There Is No Preview Available For This Item. This item does not appear to have any files that can be experienced on acissymhalfmac.gq westland publications ltd Amish is a born, IIM (Kolkata)-educated, boring banker turned happy author. The success of his debut book, The Immortals of. ALL About Epub. ▽ ▽ ▽ ▽ ▽ Down there!! Some of my Other work. Hope you like. FYI: This blog may Shiva Trilogy by Amish Tripathi.
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azw3 Epub mobi pdf. Amish Tripathi best seller author of Shiva Trilogy in India with over million copies sold. His latest books include The. PDF Drive is your search engine for PDF files. As of today we have 78,, eBooks for you to download for free. No annoying ads, no download limits, enjoy . Amish Tripathi asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. This is a work The Immortals of Meluha - PDF EBOOK EPUB tvrprf. Description.
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Chapter 1 BCE, somewhere near the Godavari River, India Sita cut quickly and efficiently, slicing through the thick leaf stems with her sharp knife. The dwarf banana trees were as tall as she was. She did not need to stretch. She stopped and looked at her handiwork. Then she cast a look at Makrant, the Malayaputra soldier, a short distance away.
He had cut down perhaps half the number of leaves that Sita had. The weather was calm. Just a little while ago, the wind had been howling through this part of the forest. Unseasonal rain had lashed the area. Sita and Makrant had stood under a thick canopy of trees to save themselves from the rain. The winds had been so loud that it had been almost impossible for them to talk to each other.
And just as suddenly, calm had descended. The rain and winds had vanished. For the entire purpose of the excursion was to find these leaves. Makrant turned around.
The wetness had made it hard to cut the leaf stems. Under the circumstances, he had thought that he had done a good job. And then down at his own much smaller pile. He smiled sheepishly.
Sita smiled broadly in return. Ram and Lakshman should be returning from their hunt soon. Hopefully, they would have found something. Captain Jatayu, leading a small company of the Malayaputra tribe, had sworn to protect the three Ayodhya royals. He had strongly advised that flight was the only available course of action. Raavan would certainly send troops to avenge his sister, Princess Shurpanakha, who had been injured by Lakshman.
Secrecy was essential. So, they were cooking their food in pits dug deep into the ground. For fire, they used a specific type of coal — anthracite. It let out smokeless flames. For abundant caution, the sunk cooking pot was covered with a thick layer of banana leaves. It ensured that no smoke escaped even by accident. For that could give their position away. It was for this reason that Sita and Makrant had been cutting down banana leaves. Makrant insisted on carrying the larger pile, and she let him.
It made the Malayaputra soldier feel like he was balancing his contribution. But it was this act that would eventually prove fatal for poor Makrant. Sita heard it first. A sound that would have been inaudible a little while ago, with the howling winds. It was unmistakable now: A common bow.
Many of the more accomplished soldiers and senior officers used the more expensive composite bows. But the frontline soldiers used the common variety, made entirely of wood. These bows were usually more rigid. And, they made a distinct sound when stretched. Makrant responded quickly enough, but the heavier load made him trip. An arrow shot in quickly, slamming into his right shoulder as he fell forward.
Before he could react, a second arrow struck his throat.
A lucky shot. Sita rolled as she fell to the ground and quickly steadied herself behind a tree. She stayed low, her back against the tree, protected for now. She looked to her right. The unfortunate Makrant lay on the ground, drowning rapidly in his own blood. The arrow point had exited through the back of his neck. He would soon be dead. Sita cursed in anger. And then realised it was a waste of energy.
She began to breathe deeply. Calming her heart down. Paying attention. She looked around carefully. Nobody ahead of her. The arrows had come from the other direction, obscured by the tree that protected her. She knew there had to be at least two enemies. There was no way a single archer could have shot two arrows in such rapid succession. She looked at Makrant again.
He had stopped moving. His soul had moved on. The jungle was eerily quiet. It was almost impossible to believe that just a few short moments ago, brutal violence had been unleashed. Farewell, brave Makrant. May your soul find purpose once again.
She caught snatches of commands whispered in the distance. There was probably just one enemy now. Help me. She closed her eyes. She would probably be shot instantly. Her eyes were useless. She had to rely on her ears. There were great archers who could shoot arrows by relying on sound.
