the immortal of maluha

iskly out of the tent towards his horse, he heard Parvateshwar’s booming voice. ‘My Lord!’
Shiva continued walking.
‘My Lord,’ bellowed Parvateshwar again, more insistent.
Shiva stopped abruptly. He turned, a surprised frown on his face. ‘I am sorry Parvateshwar.
I thought you were calling out to his Highness.’
‘No, my Lord,’ said Parvateshwar, reaching up to Shiva. ‘It was you I called.’
His frown deeper, Shiva asked, ‘What is the matter, brave General?’
Parvateshwar came to a halt in rigid military attention. He kept a polite distance from Shiva.
He could not stand on the hallowed ground that cradled the Mahadev. As if in a daze,
Parvateshwar slowly curled his fist and brought it up to his chest. And then, completing the
formal Meluhan salute, he bowed low. Lower than he had ever bowed before a living man. As
low as he bowed before Lord Ram’s idol during his regular morning pujas. Shiva continued to
stare at Parvateshwar, his face an odd mixture of surprise and embarrassment. Shiva
respected Parvateshwar too much to be comfortable with such open idolisation from him.
Rising, but with his head still bent, Parvateshwar whispered, ‘I will be honoured to shed my
blood with you, my Lord.’ Raising his head, he repeated, ‘Honoured.’
Shiva smiled and touched Parvateshwar’s arm. ‘Well, if our plans are good my friend,
hopefully we won’t have to shed too much of it!’