Meeting Max (12 page)

Chapter 14

Lalit and Rick had dinner at the elegant Hotel Raj Palace. Diners approached their table to share a few words with Lalit. He was well-known on television as an interviewer of famous and interesting people.

After dessert and tea, they walked outside and waited for the valet to bring Lalit’s white Mercedes around.

Lalit pointed to the high ceiling outside the entrance and asked, “Why do you think the ceiling is so high?”

Rick shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it just makes the entrance more dramatic?”

“Ah, yes it does, but the most important reason is because many years ago people arrived astride an elephant, so the extra height was necessary.”

“Wow, what a majestic scene that must have been,” Rick marveled, looking up at the ceiling.

“Yes, it was. Even now, for weddings, the groom will arrive on a decorated elephant during the
Baratt
, the wedding procession. The elephant is a symbol of good luck and prosperity and joy for the couple. It was an elegant way to get to the Raj Palace.”

“Elegant, indeed. I love India. All these small bits of information tell a story.”

“I can feel your love for India and so it has to be that you must continue to soak up the essence of India. Only when you immerse yourself in our culture will you be able to accomplish the things you must. You are here on a mission, to find your son. India will help you, just by you being here.

“Trust me. Sometimes you have to let things unfold naturally. Get to know India, visit many of the sights, talk to the people, and spend many moments such as the ones we are sharing tonight. It will help you in your search. When you get to know India and its people, you will find your son. Things just happen that way.”

“It sounds like a metaphysical connection.”

“It is.”

***

The next day, they were up early for the two hundred kilometer drive to Sawai Madopur, the closest town to the Ranthambhore Tiger Reserve. They only stopped a few times to “make urination.”

For a few nights, their home would be at the eleven-room castle, Jhoomar Baori, which was a Rajasthan Tourism Development Corporation government hotel, seven kilometers from the Tiger Reserve and near the thousand-year-old Ranthambhore Fort.

They went to the fort and Lalit told Rick about an event that took place here. It was the story of a king who went out to battle and had been away from the fort for several months. A traitor who hated the king spread the false news that the king had been killed in battle. After hearing that, his five wives performed
Jauhar
by jumping into a raging fire to kill themselves.

The king returned, learned the fate of his wives, and found the traitor who had spread that rumor. He personally cut off the traitor’s head and placed it on display so people could throw stones at it. A stone head of the traitor was still in place, keeping with the legend, and visitors who knew the story threw stones at it.

Lalit and Rick ventured into the Tiger Reserve, riding in a Jeep with a driver and a scout who searched out wildlife. Rick didn’t take a camera on this expedition because he wanted to keep the moments he experienced in his mind instead of taking the time to focus and compose the perfect picture.

The Jeep stopped a short distance from a tiger with her three cubs. They left footprints in the sand as they nonchalantly walked along a dirt road. Rick was uneasy at first about being so close, but Mrs. Tiger just ambled along with only a glance toward them.

Later, Rick spied a beautiful male tiger who sat about fifty feet away and appeared to be disinterested in making a good meal of him. The tiger licked his paws, washed his face, and appeared to be bored. He turned his back and walked into the brush.

The next morning, Rick awoke early. Lalit was gone, but he soon came storming into the room and announced that there was a lion on the deck and that it was walking aimlessly around the patio furniture. Rick quickly put on his shorts and a T-shirt and ran barefooted outside.

As it turned out, the ‘lion’ was a leopard, but it didn’t matter. He watched the leopard sniff around the patio tables, possibly searching for some leftover breakfast delicacies. Rick moved to about ten yards from the leopard, who lifted his head and stared at him for a moment with his oval green eyes. Rick remained motionless until the leopard turned and walked away.

Rick was glad he didn’t have a camera. He would have missed the captivating moment of them looking into each other’s eyes out in the open with no bars between them.

On their way back to Jaipur, Lalit and Rick stopped at an outdoor market in Sawai Madhopur to find something for lunch. Vegetables, fruit, and piles of colorful spices were everywhere. They bought papaya, bananas, guava, and pomegranates, then looked for a place along the drive back to stop and eat.

