About The Book
1025 CE, INDIA. Mahmud of Ghazni believes he has crushed the spirit of Bhaarat - the Shiva Linga at the Somnath Temple lies shattered and thousands are dead. But among the ashes of destruction, an oath is taken. Five people-a Tamil warrior, a Gujarati merchant, a devotee of Lord Ayyappan, a scholar-emperor from Malwa and the most powerful man on Earth, Emperor Rajendra Chola-resolve to undertake a perilous quest and strike at the heart of the invader's kingdom. From the grandeur of the Chola empire to the shadows of Ghazni's bloodstained court, The Chola Tigers is the scintillating story of a fierce retaliation. A story of unity forged through pain, of courage born from despair and of vengeance that becomes Dharma.
PROLOGUE
Somnath, India, end 1025 СЕ The sun slid beyond the shimmering horizon of the Arabian Sea. Twilight gave way to night as the almost-cloudless sky glowed in vibrant shades of red, orange and purple. The rippling waves crept lovingly up the beach and gently cuddled the sands, almost like the water, serene and compassionate, was trying to soothe the tortured land. At many places the sand was unusually red, as if the ground was bleeding. The water washed off some of the red, and retreated, as though shrinking from the macabre vision. And yet, undeterred, like a lover refusing to give up on her suffering beloved, the sea returned to the shore. Again and again. Trying to wash the blood away. The first step in healing is washing the wounds. But no matter how hard the sea tried, the red remained. There was too much blood. Too many dead bodies. A scream pierced the deathly still air. A Turkic soldier, pointing ahead, shouted, 'Stop, thief!' Turks. Very different in looks and physique from the large-eyed, brown-skinned Indians. By any expert's analysis, the Indians should have defeated the Turks. The Indians were taller, healthier, with better nutrition and finer weapons. The Turks were fairer, shorter, leaner. They didn't look like they could be the most vicious killers the world had ever seen. But looks can be deceptive. Turks. To Indians, they looked a little like the Chinese, with roundish faces and narrow eyes. They weren't from China, though; they were from farther north. Even the Chinese were afraid of these ruthless invaders from Central Asia, the vast rolling grasslands of the Steppes. They had been slave soldiers of their cousin tribe, the Mongols, earlier, but now they were conquerors in their own right. Turks. Ferocious invaders known to massacre all in their path. Looting, raping, making pyramids of skulls. Revelling in their barbarism. 'Stop, you ba**ard!' shouted another Turkic soldier. There were two Turks, one of whom was a dwarf. They were chasing an Indian who was dressed like a priest. Shaved head, with a knotted tuft of hair at the crown. Thin and wiry. Dark-skinned. Clad in a saffron dhoti. Tears were streaming down his grief-stricken face. He was running hard, negotiating the obstacles of dead bodies strewn all over the bloodstained sandy beach. The bodies of Indian soldiers who had perished in the battle that had just been fought. The Brahmin was holding something in his hands as he ran. Something immeasurably precious, wrapped tightly in a saffron-coloured cloth. 'Stop!' one of the Turkic soldiers yelled again. 'Stop, you son-of-a-bi**h!'
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