But very few could throw knives at the source of a sound. Sita was one of those very few. She heard a loud yet surprisingly gentle voice.
It would not be heard ever again. For there was a knife buried in the throat that had been the source of that voice. Sita had, without bringing herself into view, turned quickly and flung the knife with unerring and deadly accuracy. The Lankan soldier was momentarily surprised as the knife thumped into his throat. He died in no time. Just like Makrant had, drowning in his own blood.
Sita waited. She had to be sure there was no one else. She had no other weapon. She listened intently. Hearing no sound, she threw herself to the ground, rolling rapidly behind low shrubs.
Still no sign of anyone. Sita quickly rose to her feet and sprinted to the slain Lankan, surprised that his bow was not nocked with an arrow. It refused to budge. The camp is in trouble! It contained a few arrows. She quickly tied it around her back and shoulder. She lifted the bow.
And ran. Ran hard! Towards the temporary camp. She had to kill the other Lankan soldier before he reached his team and warned them. The temporary camp showed signs of a massive struggle. Most of the Malayaputra soldiers, except Jatayu and two others, were already dead. Lying in pools of blood. They had been ruthlessly massacred.
Jatayu was also badly injured. Blood seeped out from numerous wounds that covered his body. Some made by blades, some by fists. His arms were tied tightly behind his back. Two Lankan soldiers held him up in a tight grip.
A giant of a man loomed in front, questioning the great Naga. Naga was the name given to people of the Sapt Sindhu born with deformities. The other two Malayaputras knelt on the ground, also bloodied. Their hands were similarly tied at the back.
Three Lankan soldiers surrounded each one, while two more held them down. The Lankan swords were dripping with blood. Raavan and his younger brother, Kumbhakarna, stood at a distance.
Looking intently at the interrogation. Their hands clean of any blood. His lips were sealed. You were loyal to Lord Raavan once. His smouldering eyes gave the reply. The Lankan continued. Tell us what we want to know. And come back to Lanka with honour. This is the word of a Lankan. This is the word of Captain Khara.
Anger fading. A blank expression on his face. As if his mind was somewhere else. The Lankan interrogator signalled one of his soldiers. He walked up to an injured Malayaputra, and drew out his serrated knife.
He positioned himself behind the youth, yanked his head back and placed the knife against his throat. Then he looked at Khara, awaiting the order. The knife at his throat. His body slouched and then straightened again with courage.
The blade swiftly returned to his throat. Tell us where they are. We are only interested in the Vishnu. How do they know? He was praying for the soul of his brave soldier. Khara gave a curt nod. Jatayu suddenly straightened and loudly rent the air with the Malayaputra cry. The fear of death could not touch them. The Lankan pressed the blade into the throat of the Malayaputra. He slid the serrated knife to the side, inflicting maximum pain.
Blood spurted out in a shower. As the youth collapsed to the ground, life slowly ebbing out of him, Jatayu whispered within the confines of his mind. Farewell, my brave brother … Sita slowed as she approached the camp. She had already killed the other Lankan soldier. He lay some distance away. An arrow pierced in his heart. She had grabbed his arrows and added them to her quiver.
She hid behind a tree and surveyed the camp. Lankan soldiers were everywhere. Probably more than a hundred. All the Malayaputra soldiers were dead. All except Jatayu. Two lay close to him, their heads arched at odd angles. Surrounded by large pools of blood. Jatayu was on his knees, held by two Lankans. His hands were tied behind his back. Brutalised, injured and bleeding. But not broken. He was defiantly staring into the distance. He ran his knife gently along the triceps, cutting into the flesh, drawing blood.
Sita looked at Khara and frowned. I know him. Where have I seen him before? Khara smiled as he ran the knife back along the bloodied line he had just drawn, slicing deep into some sinew.
Or kill me slowly. You will not get anything from me. It was not to be. An arrow whizzed in and struck his hand. The knife fell to the ground as he screamed aloud.
Raavan and his brother Kumbhakarna whirled around, startled. Many Lankan soldiers rushed in and formed a protective cordon around the two royals. Other soldiers raised their bows and pointed their arrows in the direction of Sita. The bows were swiftly lowered. Khara broke the shaft, leaving the arrowhead buried in his hand. It would stem the blood for a while. He looked into the impenetrable line of trees the arrow had emerged from, and scoffed in disdain.
