Out of Order (6 page)

Jason shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes fixed on the truck in front of them, waiting for Attar to break the silence. After downshifting and darting into the wrong lane till he was well past the speeding truck, Attar’s breathing slowed. “But you can not live in the past,” he said, his voice now serene. “According to Krishnamurti, without freedom from the past there is no freedom at all.”

Jason nodded, wondering who or what a Krishnamurti was. “The old forgive and forget, huh?”

Attar thought for a moment then shook his head. “Forgiveness and forgetfulness are irrelevant. It is all about accepting what has been and moving on to what is now.”

“Well, I’m still impressed. If that had been me that had been cheated I’d still be mad.”

“Oh, some of the others remain most sincerely disturbed, I assure you. But their anger, as Krishnamurti has shown, is based on their fears, fears about their past mistakes, and their uncertain future. By accepting what is and not obsessing on what might have been or what might yet come, you defeat fear. Without fear there is no anger, without anger there is no violence.”

“Violence? You think these friends of yours are capable of violence?” Lines from Ravi’s email buzzed in his memory.

“
Absolutely
,” Attar said, tapping the horn to emphasize the point. “We are capable of extreme violence. We just need the right push.”

“But Sriram’s dead.”

“But the fear he caused lives on. And with fear there is the inevitability of violence. And for my old acquaintances, you now represent that fear, and in their eyes that fear must be destroyed. So with that, if you will please awaken your wife….”

Jason felt his hand grip the doorframe and his leg muscles tense. “Why?”

“Because when we get to the top of this hill,” Attar said, “there is a most spectacular view of the Amber Palace.”

Chapter Seven

The cobra reared two feet above the rim of the basket, its hood wide as it swayed in time to the tuneless music. Without thinking, Jason took a step back.

“Don’t worry. It can’t bite you,” Rachel said, stooping down to the snake’s level to get a picture. “My guidebook says that the charmer sews the snake’s mouth shut before a performance.” She framed the shot on the small screen before digitally saving the image. “One stitch and it can’t open its mouth.”

Attar spoke with the snake charmer, who rocked from side to side, tempting the fat black snake to strike. He slipped the wood flute from his mouth to speak but kept it moving in front of him, returning to his high-pitched wailing song as Rachel moved in for a tighter shot.

“The snake charmer wants me to ask you if you would like to sew a deadly cobra’s mouth shut.”

Rachel laughed as she schooched closer to the snake. “What are you, nuts? There’s no way I’d do that.”

“Interesting,” Attar said after relaying the comment. “That’s exactly what he says.”

It took a moment, but when it sunk in Rachel stumbled to her feet and ducked behind Jason, her hands reaching around his chest as she peeked over his shoulders. The snake charmer eased the lid down on the snake’s head and it disappeared into the low, round basket. He smiled up to Jason, who handed the man a handful of rupee notes.

“You could have bought the snake for that much,” Attar said, shaking his head.

“It was worth it,” Jason said, feeling Rachel’s warm body tight against his.

They had spent most of the afternoon at the hilltop Amber Palace, wandering though its ornate and empty rooms, Rachel providing background information summarized in her guidebook, Attar chuckling as he corrected her pronunciation. Jason struggled to make sense of it all—the massive palace gates, every inch covered with symmetrical eight-fold designs, the crooked passages that ended in hidden rooms, secret balconies with epic views of the valley below and everything older than the oldest building he’d ever seen. For all its age and beauty it lacked a logical layout, its ornamental symmetry lost in a fun house maze of dead-end hallways, slanting floors and off-centered windows. It was impressive, he heard himself saying, but with a little more planning and organization it could have been awesome.

The sun was low on the horizon when they reentered the city, Attar joining in the chorus of tinny beeps and screeching brakes, but he insisted that they make one last stop. From the street the Palace of Winds promised to be the most breathtaking site of the day, five stories of rounded cupolas, lattice-covered balconies, stacked domes and repeating niches, all carved from a pink-red sandstone and accented in delicate white highlights. Now, as they stood inside, the snake charmer stacking snake-filled baskets on his head, Jason wondered if they had taken a wrong turn.

Unlike the Amber Palace, with its majestic chambers and its rich decorations, the Palace of Winds was more like a giant Hollywood set, a stunning façade held up by utilitarian supports, crammed into the middle of a busy market street. There were stone staircases to climb and plenty of windows to look out, all of them providing lattice-obstructed views of the dirty and crowded street below, but other than the large gray monkeys, the palace was empty.