Lalit stopped at a small outdoor refreshment stand at the edge of a farm that served snacks, coffee, and chai. Lalit greeted the owner with a hug and a smile. His name was Ranjit. He was about forty, tall and thin with a slim black mustache. Rick assumed Lalit and Ranjit knew each other, but they didn’t. It was just Lalit’s gracious manner to be so friendly. It was the Indian way.

They brought their fruit with them and sat at an outdoor table near the country road. Lalit introduced Rick as a traveler from America. Ranjit asked his assistant to peel the papaya, prepare the other fruit, and serve it with cups of chai. The three of them talked about life in the countryside as Lalit translated.

They spoke in Hindi. Rick listened to their lilting tones and watched their hands in constant motion. Lalit turned to Rick. “He says he was born right here on this farm and intends to live out his life here. Everything he needs is right here. His farm, his friends, and the people who stop in for chai. He said he is a simple man blessed with a simple life. He has his books, his music, his farm, his friends, and God.”

Here is a human being pleased with his life. What a gift.

This man’s outlook made Rick contemplate his own existence in a new way. Maybe the colonel was right. The simple life was most fulfilling and without pain.

After a few hours of eating, drinking, and conversation, they said their goodbyes. Lalit asked Rajit how much they owed him. He answered in Hindi. As they walked away, some Indian children in their school uniforms stood by the roadside and waved.

“Lalit, did you pay him anything?”

“I offered, but he wouldn’t accept any money.”

“Did he say why?”

“He said he enjoyed the conversation and was honored that we stopped at his farm, but out of respect for you, a foreigner who appeared to love his country, he couldn’t take any money.”

“Lalit, I thought this man was living in poverty. Why wouldn’t he have taken some money? He’ll never see us again.”

Lalit laughed. “No, my friend, he was not living in poverty. He was just poor. Poverty is not a good thing, but being poor does not mean you’re unhappy. Poverty is bad, and even though the food is cheap in India, people who live in poverty often sleep on the street and don’t even have a few rupees for food. But being poor in India is unrelated to happiness and fulfillment.”

Rick wanted to be like Rajit. He had what Rick wanted and never found. Maybe his desire for computers, cars, and modern luxuries would not allow that to happen. He was too far gone.

He thought of the colonel and how he’d explained Sikhism and Buddhism. For a Sikh, suffering ended when attachments to
worldly possessions
ended.
Rick was addicted to his possessions. He didn’t own
them.
They owned
him
. The colonel had also said that, for a Buddhist, suffering ends when attachment to
desire
ends
.
His time with the colonel was fulfilling, a learning experience like no other. Rick realized that Rajit was the embodiment of these ideals.

Chapter 15

Later that night, Lalit drove Rick to the Jaipur train station, where Rick was booked on the midnight train to Jodphur. Lalit had to leave before the train departed to do a late night interview with India’s defense minister, who would be describing his function as overseer of national security and commenting on the recent terrorist attacks. Lalit told Rick that the minister was a trusting, highly spiritual, peaceful man and an unlikely person to be a defense minister who had to deal with the death and destruction of war and terror.

They said their goodbyes with a long hug, and Rick waited for the train. It was on the track, but, after waiting fiteen minutes past the scheduled time, he asked the conductor if anything was wrong and learned that, because of mechanical failure, it would be delayed three hours.

A man approached him and pointed to his black limousine. He said he would drive him to Jodhpur for 1750 rupees, which was a reasonable sum. Rick originally planned to go to Jaisalmer, but Jodhpur made more sense because it was a larger city with lots of live musical entertainment that would provide better opportunities to find Eric. Jaisalmer would come next because he did, indeed, want to ride a camel in the desert.

The driver’s name was Manu Singh. He was young—about twenty-five—thin, and light skinned. His black, oily hair was combed straight back. His eyes were unusually dilated, but he seemed to be alert.

Rick tossed his backpack on the rear seat, up against the door, so he could use it as a pillow. It was a cold night. Luckily, there was a blanket folded neatly on the seat. Off they went on a three hundred and fifty kilometer journey that would take about five hours over narrow country roads.

Rick had arranged to stay at a traditional guesthouse when he arrived in Jodhpur. It was called RC Niwas and was on the edge of the Thar Desert. It was a family-run place, built a hundred years ago, and offered home-cooked veggie dishes. He would arrive early in the morning after a good night’s sleep in the limo.