The long-suffering prince? His oversized brother? Or the Vishnu herself? How do the Lankans know? Who betrayed me?! She marshalled her mind into the present moment. This was not the time for distractions. She moved quickly, without a sound, to another location. Sita was satisfied with her new position. It was some distance away from where she had shot her first arrow. She slowly pulled another arrow out of her quiver, nocked it on the bowstring and took aim. In the Lankan army, if the commander fell, the rest of the force was known to quickly retreat.
But Raavan was well protected by his soldiers, their shields raised high.
She could not find an adequate line of sight. Wish Ram was here. He would have gotten an arrow through somehow. Sita decided to launch a rapid-fire attack on the soldiers to create an opening. She fired five arrows in quick succession. Five Lankans went down. But the others did not budge. The cordon around Raavan remained resolute. Ready to fall for their king. Raavan remained protected. Some soldiers began to run in her direction.
She quickly moved to a new location. As she took position, she checked the quiver. Three arrows left. Sita deliberately stepped on a twig.
Some of the soldiers rushed towards the sound.
She quickly moved again, hoping to find a breach in the protective circle of men around Raavan. But Khara was a lot smarter than she had suspected. The Lankan stepped back and, using his uninjured left hand, pulled out a knife from the sole of his shoe. Sita stared at the Lankan with unblinking eyes. Step forward. Tell your husband and that giant brother-in-law of yours to also step forward.
And we will let this captain live. We will even let the two sorry Ayodhya princes leave unharmed. All we want is your surrender. Run away, My Lady! I am not worth your life! Khara cursed loudly as he got back on his feet, still bent over to ease the pain.
After a few moments, he inched towards the Naga and kicked him hard.
He surveyed the treeline, turning in every direction that the arrows had been fired from. All the while, he kept kicking Jatayu again and again. He bent and roughly pulled Jatayu to his feet. Sita could see the captive now. The sneer was back on his face.
He held the knife with his other hand. All of you have some time to think about it. She had just three arrows left. It would be foolhardy to try anything. But she could not let Jatayu die. He had been like a brother to her. You have my word. You have the word of a Lankan! Her shoulders slumped with helpless rage.
And then, without giving herself any time for second thoughts, she stepped out. But not before her instincts made her nock an arrow on the bow, ready to fire. Stirring a not-so-forgotten memory. Where is your husband and his giant brother? Some Lankan soldiers began moving slowly towards her.
She noticed that their swords were sheathed. They were carrying lathis, long bamboo sticks, which were good enough to injure but not to kill.
She stepped forward and lowered the bow. Let Captain Jatayu go. It punctured the socket and lodged itself in his brain, killing him instantly. More soldiers joined those already moving toward Sita, their bamboo lathis held high.
It did not slow the pace of the others. They kept rushing forward. Sita shot another arrow. Her last. One more Lankan sank to the ground. The others pressed on. As a Lankan closed in, she lassoed her bow, entangling his lathi with the bowstring, snatching it from him. She swirled the lathi over her head, its menacing sound halting the suddenly wary soldiers. She stopped moving, holding her weapon steady.
Conserving her energy. Ready and alert. One hand held the stick in the middle, the end of it tucked under her armpit. The other arm was stretched forward. Her feet spread wide, in balance. She was surrounded by at least fifty Lankan soldiers. But they kept their distance. You will not be harmed. Is he still breathing? Aiming for her calves. Sita jumped high, tucking her feet in to avoid the blow.
While in the air, she quickly released the right-hand grip on the lathi and swung it viciously with her left hand. The lathi hit the Lankan on the side of his head. Knocking him unconscious. The voice of her husband. Soft, from the distance. She swung her lathi ferociously on all sides, rapidly incapacitating many. Not so distant this time. The Lankan onslaught was steady and unrelenting now.
Sita kept swinging rhythmically. Alas, there were one too many enemies. A Lankan swung his lathi from behind. Into her back. Before she could recover, the soldiers ran in and held her tight. She struggled fiercely as a Lankan came forward, holding a neem leaf in his hand. It was smeared with a blue-coloured paste. He held the leaf tight against her nose. As darkness began to envelop her, she sensed some ropes against her hands and feet.
