like her be put through so much suffering by the Almighty? He remembered her childhood. The
day when he decided that here was a girl he would be proud to have as his goddaughter.
That fateful day, when for the first and only time, he regretted his vow to not have any
progeny of his own. Which foolish father would not want a child like Sati?
It was a lazy afternoon more than a hundred years ago. Sati had just returned from the
Gurukul at the tender age of sixteen. Full of verve and a passionate belief in Lord Ram’s
teachings. Lord Brahmanayak still reigned over the land of Meluha. His son, Prince Daksha,
was content being a family man, spending his days with his wife and daughter. He showed
absolutely no inclination to master the warrior ways of the Kshatriya. Neither did he show the
slightest ambition to succeed his father.
On that day, Daksha had settled down for a family picnic on the banks of the river
Saraswati, a short distance from Devagiri. Parvateshwar remembered well his duties as the
bodyguard to Daksha then. He sat near the Prince, close enough to protect him, but far enough
to give some privacy to the prince and his wife. Sati had wandered off into the forest further in
the distance, close to the river so that she was visible.
Suddenly Sati’s cry ripped through the silence. Daksha, Veerini and Parvateshwar looked up
startled. They rushed to the edge of the bank to see Sati at the river bend, ferociously battling
a pack of wild dogs. She was blocking them to protect a severely injured, fair woman. It could
be seen even from the distance that the caste-unmarked woman was a recent immigrant, who
did not know that one never approached the banks without a sword to protect oneself from wild
animals. She must have been attacked by the pack, which was large enough to bring down
even a charging lion.
‘Sati!’ shouted Daksha in alarm.
Drawing his sword, he charged down the river to protect his daughter. Parvateshwar
followed Daksha, his sword drawn for batde. Within moments, they had jumped into the fray.
Parvateshwar charged aggressively into the pack, easily hacking many with quick strikes. Sati,
rejuvenated by the sudden support, fought back the four dogs charging her all at once. Daksha,
despite an obvious lack of martial skills, fought ferociously, with the passionately protective
spirit that comes only with being a parent. But the animals could sense that Daksha was the
weakest amongst their human enemies. Six dogs charged at him at the same time.
Daksha drove his sword forward in a brutal jab at the dog in front of him. A mistake. Even
though Daksha felled the dog, his sword was stuck in the dead animal. That was all the opening
that the other dogs needed. One charged viciously from the side, seizing Daksha’s right
forearm in its jaws. Daksha roared in pain, but held on to his sword as he tried to wrestle his
arm free. Another dog bit Daksha’s left leg, yanking some of his flesh out. Seeing his Lord in
trouble, Parvateshwar yelled in fury as he swung his sword at the body of the dog clinging to
Daksha’s arm, cleanly cutting the beast in half. Parvateshwar pirouetted around in the same
smooth motion slashing another dog charging Daksha from the front. Sati moved in to protect
Daksha’s left flank as Daksha angrily stabbed the dog clinging to his leg. Seeing their numbers
rapidly depleting, the remaining dogs retreated yelping.
‘Daksha!’ sobbed Veerini, as she rushed to hold up her collapsing husband. He was losing
blood at an alarming rate from his numerous wounds, especially the leg. The dog must have
bitten through a major artery. Parvateshwar quickly blew his distress conch shell. A cry for help
reached the scouts at the closest crossing-house. Soldiers and paramedics would be with them
in a few minutes. Parvateshwar bound his angvastram tight around Daksha’s thigh to stem the
singke
(singke)
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