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Ashwin Sanghi, India’s home-spun Sidney Sheldon (with some reservations) or Dan Brown if you like, has come up with an anthropological thriller in the form of The Krishna Key. Right from the beginning the reader is beguiled into following the protagonist, a historian named Ravi Mohan Saini, who is running from the law despite his innocence. Desperately attempting to clear his name he uncovers anomalies inherent in history textbooks and Indian mythology. Unknown to him and his alter ego, Priya, they are dogged by the culprit who believes himself to be the last avatar of Vishnu- Kalki. Throw in a sinister ‘Mataji’ and the recipe for a potboiler is ready. Each page is filled conspiracy and intrigue keeping the reader glued to The Krishna Key.

Despite critics flagellating the writer for extensive “theorizing” the latter’s insight – and research – into ancient Indian history and mythology cannot be dismissed. His linking of the Atlantis debacle with the sinking of the ancient kingdom in Dwarka and references to Megasthenes account of “Heracles” as Krishna are bold assertions, no doubt, and highly volatile within the realm of speculation. Theories, garbed as dialogue, grab the reader’s attention nonetheless. At one point the author asserts that: “Krishna was the eighth Avatar of Vishnu – a manifestation of a form of energy that we shall call Vish. The exact opposite energy of Vish is Shiv. While Vish, creates and preserves, Shiv destroys. They are the two faces of same coin.”

The parallels with Dan Brown’s The Da Vinci Code have been relentlessly drawn by verbal sharp shooters that include religious symbolism, secret codes, and anagrams. Despite the din of denouncements and the raucous punditing it gets a thumbs up for its readability quotient. Sure, some of the dialogues are clichéd and the editing clumsy at certain points but The Krishna Key is a recommended read thanks to its taut narrative.
(The Krishna Key by Ashwin Sanghi; published by: Westland Ltd.) By: Indrani Talukdar Email: indrani@irma.ac.in

Book extract

On the desk before him lay a small rectangular seal, around 20 x 20 mm, apparently made of conch shell. The seal had a square peg in the back. Strangely, the peg had no hole for inserting a ring into, as was usual with seals of this type. Three ancient animal motifs of a bull, unicorn and goat were engraved in an anticlockwise direction on the face of the seal. And it was this frozen tableau that seemed to be the focus of Varshney’s attention. His desk was strewn with papers on which he had made sketches and scribbles. A notebook computer stood open on a corner of the desk, its screen-saver having been triggered an hour earlier. A brushed-steel desk lamp shone a single, wide beam of fluorescent white light on the seal and the papers surrounding it. Varshney, oblivious to everything else around him, was closely examining the images on the seal with a Carl Zeiss 20X magnifying glass.

Varshney’s outward appearance was that of a geek: ill-fitting clothes, uncombed hair, and shirt pockets stuffed with a variety of Rotring Isograph pens. His face was blemished with mild eruptions of acne and his personal hygiene left a lot to be desired. But grooming, bathing and dressing were completely inconsequential in his world. Varshney had spent several years at various Indus Valley sites—including the recent one at Kalibangan —painstakingly creating a database of eight thousand semantic clusters from his lexicon of thirty Indian languages. For the first time since the excavations at Harappa in 1921, Varshney now seemed to have found a way to explain the strange hieroglyphs on over five thousand seals discovered at such locations.

Varshney was oblivious to his surroundings and did not observe the shaft of light falling on the floor that gradually widened as the main entrance door to his house was quietly opened, the lock having been expertly picked. He did not notice the behe sermon delivered by Krishna saiam of light disappearing as the door was gently closed. He did not hear the quiet footsteps of light rubber soles on the ceramictiled floor, nor did he feel the breath of the stranger on his neck. He only screamed when he saw the intruder’s face reflected on his computer screen but by then it was too late. No sound emerged from Varshney’s throat because the visitor had tightly clamped a chloroform-soaked handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Saini was quick to rise to the challenge. ‘Hence we must look outside the Mahabharata to see if any other sources can corroborate this date. Let’s not rely on Indian sources and instead turn to Greek references, shall we? Megasthenes, the Greek ambassador in the court of Chandragupta Maurya, made the first written reference to Krishna. In his account, Krishna is called Heracles. ‘If I’m not mistaken, the Sourasenoi were actually the Shurasenas—the Yadava descendants of Vasudeva’s father, Shurasena. Krishna was a Yadava himself,’ said Priya.

‘Full marks to the backbencher,’ joked Saini. He continued, ‘Megasthenes goes on to describe their main city, Methora. Any guesses where Methora was?’ exclaimed Priya.‘Mathura!’

‘Precisely!’ said Saini. ‘Krishna is recorded by the Greeks as having lived a hundred and thirty-eight generations before the times of Alexander and Chandragupta Maurya. We may take the midpoint of Chandragupta’s reign as 307 BCE. Now, assuming twenty years per generation—which is a fairly good average where ancient Indian dynasties are involved—Krishna should have lived 2,760 years before 307 BCE. Do the arithmetic! You’ll end up with 3067 BCE, the very same date arrived at by Achar’s astronomical observations!’Six are tips in a star.

Priya had a twinkle in her eyes. ‘You’re preaching to the choir, Professor. I was just testing you,’ she said smiling. Not quite convinced of her sincerity, Saini emphatically drove his point further. ‘Just for some fun, let’s also look at a third source, shall we?’ he asked. ‘The Surya Siddhantha is an ancient work on astronomy that provides the foundation for all Hindu and Buddhist calendars. This particular treatise tells us that at precisely midnight on 18 February in 3102 BCE, Kaliyuga began. As you know, Kaliyuga is the last of the four stages that the world goes through as part of the cycle of Yugas described in the Indian scriptures, the three previous ages being Satyayuga, Tretayuga and Dvaparayuga. Hindus believe that human civilisation degenerates spiritually during the Kaliyuga—almost a Dark Age—because people get distanced from God.’

‘How does the beginning of Kaliyuga tell us anything about the date of the Mahabharata war?’ asked Priya mischievously, half-aware of the answer. Saini considered the question carefully before choosing his words. ‘According to Hindu philosophy, the very first event to distance us from God was the death of Krishna. Krishna was an avatar of Vishnu and his passing away symbolically marked the dawn of Kaliyuga. If we believe the Surya Siddhanta, the Mahabharata war took place around 3067 BCE, not 2183 BCE.’

Priya nodded as she digested Saini’s words and asked, ‘Achar examined verses from various parts of the epic. One of his conclusions was that when Saturn is at Aldebaran it brings great bad tidings. Do you believe it?’

‘Do you know the only other time in contemporary history when Saturn has been in Aldebaran?’ asked Saini. ‘No. When?’