DARA 2 STORY BEHIND SCARS

By Suresh Kundal

Book Title: DARA 2 (Story behind scars)

Millions of secrets were lying hidden underneath the suspended morning mist. A pungent smell of Pine woods prevailed in the entire Shiwaliks of Himalayan range. It is his new posting. Dara continues his long pointless stroll towards a deserted military dairy farm. Just behind the two boys with white eyebrows, a peculiar halo-like smoke billows up into dark clouds of demise.

Dara and Ruda drift into another world and get trapped into the mystic woods of Deodars and Pine. They befriend the same two boys with the white eyebrows. Their senses are blown off on discovering wooden boxes with some texts scraped in devnagri. Dara is the link to yesterday, today and tomorrow.

His sister Beero is betrayed by fate. Illiteracy adds to her misery. No one understands the plight of a woman, not even women.
O' Dara, the immortals know the core of my crying heart!
O' Dara, let mortals know the stories behind my scars!"

He could not gather courage and look up. With dazzling bright moon suspended at the knot over his forehead, BHOLENATH smiled at him.. The dusts of ashes were falling down on Earth spreading Love & Compassion". By the grace of Nataraj - the cosmic dancer, Abhimanyu grows up as a Kathak maestro.

While crossing the highest battlefield in the world, the troops are lost in Siachin glacier. Love for their motherland keeps the troops moving. Air warrior Wg Cdr Alok rescues the mighty men in olives.

On the contrary, Satan abducts the womb of a pregnant lady in her nightmare. The world is unaware that a Satan has become manifest to the living!

An Evil will be born !!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781716620386

Book preview

Suresh Kundal

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DARA 2

(Story behind scars)

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By the bestselling author of title: ‘Dara by Suresh Kundal’

which was published by Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd, London.

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Copyright © Suresh Kundal (2020)

The right of Suresh Kundal to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the writer.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available at KDP Amazon.

ISBN: 9798668124893 (Paperback)

ASIN B08DG648T1 (Kindle e-book)

www.sureshkundal.com

[e-mail]

I:\DARA SKETCH\sketch\Author Photo.jpg

Author:          Suresh Kundal (Georgian)

Profession:    Merchant Exporter

Born on:        19 August, 1971

Nationality:    Indian

Qualification: Masters in Geography from HNB Garhwal University

MBA from Narsee Monjee Institute of Management-

Studies, Vile Parle, Mumbai

Alma mater:  Rashtriya Military School, Bangalore

(Est. in 1946 by King George the IV)

I:\DARA SKETCH\sketch\00000001 (3).jpg

DARA 2

(Story behind scars)

Millions of secrets were lying hidden underneath the suspended morning mist. A pungent smell of Pine woods prevailed in the entire Shiwaliks of Himalayan valley.

It is his new posting. Dara continues his long pointless stroll towards a deserted military dairy farm. The two boys with white eyebrows and a peculiar halo-like smoke billows up into dark clouds of demise. Dara and Ruda drift into mystic woods of Deodars and Pine. They befriend the same two boys with the white eyebrows. Their mind is blown off on discovering wooden boxes with text scraped in devnagri on them.

Dara is the link to yesterday, today and tomorrow. His sister Beero is betrayed by fate and illiteracy adding to her misery. No one understands the plight of a woman, not even women.

O’ Dara, let immortals get acquainted to the core of my crying heart

O’ Dara, let mortals know the stories behind my scars

He could not gather courage to open his eyes and look up.  Smiling face of Shivshankar with dazzling bright crescent moon above his forehead appeared before his closed eyes. When the ascetic Shivshambhu moved, the dust of ashes fell down on Earth like snowflakes spreading love and compassion. Dazzling bright crescent moon lay suspended at the knot over his forehead. Playing Damru with one hand, Gangadhar had held a long Trishul in the other.

By the grace of Nataraj – the cosmic dancer, Abhimanyu grows up as a Kathak maestro.

While crossing the highest battlefield in the world, the troops are lost in Siachin glacier. Panama changes hands and mouthfuls of smoky puffs keep the troops going. Air warrior Wg Cdr Alok rescues the mighty men in olives. On the contrary, Satan abducts the womb of a pregnant lady in her nightmare. The world is unaware that a Satan has become manifest to the living!

An Evil will be born!

Acknowledgments:

{Dad, you are the inspiration behind my writing ‘Dara’}

The author was born in a Punjabi family at a place called MHOW

(Military Headquarters of War) in India. His father, Mr. Sardari

Lal Kundal, was a dynamic personality and a nature-loving man.

His mother, Mrs. Sheela Kundal, a homemaker,

assisted his father in all the ups and downs of life.

His father being defense personnel, the author had a brilliant

opportunity to live at several places in India and grow in an army culture.

The author pursued his education in Bangalore Military School

(formerly known as King George School). Here, he had an access

to varied sports and extracurricular activities, boxing being his favorite.

He completed his post-graduation in

Geography from HNB Garhwal University. While working for a

company in Mumbai, he pursued his Business Management

degree from Narsee Monjee Institute, Mumbai.