“Known as the Pink City, Jaipur was founded in AD seventeen twenty-seven by the astronomer king Sawai Jai Singh,” Rachel said, reading the faded sign posted next to one of the dark, sloping ramps that led to the upper floors. “A royal decree mandated that all the buildings within the city walls be painted pink to simulate the red sandstone buildings of Mughal cities.”

“There’s no ‘u’ in color,” Jason said, reading ahead.

“There is if you went to school in India. Another holdover from the days of the Raj,” Attar said with an exaggerated British accent.

Rachel took a sip from her water bottle before continuing. “The Hawa Mahal, known popularly as the Palace of Winds….blah blah blah…nine hundred and fifty-three windows…yada yada yada…lace-fine carved screens…royal ladies watch the street hidden from view…today stands as a reminder…yeah, whatever.”

“You have to forgive her,” Jason said to Attar as they climbed a twisting staircase to the second floor. “If it’s not a train she’s not interested.”

Shafts of sunlight wedged through the narrow windows, spotlighting sections of carved white marble pillars and lobed arches that suggested that the palace wasn’t always so barren. The air on the street had been sluggish, weighed down by exhaust fumes and spices, but a light and steady breeze kept the hall cool. Darting in and out the windows, young monkeys tested their agility while their parents were content to sit on balcony railings and scratch at fleas.

“You can feed them peanuts,” Attar said, reaching into his pocket to produce a small white paper bag. “Just hold your hand flat and do not make any sudden movements.” He held his hand out to a monkey that sat on the windowsill. The monkey eyed the lone peanut, deciding if it was worth the effort. Attar added a second nut to his hand and the monkey snatched them both, swinging out the open window and along the carved front of the palace. A group of small boys gathered around Attar and he supplied them with peanuts, half of which they gave to the monkeys and half they ate themselves.

“Come here, little guy,” Rachel said and held out her hand to coax a jittery monkey off a stone railing. Its large eyes were chocolate brown and its fur looked soft to the touch. The monkey reached out a paw, drawing it back twice before he picked up the peanut.

“You are
so
cute I could just kiss you,” Rachel said and for a moment Jason wished he were a monkey. He set his backpack on the ground, unzipping a side pocket to get his camera.

“Look this way,” he said and lined up Rachel, the peanut and the monkey in the viewfinder. He pushed the shutter and a white flash lit up the dark alcove.

With the flash, the monkey’s eyes widened and with a fang-bared howl it leapt from its perch and charged, its sharp claws clattering on the stone floor. Rachel screamed and covered her face but the monkey tore past her and threw himself at Jason, who stumbled backwards, his arms flailing as he fell. The monkey stood and showed his yellow teeth, grabbed the backpack, and raced up the red sandstone wall, leaping off the balcony and out into the street-side bazaar.

Jason scrambled to his feet, leaning over the railing far enough to see the monkey as it bounded across the tattered awning of a typewriter repair shop and onto the roof of an idling delivery truck, the backpack banging against its metal sides. The monkey paused long enough to look up at Jason, then jumped onto the hood of a passing Mercedes. The driver slammed on the brakes and hit the horn. The monkey glared at the driver, snapping off a windshield wiper before it climbed over the roof and onto a street sign. From there it scurried across a camel-driven cart hauling trash, bounced in and out of the seat of a bicycle rickshaw, along the tops of a row of tightly packed Ambassador sedans and up a hand-lettered sign that was topped by a painting of a rotten tooth. Reaching the roof of the one-story building across the street, the monkey sat down to appraise its loot.

“Oh, shit,” Jason said, fixing the location of the thief before racing down the open stairs, Rachel right behind him.

“You are wasting your time,” Attar shouted to them from the balcony as they burst out onto the sidewalk, rushing headlong into the traffic. “You will never see your luggage again.” Jason saw a few people pointing up at the monkey and a few more pointing at him, but for most Jaipurians the site of a felonious monkey or a panicked tourist did not merit attention.

“It’s right there,” Rachel said, pointing over the roof of a bakery. Jason glanced up, nodded and ran into the shop.

“Excuse me,” he said, his words rushing together. “There’s a monkey. On your roof. Up there. He’s got my bag. I need….”

