There Is No Preview Available For This Item. This item does not appear to have any files that can be experienced on ruthenpress.info 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.
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. View all 8 comments. But realising this does not take away much from the pleasure of reading the book. Archived from the original on the secret of the nagas by amish tripathi March We wait for the third the secret of the nagas by amish tripathi in the series to see how this humdrum narrative comes to an end.
Now this one was better than 1. Jika kita mau mencoba memahami, selalu ada alasan di balik setiap perilaku buruk maupun baik. 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. She repeatedly looked behind to ensure that no one noticed her embark on her little adventure.
No one did. Late in the afternoon, Sita passed the Lord Rudra temple gardens and stole into the slums. All alone. She had been practising stick-fighting for over a year now.
As she entered the slum area, she screwed up her nose. Assaulted by the stench. She looked back at the temple garden, feeling the urge to turn back. But almost immediately, the excitement of doing something forbidden took over.
She had waited a long time for this. She walked farther into the slum quarters. The houses were rickety structures made of bamboo sticks and haphazardly spread cloth awnings.
These streets also served as open drains, toilets, and open-air animal shelters. They were covered with garbage.
There was muck and excreta everywhere. A thin film of animal and human urine made it difficult to walk. Sita pulled her angvastram over her nose and mouth, fascinated and appalled at the same time. People actually live like this? Lord Rudra be merciful. The palace staff had told her that things had improved in the slums after Queen Sunaina had come to Mithila. How much worse could it have been for this to be called an improvement?
She soldiered on, gingerly side-stepping the muck on the muddy walkways. Till she saw something that made her stop. A mother sat outside a slum house, feeding her child from a frugal plate. Her baby was perhaps two or three years old. Every now and then, he obliged the mother and opened his mouth with theatrical concession, allowing her to stuff small morsels of food into his mouth. A crow sat next to the woman. And she fed every other morsel to the bird.
The crow waited for its turn. The woman fed them both. Turn by turn. Sita smiled. She remembered something her mother had said to her a few days back: Often the poor have more nobility in them than the actual nobility. She did now. Sita turned around. She promised herself that she would return soon. Time to go back to the palace. There were four tiny lanes ahead. Which one do I take?
Uncertain, she took the left-most one and began to walk. She kept moving. But the slum border was nowhere in sight. Her heartbeat quickened as she nervously hastened her pace. The light had begun to fade. Every chaotic lane seemed to end at a crossroads of several other paths.
All haphazard, all disorganised. Confused, she blindly turned into a quiet lane. Beginning to feel the first traces of panic, she quickened her steps. But it only took her the wrong way, faster. The dark-skinned girl looked like an adolescent; perhaps older. She had a dirty, unkempt look about her.
The stench from her tattered clothes suggested that she had not changed them for a while. Lice crawled over the surface of her matted, unwashed hair. She was tall, lean, and surprisingly muscular. Her feline eyes and scarred body gave her a dangerous, edgy look.
There was a sudden flash of recognition in her eyes, as though sensing an opportunity. Sita, meanwhile, had darted into an adjacent lane. The Princess of Mithila picked up pace, almost breaking into a desperate run.
Praying that this was the correct path out of the slum. Sweat beads were breaking out on her forehead. She tried to steady her breath. She kept running. Till she was forced to stop. She was now well and truly lost, finding herself at the other end of the slum which abutted the inner fort wall.
The inner city of Mithila was as far as it could be. It was eerily quiet, with scarcely anyone around. The sun had almost set, and the faint snatches of twilight only emphasised the darkness.
She did not know what to do. Sita whirled around, ready to strike. She saw two adolescent boys moving towards her from the right. She turned left. But did not get far. A leg stuck out and tripped her, making her fall flat on her face.
Into the muck. There were more of them. She got up quickly and grabbed her stick. Five boys had gathered around her. Casual menace on their faces. Her mother had warned her about the crimes in the slums. Of people getting beaten up. But Sita had not believed those stories, thinking that the sweet people who came to collect charity from her mother would never hurt anyone.
I should have listened to Maa. Sita looked around nervously. The five boys were now in front of her. The steep fort wall was behind her. There was no escape. She brandished the stick at them, threateningly. The boys let out a merry laugh, amused by the antics of the little girl. Just let me go. First throw the ring over here.
She balanced her stick against her body, and quickly pulled the ring off her forefinger. Holding it in her closed fist, she pointed the stick at them with her left hand. He turned to the girl and smiled. Just throw the ring here. It fell a short distance from the boy.