Ram … Help me … And the darkness took over. Janak, the king of Mithila, and his wife, Sunaina, had travelled a long way to the Trikut Hills, nearly a hundred kilometres south of the Ganga River. They sought to meet the legendary Kanyakumari, the Virgin Goddess. A divine child. It was believed across the Sapt Sindhu, land of the seven rivers, that the blessings of the Living Goddess helped all who came to her with a clean heart.
And the royal family of Mithila certainly needed Her blessings. Mithila, founded by the great king Mithi, on the banks of the mighty Gandaki River, was once a thriving river-port town. Its wealth was built on agriculture, owing to its exceptionally fertile soil, as well as river trade with the rest of the Sapt Sindhu. Unfortunately, fifteen years ago, an earthquake and subsequent flood had changed the course of the Gandaki. It also changed the fortunes of Mithila. The river now flowed farther to the west, by the city of Sankashya.
Kushadhwaj rapidly rose in stature as the de facto representative of the clan of Mithi. Many had suggested that King Janak should invest some of the old wealth of Mithila in an engineering project to redirect the Gandaki back to its old course. But Kushadhwaj had advised against it. He had argued that it made little sense to spend money on such a massive engineering project. But the new queen, Sunaina, who had married Janak just two years earlier, was not the idle sort.
She planned to restore Mithila to its old glory. And a big part of that plan was to restore the old course of the Gandaki. But after so many years, it had become difficult to find logical reasons to justify the costly and difficult engineering project. When logic fails, faith can serve a purpose.
Sunaina had convinced Janak to accompany her to the temple of the Kanyakumari and seek her blessings. If the Child Goddess approved of the Gandaki project, even Kushadhwaj would find it difficult to argue against it. Unfortunately, the Kanyakumari had said no. It was a disappointed Sunaina and a philosophical Janak, along with their royal guard, who were travelling north from the Trikut Hills now, on their way home to Mithila.
Her husband had ridden ahead without slowing. His wife pointed wordlessly to a tree in the distance. Janak followed her direction. A few hundred metres away, a pack of wolves had surrounded a solitary vulture. They were trying to close in and were being pushed back repeatedly by the huge bird. The vulture was screaming and squawking. Sunaina looked closely. It was an unfair fight. There were six wolves, weaving in and out, attacking the vulture in perfect coordination.
But the brave bird stood its ground, pushing them back repeatedly. The aggressors were gradually drawing close. A wolf hit the vulture with its claws, drawing blood. Sunaina began to canter towards the fight, intrigued. Her bodyguards followed at a distance. Suddenly, using the distraction of the vulture with another attack from the left, a wolf struck with lethal effect.
Getting a good hold, the wolf pulled back hard, trying to drag the vulture away. The bird squawked frantically. Its voice sounding like a wail. But it held strong. It did not move, pulling back with all its strength. However, the wolf had strong jaws and a stronger grip.
Blood burst forth like a fountain. The wolf let go, spitting parts of the severed wing as it stepped back. Sunaina spurred her horse and began to gallop towards the scene. She had expected the vulture to escape through the opening the two wolves had provided. But, surprisingly, it stood in place, pushing another wolf back. Use the opening! Get away! Sunaina was speeding towards the animals now. The royal bodyguards drew their swords and raced after their queen. A few fell back with the king.
He spurred his horse, but he was not the best of riders. His horse blithely continued its slow trot. Sunaina was perhaps fifty metres away when she noticed the bundle for the first time. The vulture was protecting it from the pack of wolves. It was lodged in what looked like a little furrow in the dry mud.
The bundle moved. As she neared the pack of wolves, she heard the soft, frantic cries of a human baby, almost drowned out by the howling animals. Her bodyguards rode close behind. The wolves turned tail and scampered into the woods as the mounted riders thundered towards the wounded bird. A guard raised his sword to strike the vulture. He stopped in his tracks as his fellow bodyguards reined their horses to a halt. Sunaina was raised in a land to the east of Branga.
Her father was from Assam, sometimes called by its ancient name, Pragjyotisha, the land of Eastern Light. And her mother belonged to Mizoram, the land of the High People of Ram. But they were most well known for their instinctive understanding of animals and the rhythms of nature.