The owner of the shop kept his eyes on his newspaper, jerking his thumb towards a dark stairwell that ran up the back wall. They stumbled up the tight stairway, spilling out onto the rooftop that served as a block-long patio for the pink-walled apartments set back on the building. Old men sat in folding chairs, spitting streams of red betel juice into plastic buckets while toddlers stood at the edge of the roof, tossing pebbles onto the cars below. A group of teenage boys, dressed in matching white shirts and blue trousers, sprawled on the blazing pink concrete, checking their cell phones and singing Indian pop tunes. When they noticed Jason and Rachel they stood up, shouting out the few English words they thought they knew.

“Over there,” Rachel said, spotting the monkey as it bit the top off a tube of Crest. It was sitting with its back to them, one leg dangling over the side of the building.

Jason held her back. “If we scare it it’ll just run away. You go that way,” he said, pointing far to the monkey’s left. “I’ll come in from here. Try to box it in.”

“Then what? I’m not going to get rabies just to save your underwear.”

“Maybe he’ll drop it. If you can, try to grab the bag.”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not going to grab the monkey,” she said and maneuvered her way across the roof.

Jason kept his eyes on the animal, trying to sneak up without tripping over the satellite dish wires and plastic piping that ran the length of the building. The monkey was busy tearing open a zippered-shut side pocket. He didn’t want to think of what the razor-taloned thief would do with a red silk sari.

“Good morning mister sir,” one of the teens said, stepping up to walk with Jason.

“I’m kind of busy here,” Jason said. The monkey’s tail gave a flick but the rest of the monkey sat still on the ledge.

“Part of this nutritional breakfast,” the teen replied. “Merry Christmas. Star Wars. Michael Jordan.”

Jason watched the furry gray back as he continued his flanking movement, the monkey flinging a packet of disposable razors out into the street.

“Four, five, six, seven,” the teen said, adding “Happy birthday” before breaking into a toothy grin.

“Shhhh,” Jason whispered. “I need to get my backpack away from the monkey.” He pointed just as his travel alarm clock went ringing over the ledge.

“Oh,
kapi
,” the teen said, turning back to explain the situation to his friends, their English not as polished as his.

“Just stay back,” Jason said without looking at the boy. Across the roof he saw that Rachel was almost in position, the monkey busy licking Hawaiian Tropic sun block off its fingers.

He heard the footsteps behind him and turned to see the schoolboys running towards him, sticks and rocks in their hands. “No,” he shouted, putting his arms out to stop them, but they ran past him and headed to the monkey.

Intrigued by a toothbrush, the monkey didn’t see the blitzing pack until it was almost on him. The monkey gave a high-pitched shriek and ran two steps at the boys, hoping to scare them off, then crouched as an empty water bottle whistled over its head. A broken broom handle cracked down as the monkey reached out for the backpack and a second stick, tossed like a spear, skidded across the roof, wide of its target. Gripping one of the padded shoulder straps, the monkey tried to pull the bag closer, the bag not moving, the bulk of the bag wedged under a bent piece of pipe that stuck out from the concrete. With the boys closing, the monkey gave the strap a second violent tug, the plastic clips shattering as the monkey scuttled sideways, the freed strap still in its paw. The monkey looked back at his lost prize, then at the boys, gave a spitty, yellow-fanged hiss and, waving the loose strap, leapt up and out to tightrope the jumble of wires strung along the street. Victorious, the boys gave a cheer and signaled to Jason and Rachel it was safe to approach.

“Call toll free one eight hundred,” the teen said, stepping out of the way as Jason bent down to examine his pack. The side pockets had been torn open and there were long gashes in the top flap that exposed the extra tee shirts he packed, but, other than the smell, the pack had weathered the ordeal.

“Whoa,” Rachel said, waving her hand in front of her nose as she squatted down. “What
is
that?”

“It
was
cologne,” Jason said, lifting shards of the glass bottle from the soaked-through side pocket. “I guess it could have been worse.”

“Yeah, you could have worn the stuff. How’s the rest of the bag?”

Jason pinched the plastic snap and stretched the bag open, pushing his folded clothes to the side to check on the sari. “It’s a bit damp but everything looks okay. I guess I ought to thank you guys,” he said, looking up at the schoolboys.

“Some restrictions may apply!” The teen held out his hand, his friends smiling as Jason took out his wallet.