The author founded his export/import company in 2006 and

began travelling to Hong Kong, China, Europe,

Russia, West Africa etc., and gradually expanded his business. Since his

childhood, the author was a nature lover, with an artistic bent of

mind. It was in 2018 that he discovered his hidden

talent when DARA series was accepted by

world’s leading publishers, Austin Macauley, and they gave him

an opportunity as a professional author.

He lives in Mumbai with his beloved mother; a beautiful wife

Purnima; and his two pretty daughters, Ginni and Nikki.

Dad, you have been THE ONLY inspiration behind my writing

Dara.

The hilly areas where once we dwelled, the smell of

Pinewood trees which still is smelt,

When the season used to change to white – it was so

compelling and bright,

Sliding down the snow on our way to school, still it tickles

my heart till depth,

Partly devoured Pears thrown down by parrots – I want to

pick and eat them again,

City-lights between those far-off hills, that looked so

amazing in the night,

The downhill twisty roads, where I rolled the round dry

fruits,

The heat of Jungle fire, which made the crickets run away

and birds fly off

That Echoing Noise, to which often I wondered – was it a

woodcutter or woodpecker?

The oozing gumdrops gradually filled the hanging Tins – it

smelt so good, which I still want to taste,

The shortcuts that I sought, ended up at steep landing places,

The Triumphant Guns roared all night at firing range, shot

by you and men at practice,

I want to collect those hot brass shells which were ejected

into the inverted helmets,

I want to trigger those pink night rounds, which illuminated

for quick short fires,

The long strolls to Charring Cross, on which we seldom felt

tired,

Toy train, Tunnels, Gooseberry and Apricots, lingering and

sightful, so they were.

Your transfers to Plains, Plateaus, Hills and Doons – Yes! –

were mercerizing in their own unique ways.

Those quotes in Punjabi, which a few I remember and shall

cherish them forever.

The smell of your helmet and of canvas uniform and that

aluminum POW badge still is fresh, as it was.

So committed, ideal and congenial, that you were. I wish to

follow those trails which I missed to tread. I wish to be born as

your son, again and yet again.

I am thankful to my beloved wife, Purnima, as she is the first

reader and a candid critic to my works.

Unparalleled Camaraderie!!!

This book is dedicated to all my batchmates who truly have been a driving force and Ashok Kumar in particular, for providing me moral support from time to time.

My dear readers!

I remain thankful to you all for showering your love.

I find an immense pleasure in sharing a fact that one of my lead characters - Rudaram in Dara series is inspired by my friend Ashok Kumar - A dynamic personality by all means, an ideal son, a lovable husband, a good father, a benevolent friend and a good human being overall. We love you Robinhood!!

I felt on top the world when I was featured as a ‘showcased author’ by Austin Macauley Pubishers Ltd – UK.

The Bestseller campaign:-

DARA’s Vol-I was Ranked Bestseller #105 in the first week {@bookdepositiory}. They were the Georgians who made it possible.

Ashish Dewan (USA) was the first buyer of DARA and I will always cherish this fact. My special thanks to Dr Manny Gupta Bhaiya (USA) who boosted Bestseller campaign in USA. I remain humbled to receive blessings & flamboyant support from my senior, friend & guide Mr Ajay Sharma (A businessman in Australia).

Special thanks to my friend Mr Roshan Rawat from Doon Valley (A humane personality) and my Georgian friend Mr Sujeet Dwivedi Marshal in giving his mystic voice to my literary works from time to time.

Ecstatic Frenzy:-

DARA Vol-I was showcased at Hotel Eros, New Delhi.

I heartily thank senior Georgians Mr Ajit Doval (National Security Advisor - Popularly known as James Bond of India) for a thumb raise, Gen CP Cariappa (Defence Secy to the President of India) for cheering my work, Gen Yash Mor, Gen AK Singh (Retd) and Anil Sherawat Bhaiya.

Tears of gladness flooded my eyes in receiving wonderful reviews from across the globe and some of the heartwarming ones came-in from defense officers - Sujeet Dwivedi Marshal, Mr Sanjay Negi, Mr Dinesh Kumar, Mr Suresh Tiwari, Ms Inderjeet JINGLE ACADEMY (Mumbai), Alok & Mamta Das, Dr Ponappa KC (Dean), Mr Ravinder Kumar (Principal), Mr Rajesh Jugran (Football coach – Uttrakhand) and Dr Praveen Singh Dara (USA)

I extend my gratitude towards each one of you to have supported the book online & offline in some way or the other.

I also thank my business partners in UK, Europe, Norway & USA for supporting the book at a massive scale.

I remain obliged to my dear friend Mr Shivkumar and Ms KV Navya (The New Indian Express, Chennai) for appreciating my work and publishing author’s interview in their newspaper.

Thankyou senior Georgian Surjeet bhaiya for heartwarming Gurubanis/Kirtans

Thankyou my dear friends Sushil Dwivedi (CA & founder of Evershine City forum), Shreekant bhai, Pravin Luthra, & all the forum members.