One of the guards spoke up as the group dismounted. The queen was short and petite. Her round, fair-complexioned face conveyed gentleness to the observer.
But her small eyes betrayed the steely determination that was the core of her being. The bird was breathing heavily, exhausted by its battle with the wolves.
It was covered in blood from the numerous wounds on its body. The wound on its wing was especially alarming, blood gushing out of it at a frightening rate. Loss of blood made it unsteady on its feet. But the vulture refused to move, its eyes fixed on Sunaina.
It was squawking aggressively, thrusting its beak forward. Striking the air with its talons to keep the Queen of Mithila away. Sunaina pointedly ignored the bundle behind the vulture. Focused on the massive bird, she began to hum a soft, calming tune. The vulture seemed to ease a bit. It withdrew its talons. The squawking reduced in volume and intensity.
Sunaina crept forward. Once close, she bowed her head and submissively placed the bowl of water in front of the bird. Then she crept back just as slowly. She spoke in a mellifluous voice. It bent to sip some water, but instead, collapsed to the ground.
Sunaina rushed forward and cradled the head of the now prone bird, caressing it gently. The child, wrapped in a rich red cloth with black stripes, was crying desperately. She signalled a soldier to pick up the precious bundle as she continued to soothe the bird. Janak and Sunaina sat on temporarily set up chairs. A massive umbrella shaded them from the scorching sun. The royal doctor had examined the baby, and bandaged a wound on her right temple with some herbs and neem leaves.
He had assured the royal couple that the scar would largely disappear with time. Strong and beautiful. Just like you. They keep focusing instead on what the world has denied them. Sunaina pulled the baby up close and kissed her gently on the forehead, careful to avoid the injured area.
This baby is ours. Devi Kanyakumari may not have given us what we wanted. But she has blessed us with something much better. She had a name in mind already. She turned to Janak. We will call her Sita. Reclining in an easy chair, the king of Mithila was reading the text of the Jabali Upanishad. It was a treatise on wisdom by the great Maharishi Satyakam Jabali.
Shifting attention to his wife, he put down the text. Raavan has almost completely massacred the Sapt Sindhu Army at Karachapa. Emperor Dashrath barely escaped with his life. Queen Kaushalya, the eldest wife of the Emperor, gave birth to a son on the day that he lost the Battle of Karachapa.
And now, many are blaming the little boy for the defeat. For the Emperor had never lost a battle till this boy was born. Named after the sixth Vishnu, Lord Parshu Ram. Poor child. Janak was spending more and more time lost in the world of philosophy. The queen had become increasingly popular in the kingdom.
Many believed that she had been lucky for Mithila. He cannot demand anything from us. The other kingdoms have a lot more to lose. I am more worried about the decimation of the armies of the Sapt Sindhu.
Lawlessness will increase everywhere. How safe can we be if the entire land falls into chaos? Who can prevent that which is written by Fate, be it of people or of countries? Our task is but to understand, not fight, what must be; and learn the lessons for our next life. Or prepare for moksha. So he remained silent. But the vanquished get more love from their women! We must be ready for the inevitable.
Wisdom dictated restraint. There was not much trade in any case to be negatively impacted. Sunaina had initiated some reforms that had worked well. For instance, local tax collection and administration had been devolved to the village level. It reduced the strain on the Mithila bureaucracy and improved efficiency. Using the increased revenue from agriculture, she had retrained the excess bureaucracy and expanded the Mithila police force, thus improving security within the kingdom.
Mithila had no standing army and did not need one; by treaty, the Sankashya Army of Kushadhwaj was supposed to fight the external enemies of Mithila, when necessary. These were not major changes and were implemented relatively smoothly, without disturbing the daily life of the Mithilans.
There were mass disturbances in the other kingdoms though, which required gut-wrenching changes to comply with the treaties imposed by Raavan. So they celebrated the day she had been found in the furrow. Today was her sixth birthday. Gifts and alms were distributed to the poor in the city. Like it was done on every special day.
With a difference. Until Sunaina had come and toned up the administration, much of the charity was grabbed by labourers who were not rich, but who were not exactly poor either.
