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A seemingly random choice of heads of state are struck down like flies by unnamed killers who work with the medical effectivity of butchers. Besides that they go away no hint of their strategies. Welcome again to the shadowy and addictive world of Ashwin Sanghi. After The Rozabal Line, Chanakya’s Chant, The Krishna Key and The Sialkot Saga, Ashwin Sanghi returns eventually with one other quietly fearsome story—this time of males who guard the ‘Kalachakra’ or The Wheel of Time.
Sanghi describes a world of individuals at conflict with each other—a boomeranging battle of faiths that leads to acts of such gradual and deliberate human cruelty that they defy human creativeness. Caught within the midst of this insanity is Vijay Sundaram, a geek scientist who is just dimly conscious that the broader sky exterior his laboratory is stretched taut and near being torn aside by forces that he needs merely to don’t have anything to do with.
However occasions conspire to propel Vijay into the labyrinth of Milesian Labs, a centre of analysis deep within the forested hills of Uttarakhand. What he stumbles upon is a primordial clue to a galactic secret that might speed up the downward spiral of humankind. Trapped and wholly unaware of his precise foe, Vijay races in opposition to time to save lots of humanity—and himself.
Zigzagging from Rama’s crossing to Lanka to the beginning of Buddhism; from the origin of Wahhabism to the Einsteinian gravitational wave-detectors of LIGO; from the charnel-grounds of bare tantric practitioners to the bespoke fits of the Oval Workplace; and from the rites of Minerva, shrouded in frankincense, to the smoke-darkened ruins of Nalanda, Keepers of the Kalachakra is a journey that can have you ever gasping for breath—however one that you just can’t abandon until all of the items of the jigsaw come collectively.
Until you come up gobsmack in opposition to an finish that you just didn’t see coming.
From the Writer
Excerpt from the Guide – Keepers of the Kalachakra
The younger man lay on the ground clutching helplessly for his left arm along with his proper. His howls had been like these of an injured animal. Surrounding him had been officers of the WHMU, the White Home Medical Unit, as additionally brokers from the Secret Service. Standing nonetheless, a long way away, was the President himself. The goggle-eyed friends who had been invited to the state dinner on the White Home had been ushered out with a minimal of fuss from the State Eating Room and into the adjoining Crimson Room. The help employees was at its environment friendly finest, though nobody knew what the hell was happening.
Probably the most they might conclude was that Jean Belanger, the Prime Minister of Canada, was in a nasty approach.
A medic held a cotton swab to Belanger’s mouth as he coughed. There was blood in his sputum. Even in his semi-comatose state, Belanger felt a maddening urge to scratch his left arm, to tear his personal pores and skin off. One of many nurses from the medical crew shortly snipped off his jacket and shirt to show the arm that appeared to be inflicting all the difficulty. And that’s once they noticed it.
It was swollen, a darkish crimson and was twice the dimensions of his different arm. Throughout his pores and skin had been scarlet blisters, pustules that oozed an odd combination of blood and watery plasma.
‘I believe he’s been poisoned,’ mentioned the WHMU Director, a person additionally designated as Doctor to the President. ‘There’s no time to lose. His coronary heart fee is quickly dropping!’
Upon a nod, the Director’s assistant hurried over with a defibrillator. ‘Cost it to 200 joules,’ ordered the Director.
‘Sure, sir,’ answered the assistant, kneeling on the ground subsequent to Belanger. He utilized two gel pads, one on Belanger’s higher chest, under the best clavicle, and a second one under his left nipple. Urgent the paddles firmly onto the gel pads, he utilized twenty-five kilos of strain.
‘All clear!’ he shouted as he depressed the shock button on the paddles. Belanger’s physique jolted as the present hit. The Director stared on the monitor, hoping for a secure rhythm.
After which, Belanger retched. The vomit splattered over his tuxedo, trickled down and was slowly absorbed by the thick pile of the pale blue wool carpet on the State Eating Room flooring. ‘We should shift him to Bethesda instantly,’ mentioned the Director. He stole a look on the President to hunt his concurrence. The President nodded wordlessly.
Inside seconds, an Air Drive chopper landed on the helipad within the South Garden and Belanger was effectively shifted into it. As he was being slid in, the Director noticed the following telltale signal.
Belanger’s face, like his arm, was now severely swollen on the best aspect. It had ballooned to the extent that his proper eye was not seen. The Director shortly bought into the helicopter together with different medics. Within the distance, he might see males wearing bio-hazard fits working throughout the garden in the direction of the White Home.