Rick closed his eyes and thought about India. He had two competing thoughts. He always missed the place he left, but looked forward to where he was going. This was a mysterious land, and his anticipation of the unexpected kept him energized.

Manu’s car radio pumped out loud music that played constantly while he talked nonstop on his mobile phone. It seemed as if it would be an uneventful journey.

Rick made efforts to sleep, but the constant hairpin turns over bumpy roads made it impossible, plus the loud music was an intrusion on his senses.

After about two hours, Manu pulled into a small, rundown neighborhood with lots of late night bars pouring music into the streets while young, ominous-looking people walked by. Manu got out, said he would be right back, locked the doors, and left.

He was gone over an hour. During that time, young men, some drunk and weaving, passed the car and showed their fists. Rick could not go to sleep, not with the likes of the people who passed by. They were probably innocent enough, but Rick’s imagination got the better of him and overtook his senses.

He didn’t know of a way to contact Manu. He tried to find ways to unlock the doors, but there were no visible switches. Rick remembered that, after the trip was arranged, someone had called his cell phone to confirm it. Obviously, Manu worked for a large company, so now Rick had a phone number to call.

“Hello. May I speak to Manu Singh?”

“Sorry, Manu is out driving someone to Jodhpur. Do you need any service? I can help you.”

“My battery is down on my mobile. I can’t talk long. I’m the one he is driving to Jodhpur, but he disappeared over two and a half hours ago and left me here in a locked car. Please call him.”

At that point, his phone lost all power. Five minutes later, Manu appeared. He looked sleepy and stoned and said nothing.

“Where were you?” Rick asked, irritated.

“I had to sleep for a while, I was very tired. I know this girl who lives here, right around the corner. I slept for a while, and before I left, the girl, she wanted it.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Okay, I’m glad you’re here, so let’s get going.”

They drove for almost an hour when Manu said, “Could I sleep for a while?”

“Sure, we’ll both sleep.”

They pulled up outside an all night convenience store, and it only took a few seconds before Manu drifted off. Rick closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he was wired. After about an hour, they were both awake. They sat and talked.

“Manu, I see you like music. I found myself getting interested in the music you were playing.”

“I like it very much, sir. I am a musician. I play keyboard and guitar. I played in nightclubs in Madras for several years and I go to many concerts where is played good music.”

“Where do you find the best popular music in India?”

“The best music it is in the cities. The two cities I like most for music is Madras, which you may know as Chennai, and Bombay.”

“Did you play professionally?”

“Most certainly, sir. I played with good musicians, mostly in Madras, but once in Bombay.”

“Did you make albums of your music for sale?”

“We did, indeed, sir.”

“Tell me, Manu, did you use a sound recorder when you made your CDs?”

“We would like to do this, but these people cost a lot of money. In Madras, sometimes we can find someone who will do it for little money, but the first class sound recorders, they are working in Bombay, many in Bollywood. The best of these people work for small studios and do very high class work.”

“I’m looking for someone who is a very good audio engineer. I know he is in India.”

“Oh, he is most probably in Bombay, but it is good to look in Jodphur, where we are going, and in the big cities along the western coast. May I know the nature of why you must find him?”

“Well, it’s a long story. You’ve told me some interesting things. Do you know the names of any of these small studios?”

“No, but many groups who have worked for the very upscale Firangi Paani nightclub in Bombay is making CDs that use audio recorders with a company called the name of a cat. I can’t think of the full name, but there is the word ‘cat’ in it. They may not be in business anymore. Most probably. Many artists cannot afford them if they were.”

“A cat, I see. Are you are no longer working as a musician? Do you just work as a driver?”

“No, sir. My uncle owns this limo business, but he has been taken sick and my auntie is running it until he gets better, so I am helping them.”

“You’re a good man, Manu.”

“Thank you, sir.”

***

They finally got to RC Niwas at about nine in the morning. Rick walked through a wrought iron gate and down a corridor, into a large central area where a few people sat around tables in wicker chairs, having breakfast. There was no ceiling. Everything was open to the sky. It was a vibrant setting, full of colorful accents. There was a birdcage on the side of the bar holding four live black birds with bright orange breasts taking short flights to different parts of the cage. Large potted plants were everywhere, giving this eating area a tropical atmosphere. It was a bright morning, too bright for Rick after staying up all night in the darkness, but he liked this place.