After the public ceremonies, the royal couple had arrived at the massive temple of Lord Rudra. The Lord Rudra temple was built of red sandstone. It was one of the tallest structures in Mithila, visible from most parts of the city.
It had a massive garden around it — an area of peace in this crowded quarter of the city. Beyond the garden were the slums, spreading all the way to the fort walls. Inside the main garba griha, the sanctum sanctorum of the temple, a large idol of Lord Rudra and Lady Mohini had been consecrated.
Seemingly in consonance with a city that had come to symbolise the love of knowledge, peace, and philosophy, the image of Lord Rudra was not in his normally fierce form. In this form, he looked kind, almost gentle. He held the hand of the beauteous Lady Mohini, who sat next to him.
After the prayers, the temple priest offered prasad to the royal family. On the wall, a plaque had been put up in memory of the vulture that had valiantly died defending Sita from a pack of wolves. A death mask of its face had been made before the bird was cremated with honour. Cast in metal, the mask recorded the last expression of the vulture as it left its mortal body.
It was a haunting look: Sita had made her mother relate the entire story on several occasions. Sunaina had been happy to oblige. She wanted her daughter to remember.
To know that nobility came in many a form and face. Sita touched the death mask gently, reverentially. And as always, she shed a tear for the one who had also given her the gift of life. She said a short prayer to the great God Pashupati, Lord of the Animals. Janak discreetly signalled his wife, and the royal family slowly walked out of the Lord Rudra temple. The priests led the family down the flight of steps. The slums were clearly visible from the platform height.
I have to speak with Guruji. Janak had bowed to his guru, as was the tradition, and had requested him to sit on the throne assigned for him. Mithila, not being a major player in the political arena of the Sapt Sindhu anymore, did not have a permanent raj guru.
Intellectuals loved the Mithilan air, wafting with the fragrance of knowledge and wisdom. His mother had met with an accident late in her pregnancy. But fate and karma had balanced the physical handicap with an extraordinary mind.
Ashtaavakra had shown signs of utter brilliance from a very young age. In doing so, he had redeemed his father, Rishi Kahola, who had lost a debate to Bandi earlier. Rishi Bandi had gracefully accepted defeat and retired to an ashram near the Eastern Sea to acquire more knowledge.
Janak blessed her. She also touched the feet of Rishi Ashtaavakra and walked out of the chamber. As she crossed the threshold, Sita stopped and hid behind the door. She wanted to hear what question had been troubling her father.
The young Sita stood nonplussed. She had heard whisperings in the corridors of the palace. That her father was becoming increasingly eccentric. That they were lucky to have a pragmatic queen in Sunaina to look after the kingdom.
What is reality? She was eight years old now. And her mother had still not taken her to the slums adjoining the fort walls.
The last time she had asked, she had at least been offered an explanation. She had been told that it could be dangerous. That some people could get beaten up over there. Sita now believed that her mother was just making excuses. Finally, curiosity had gotten the better of her.
An oversized angvastram was wrapped around her shoulder and ears, serving as a hood. Her heart pounded with excitement and nervousness. The plot is very exciting, imaginative, and interesting. Something lord of the rings-eque with hollywood studios In a journey that will take him across the length and breadth of ancient India, Shiva searches for the truth in a land of deadly mysteries only to find that nothing is what it seems.
One day, while playing with Kartik at a local park, three lions attack them and Ganesh becomes severely injured while saving Kartik. He never gets hurt, none of his followers get the secret of the nagas by amish tripathi or killed except for one janakaraj like nagaasnobody is wrong but every one has different view points — it started resembling a tamil masala movie.
You make this realisation at any point in the book. Retrieved 2 June A wonderfully thought-provoking and fascinating tripzthi with a great plot and a fair share of twists and turns.
Yuk baca edisi Indonesianya awal taun depan ; Btw covernya keren ya. Additionally, he aims to avenge the death of his best friend by killing the evil Naga, known as Lord of the People by the Nagas, the secret of the nagas by amish tripathi bring end to evil by finally destroying the Nagas. Two theatrical trailers were created for showing in multiplex cinema halls, as Tripathi believed that the film-going audience also reads his books, and that would create publicity.
Bahaya spoiler terlalu gede soalnya. Return to Book Page.