Dr ON Singh, Dr Chaphekars for supporting, promoting the book all across Mumbai.

WHAT A MOMENT TO RECEIVE A LETTER OF APPRECIATION FROM MR PRINCIPAL OF RASHTRIYA MILITARY SCHOOL {Ranked amongst the top best public schools the country!!!} As I read between the lines, tears tumbled down my eyes. I am left with no words to express my happiness. This honor shall hold the highest position in my heart and I shall cherish it until the last breath of my life.

Dear Dad, I remembered you so much, while my trembling hands held the letter. I know you must be feeling so glad while looking at this. I felt myself so close to you!!

The content of the letter reads as below:-

Last but not the least; I would like to extend my regards to dear Pratham Alok Das for being my youngest reader at a mere age of 8years. And he understood the novel so well.

A speck of dirt I am, without the knowledge that our teachers bestowed upon us.

Long Live The Georgian Spirit!

Chapter 1

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Heaven on Earth

Gently sloping roads that steered along the hillside, gradually paved their path into a low lying valley. Thick forests were densely spread over the left side of the road. Like a thin sheet of milky-white cotton, the morning mist lay suspended, canopying the jungle from above. Mighty wildlife and its millions of secrets lay hidden underneath. Early chirps sent echoes in the entire valley.  The road was at a higher altitude which ran along the mountain wall. On careful observation, the birds dwelling in the deep valley could be spotted from above, especially when they trans-located their perch and hopped from one branch to another. The most charming and vibrant amongst them was none other than the Green Indian Parrots. When they found some fruit laden tree, they flew merrily around it, sending high notes of gladness on top of their pitch. Their long tails would spread depicting intense gladness.

With the advent of Monsoon, a thick blanket of Nimbus Cumulus began hovering over the Sky; keeping the area Sun ridden. The wind was comparatively harsh and blew with a whistle while it rubbed against the woods. The mighty Eagles glided smoothly against these thick packets of wind. The upward thrust was sufficient enough to keep them afloat in the air for quite a while, without their flapping the wings. The tail kept tilting from left to right keeping their aerodynamic body at a perfect balance. Due to the inertia of the wind, it was becoming difficult for the Eagles to take turns. Expertly using their inherited techniques, they obeyed Lamarckism and smoothly continued with their sailing.

Dancing through the valley and totally unaware of the hungry Predators wandering overhead, the shy rivulet arrived down. The stream stroked against the stones and pebbles on their course generating a soothing melody. Her meandering path struck the romantic strings of the living nature when she gradually took turns obeying the laws of gravity. Getting drifted away in an intense passion, the waves kissed the rocks that encountered on the way, making the pebbles roll merrily over her bed. But she could not conceal her identity for long. The splashing noise revealed her presence. Its running water was crystal clear and sweet if tasted. Moss laden rocks lazily laid on the banks of the river and provided shelter to several aquatic creatures, viz. toads, tiny fishes, insects, creepers, algae etc. 

Keeping one of the ears an inch away from the surface of the running water, the shooting stream could send thousands of soothing vibes into one’s fatigue brains and melt heavy hearts. On quietly observing from anywhere near the banks, one could get acquainted to red, pink, yellow, green, brown and grey dragon flies, tumbling caterpillars somersaulting head over heels and several other vibrant tiny creatures which mostly are found in wild and are forgotten by Homo sapiens.

Pungent smell of wet bark of the trees was a delightful experience to ones nostrils. Just beneath the dry fallen leaves were found the huge colonies of least known insects in varied colors and characters, broadcasting a rare evidence of enriched bio-diversity.   

The orange Sun had lowered. Kissing the horizon it was about to bid a farewell in next few hours. Birds looked beautiful when they flew back home in flock, making a proper symmetry. A pungent smell of Pine wood trees prevailed in the entire valley.

Neat markings in black and white indicated the proximity of cantonment area. The entrance gate was guarded by sharply dressed soldiers. Turra on their beret which was made out of hen feathers stood erect, beautified their Forest Green Beret, as if conveying a message of honor and greet. They wore stiff and starched uniform and their crease looked sharper than a blade. Lanyard, nameplate, the glittering medals, regiment emblems attached to their uniform were richly shined with brasso, white cross-belts, combat knife on one side and water bottle on the other, properly serviced LMG was hung on their shoulder, dyed anklets and mirror-shined toes of military boots gave goose bumps to the onlooker. And when they marched or delivered a salute, the clinging of horse-shoes against tar road below, electrified the entire arena. The uniform in itself was symbolic to a complete discipline, agility and patriotism.

It was his fresh posting. Instead of moving towards his military barracks, Dara headed northwards in an opposite direction and continued his long pointless walk towards a deserted military dairy farm of which he was totally unaware. The winter evening turned the tips of his nose and fingers icy cold. The wind was remarkably strong and sneaked into his shirt through the top buttons. Dara halted for a while, un-tucked his shirt, pushed a newspaper from above and covered his chest against the chilling thrust of the