It wasn’t a true homestay, but it had a homestay feel about it. The guests, many of whom were backpackers, were busy eating, reading newspapers, and studying guidebooks.

Rick paid four hundred rupees, about eight US dollars, for a larger room called the Maharajah room, which had a huge bed covered with a well-worn, red woolen blanket. There was a painting over the bed that showed a dark skinned woman in an orange dress carrying a water pot on her head. The plumbing was old and rusty, as evidenced by deep rust stains running along a faucet to the floor in the bathroom shower.

He left his backpack in the room, locked the door with the padlock they gave him, and went to have some Masala tea and toast.

There were real travelers here, not tourists, and it appeared to be a place where adventure could be found. The RC Niwas was India personified, and it drew an eclectic crowd. Places like this weren’t listed in Rick’s guidebook, although it was mentioned in others. Despite his tiredness, Rick ventured out.

The city of Jodhpur was a marvel. There was movement everywhere, and crowded markets with wooden carts overflowed with colorful food and flowers. Vendors sold anything you could think of, from bright children’s clothing, to spices and the most fashionable jewelry. With raucous sounds, powerful smells, blaring horns, auto rickshaws and motorcycles darting in and out of traffic, and bored cows who stood as still as statues, Jodhpur was just as alive as the other big cities. All this activity surrounded a tall clock tower that loomed above the huge archways leading to the open market.

Street food was everywhere, hot, delicious, and all freshly made. Rick always looked forward to mealtime and usually bought his food from the street vendors. He chose places where hungry crowds gathered in front of a food stall, anxiously waiting for the hot samosas to finish frying in a large black pot of spattering oil. The cooks couldn’t make them fast enough. The crowds pushed their way forward, held their money in outstretched arms, and waited for the moment when the hot fried food, wrapped in newspaper, would finally be in their hands.

Rick walked away with a
pakora,
small Indian vegetable fritters
made with chickpea flour, vegetables, and hot chili peppers. The flavor of cumin flowed over his tongue as he sat on the sidewalk in the shade of a tree to eat. He had to empty his mind in order to concentrate on the flavors of the delicious meal.

It started to get dark. Rick heard some live music coming from one of the clubs and went to listen. There was a group of five men on a small stage with a sign in front of them that read
Rutakeshin Band
.

There were two electric guitars, a keyboard with the name Roland X6 on the front, a miniature xylophone, and a drummer. The sounds of their music ranged from upbeat to mellow, and all of the musicians sang as they played.

During their break, Rick asked one of them if the group made CDs and if they knew a sound engineer named Eric.

“Yes, sir. Eric worked with us only one time. He was the best sound recorder I ever met. That is why I remember him. Music was in his soul. He was a tall American with a beard. He mixed very well indeed.”

“Was his full name Eric Anderson?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I have a CD for sale. It would be very nice to give to your wife. What is your good name?”

“Oh, Rick, Rick Newman.”

“I am Amar. From which place do you come?”

“United States.”

“
Achchaa
. India and the United States very good friends. Let me get you a CD. For you, only six hundred rupees.”

Rick paid him for the CD and looked at the list of names on the back of the album. It listed a sound recorder as Ehrik Weber. Amar had spoken the truth. Rick was disappointed that the first name was spelled differently and the last name was ‘Weber’ and not ‘Anderson.’ He made note of the recording company, which was Black Cat Audio, Bombay.

He wondered if there was a connection. He immediately called the Black Cat Audio studio from a public phone and received a recorded message saying they were on holiday and would return in ten days. Maybe it was a slim lead, but it was something.

He took an auto rickshaw back to RC Niwas. The driver seemed to consider the roadways as a challenge and somewhat of an obstacle course. The three-wheeled motorized vehicles, which ran on motorcycle engines, provided an exciting ride, similar to the excitement of a roller coaster. Only in India could foreign passengers be scared to death several times a day at no extra cost to get where they were going.

The next day, Rick called Black Cat Audio in Bombay on the chance someone would be there so he could ask about Eric. A man answered and told him in rather poor English that they knew of him, but asked him to call back in a week, when the owner would return from his Goa vacation. Rick was disappointed. He believed this was a good lead, but now he had to wait.

He took the Jodhpur overnight express train across the desert to Jaisalmer, near the Pakistan border.