He looked at it carefully and whistled softly, before tucking it into his waistband. Behind him stood the tall, dark-skinned girl Sita had crashed into earlier. She held a big bamboo stick with both hands.
The boys whirled around aggressively and looked at the girl; the bravado evaporated just as quickly. She was taller than they were. Lean and muscular. More importantly, it appeared the boys knew her. And her reputation. The boy staggered back, clutching his arm.
And, the boy ran. The other four delinquents, however, stood their ground. The one that was felled earlier was back on his feet. They faced Samichi, their backs to Sita. The apparently harmless one. The boy collapsed in a heap, blood spurting from the crack on the back of his head. The three others turned around. As the two girls ran around the corner, Samichi stole a glance back at the scene.
The boy lay on the ground, unmoving. His friends had gathered around him, trying to rouse him. Chapter 4 Sita stood, her hands locked behind her back. Her head bowed. Muck and refuse from the Mithila slums all over her clothes. Her face caked with mud. The very expensive ring on her finger missing. Shivering with fear. She had never seen her mother so angry. Sunaina was staring at her daughter. No words were spoken. Just a look of utter disapproval.
And worse, disappointment. Sita felt like she had failed her mother in the worst possible way. She wished her mother would at least say something. Or, slap her. Or, scold her. This silence was terrifying. Staring hard at her daughter. A Mithila policeman was standing there.
His head bowed. They say that he was carried away by the other boys. He was bleeding a lot. The policeman immediately saluted, turned, and marched out. Sunaina turned her attention back to Sita. Her daughter cowered under the stern gaze. The queen then looked beyond Sita, at the filthy adolescent standing near the wall.
You will stay in the palace from now on. The queen turned towards Sita. Take a bath. We will speak tomorrow. Sunaina was engrossed in making a fresh rangoli on the floor; made of powdered colours, it was an ethereal mix of fractals, mathematics, philosophy, and spiritual symbolism. Sunaina made a new rangoli early every morning at the entrance of the temple. Within the temple, idols of the main Gods who Sunaina worshipped had been consecrated: But the pride of place at the centre was reserved for the Mother Goddess, Shakti Maa.
Sita waited patiently. Too scared to talk. Not raising her eyes from the intricate rangoli that was emerging on the floor. Sita sat still. You need to be ready for it. They were full of love. As always. People who do criminal things. You find them among the rich in the inner city and the poor in the slums. Sita fell silent. Sunaina continued. One can negotiate with greed.
But the criminals among the poor are driven by desperation and anger. Desperation can sometimes bring out the best in a human being.
But desperation can also bring out the worst. They have nothing to lose. And they get angry when they see others with so much when they have so little. As rulers, our responsibility is to make efforts and change things for the better. But it cannot happen overnight.
If we take too much from the rich to help the poor, the rich will rebel. That can cause chaos. And everyone will suffer. So we have to work slowly. We must help the truly poor. That is dharma. But we should not be blind and assume that all poor are noble. Not everyone has the spirit to keep their character strong when their stomachs are empty. She sat comfortably. For the first time since her foolhardy foray into the slums, she breathed a little easier. You must use your heart to decide the destination, but use your head to plot the journey.
People who only listen to their hearts usually fail. On the other hand, people who only use their heads tend to be selfish. Only the heart can make you think of others before yourself. For the sake of dharma, you must aim for equality and balance in society. Perfect equality can never be achieved but we must try to reduce inequality as much as we can. There is good and bad in everyone. For that is the Indian way. What would I have done if something bad had happened to you? Guilt had been gnawing away at her.
She needed to know. He had brought a gift for his niece. A gift that had been a massive hit. It was an Arabian horse. Native Indian breeds were different from the Arab variety. The Indian ones usually had thirty-four ribs while the Arabian horses often had thirty-six.
More importantly, an Arabian horse was much sought after as it was smaller, sleeker, and easier to train. And its endurance level was markedly superior. It was a prized possession. And expensive too. Sita was understandably delighted. Kushadhwaj handed her a customised saddle, suitable for her size.
Made of leather, it had a gold-plated horn on top of the pommel. The saddle, though small, was still heavy for the young Sita.
But she refused the help of the Mithila royal staff in carrying it. Sita dragged the saddle to the private courtyard of the royal chambers, where her young horse waited for her.