The symbol that emerged on Kurkude’s forehead was that of a conch—yet another symbol of Vishnu.
Taking out a fresh scalpel, duly custom-engraved with the initials R.M., Taarak knelt down over Kurkude’s outstretched foot and, with his usual precision, thrust the scalpel into Kurkude’s left sole, leaving it embedded inside the flesh. Blood spurtedfrom the foot as Taarak took out the paintbrush from his belt pack.
‘You are special, Professor Kurkude,’ he thought to himself as he dipped the paintbrush into Kurkude’s blood. ‘You get to die exactly as Lord Krishna did. Under a peepal tree.’ Taarak began to write on the bark above Kurkude’s head:
Mleccha-nivaha-nidhane kalayasi karavalam
dhumaketum iva kim api karalam
kesava dhrita-kalki-sarira jaya jagadisa hare.
Having surveyed his handiwork, Taarak gathered up all the tools of his trade and walked over to the car that was parked a short distance away. In his head, he could hear echoes of the conversation that had taken place between him and Mataji many months previously.
‘I shall do whatever you say, Mataji. But could you please explain to me why I must kill these men? They’re simply scientists and researchers,’ said Taarak.
‘But they’re doing the work of Satan,’ spat Mataji. ‘They’re busy trying to dig up the eighth avatar of Vishnu while the tenth is far more important. Tell me, son, what happens when you place ten before eight? You get 108! The most powerful number in the world! Use the power, Taarak!’
‘Your wish is my command, Mataji,’ said Taarak respectfully. ‘But could you tell me what these men have done that deserves death?’
‘These men are busy searching for a secret that was left behind by Krishna,’ said Mataji angrily. ‘They cursorily read the Mahabharata and think to themselves,what could be this earth-shattering secret? Their little minds dwell on the Brahmastra—the divine weapon that could cause the destruction of a nuclear bomb. In so doing, they overlook the key secrets within the Bhagwad Gita —the sermon delivered by Krishna to Arjuna on the battlefield!’
‘Specifically, which part of the Bhagwad Gita are you referring to, Mataji?’ asked Taarak.
‘Remember the part when Krishna tells Arjuna, I am transcendental, beyond both the fallible and the infallible. And because I am the greatest, unborn and infallible, I am celebrated both in the world and in the Vedas as
Upon reaching the lake, Taarak steered the car towards the Lake Reserved Forest—a wide expanse of dense woods. He parked the car and got out. He opened the rear door for Kurkude and said, ‘We’ll need to spend fifteen minutes here. Luckily this area is secluded and it should be possible to get back to Chandigarh Corporate Plaza from here in another ten.’
The professor got out of the car and the two men strolled along the Jungle Trail that led to the Lake Reserved Forest. Kurkude did not notice that his driver was wearing a special belt pack around his waist.
Five minutes into the Jungle Trail, all human presence vanished and it became evident that the two men were alone. Taarak missed a step, allowing Kurkude to overtake him along the narrow pathway. The good professor was unaware that a chloroform-soaked handkerchief was about to be clamped around his nose and mouth. As Taarak’s handkerchief made contact with Kurkude’s face, the professor registered a look of terror as he struggled to avoid the fumes—but it was of no use. He was no match for Taarak’s years of training.
No sooner had Kurkude passed out than Taarak picked up his comatose frame and placed him under a large peepal tree. Taking out his duct tape he quickly bound Kurkude’s hands and gagged his mouth. He searched inside his waist pouch and found the self-inking rubber stamp that he had kept ready especially for this occasion. He carefully placed the rubber end on Kurkude’s head. The symbol that emerged on Kurkude’s forehead was that of a conch—yet another symbol of Vishnu.
Taking out a fresh scalpel, duly custom-engraved with the initials R.M., Taarak knelt down over Kurkude’s outstretched foot and, with his usual precision, thrust the scalpel into Kurkude’s left sole, leaving it embedded inside the flesh. Blood spurtedfrom the foot as Taarak took out the paintbrush from his belt pack.
‘You are special, Professor Kurkude,’ he thought to himself as he dipped the paintbrush into Kurkude’s blood. ‘You get to die exactly as Lord Krishna did. Under a peepal tree.’ Taarak began to write on the bark above Kurkude’s head:
Mleccha-nivaha-nidhane kalayasi karavalam
dhumaketum iva kim api karalam
kesava dhrita-kalki-sarira jaya jagadisa hare.
Having surveyed his handiwork, Taarak gathered up all the tools of his trade and walked over to the car that was parked a short distance away. In his head, he could hear echoes of the conversation that had taken place between him and Mataji many months previously.
‘I shall do whatever you say, Mataji. But could you please explain to me why I must kill these men? They’re simply scientists and researchers,’ said Taarak.
‘But they’re doing the work of Satan,’ spat Mataji. ‘They’re busy trying to dig up the eighth avatar of Vishnu while the tenth is far more important. Tell me, son, what happens when you place ten before eight? You get 108! The most powerful number in the world! Use the power, Taarak!’
‘Your wish is my command, Mataji,’ said Taarak respectfully. ‘But could you tell me what these men have done that deserves death?’
‘These men are busy searching for a secret that was left behind by Krishna,’ said Mataji angrily. ‘They cursorily read the Mahabharata and think to themselves,what could be this earth-shattering secret? Their little minds dwell on the Brahmastra—the divine weapon that could cause the destruction of a nuclear bomb. In so doing, they overlook the key secrets within the Bhagwad Gita —the sermon delivered by Krishna to Arjuna on the battlefield!’
‘Specifically, which part of the Bhagwad Gita are you referring to, Mataji?’ asked Taarak.
‘Remember the part when Krishna tells Arjuna, I am transcendental, beyond both the fallible and the infallible. And because I am the greatest, unborn and infallible, I am celebrated both in the world and in the Vedas as
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