The PuppetMaster (12 page)

They both giggled.

“Precisely, C.G.. And you have such a person in mind, no doubt?”

“Hmm, yes. That could pose a problem, a four thousand year old herbologist.

Masterji beamed like a drunken condor. “I believe, C.G., the correct term is herbalist.”

“Yes, yes, herbalist.” C.G. patted his friend’s knee and asked, “And what about our security, Devi. You have found someone, yes?”

Master chortled, “Yes indeed, we now have a young security fellow posted at the entrance to our cave. Rajneesh, the taxi driver, has a younger brother with a cell phone. He will be our watchman and sleep there. Instructed to call your office at any sign of trouble.” I suspected this arrangement had been made the previous afternoon using Soma to find Rajneesh, who then hired his brother. I also suspected it had cost Devi the least amount of rupees possible.

After another moment or two more, I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, Punditjis.”

Both sets of eyes swung in my direction, silence followed.

I looked from one to the other. “I have a small question. Do these ancient cures ever actually work?” The look I received from both of them gave me my answer.

We just needed to find a doctor to verify it, and I had just the person in mind.

Twenty

From Master’s back porch I saw immediately that Ugly Bike had a flat, her deflated tube drooping like a squashed cobra below her spokes. The moment I saw that disheartening sight I entertained the idea of kicking something, but then thought better of it. There was no purpose in expending that kind of energy at that time of day, or in injuring my toe, so I sent a good string of cuss words in her general direction instead.

It was the hour between noon and one, the hour made famous by the expression “mad dogs and Englishmen.” Those happened to be the only two things stupid enough--or in the case of the canine, insane enough—to venture outside. During the Varanasi summer, stores were shuttered, autoricks disappeared, and the city dozed to hold its breath until a cooler part of the day. Nothing moved. I, however, had to.

Deciding to leave her at Devi’s, I gave Miss Ugly a fond pat on the seat—with an apology for my cussing--shouldered my pack and trudged up the lane.

My trip might have been shorter had I taken a direct route home, but I didn’t. Curiosity spurred me to swing by the scene of my first date in four years. It wasn’t the thought of Sukshmi or the conundrum of her forced marriage that changed my path. It was the voice that kept oddly repeating in my head--the voice of the backpacker who had wished me a good night. There had been a puzzling, rather pleasant, accent, Scandinavian my trained ears told me. Swedish or possibly Danish, and being in the business of language, it had piqued my curiosity. I thought on it when I woke that morning, and at most moments when I wasn’t too occupied with the project.

It would have been a shorter along the Ghats, being less serpentine and a smaller curve--like on the inside of a racetrack, but I chose to walk through the gullies for a different reason. They were shaded. I plodded up Madanapura Road, sweat dripping into my sandals, turned right on Luxa and into the overshadowed lanes that took me past the Vishwanath Temple--another famous Varanasi edifice. In addition to being a survivor of a dozen assaults by mogul emperors, and that many reconstructions, the current interior was crafted from nearly a ton of pure gold. Not that anyone would have thought to chip any off. A cadre of devout guards stood watch even during that hour when only mad dogs and Englishmen strolled about.

I arrived at Haroon’s just as my gregarious friend was shuttering his doors and pocketing his keys. He turned at my approach. “Bhim!” The friendly smile was followed by a bewildered look. “A second visit in two days? What a delight.” Noticing the sweat streaming down my neck, he asked,” My good fellow, what are you doing traipsing around in this god-awful heat? This is when devils sit and laugh as we melt like candles. I hope you are not coming to talk about your play or politics.” He jingled his keys. “I am just now leaving for my house where the air conditioner is working. Alas, here it is not, but the workers promise that it will be ready for our evening’s happiest hour. You are welcome to join me if you wish.” With an inspired look he added, “We can make our travel plans to Cancun and Puerto Vallarta.”

Shaking his outstretched hand I replied, “Maumed, I would truly enjoy that, especially to be out of this heat, but I’m afraid I cannot. I have my own work this afternoon. Actually. . .I was hoping to see if. . .” My speech faltered. He stared and waited. “I was wondering if by chance you might know anything of the two ferenghi women, the ones with the big backpacks who sat near Jatana and me last evening.”

A wicked grin crept across his face. “Ah, Bhimaji. You are a sly fox. One beautiful Benarsi woman is not enough for the likes of you, eh. You need three to please. You are a god amongst us.”

“Nothing of the sort, Maumed. I am only interested in who they are. Just curious is all.”

Disappointment erased the grin. “Ah. . . Well, in that case, I know for a fact they are staying at The Riverview Lodge. That establishment is owned by my brother-in-law, so my bartender recommends it to the patrons, you see.”

“Uh huh. Well, not to offend, Haroon, but your brother-in-law runs a grade-D fleabag. I know it well. Anything else?”

“The taller, pretty one talked for both. The plump one never smiles and talks little. She referred to the pretty one as Uliana. My barman said that they are from some country in the north of Europe that he could not remember. But it is certainly a place too cold for women to wear bikinis much. Quite unfortunate.”

I shook his hand again. “Maumed, you’re a good friend and a fine gentleman. Maybe later this week we can sip smoothies and really plan your vacation to the great resorts of the world.”

“Our vacation, Bhim.”

“My mistake, Maumed. Our vacation.”

Twenty-one

Instead of trundling over to Haroon’s brother-in-law’s fleabag hotel, I ended up walking home by way of the Ghats again. Shyness, or some such fear, prevented me from striding like James Bond up to the desk at The Riverview and asking if a tall blond named Uliana had recently signed the register. My curiosity didn’t need to be satisfied that much. Instead, I found a favorite cheese vendor, his stall still un-shuttered to the mid-day warmth, and purchased a kilo of fresh—guaranteed refrigerated—goat cheese. With my purchase wrapped in moist banana leaves and string, I curved my way through the gullies and out to the river.

The Ganges, unlike the slumbering city above it, was not shut down during that part of the day. The river flowed at its same pace and only the people at its edge drifted more slowly. Most had surrendered to the shade of umbrellas or the overhangs of temples or vending stalls, but it was still crowded. Here and there half-dressed mendicants cleansed their souls as dhobis smacked clothes against the rocks a few feet away. I, feeling the affects of it all, the heat, the morning’s mental and physical challenges, dreamed only of a glass of cold lager and my bed beneath the fan.

I never got that cold lager.

As I plodded down to the water’s edge and around the pyres of Manikarnika, I instinctively felt eyes following me again. Glancing up at the small temple that housed the eternal flame, I saw a strange sight. Below it, seated in the shade of a shala, a large palm hut, was a young man. Even more strangely, it was the same man who had met me at the train station, bestowed my Hindu name, and passed by my gate two days earlier. At his feet were the two blond backpackers and four foreigners, two of whom I knew. All of them at that moment were looking directly at me.

There are moments we come to understand as crossroads, times of decision. Unlike the unanticipated events that alter our lives without warning, these are moments we have some power over. Sometimes we see them for what they are; sometimes we understand later. The moment I saw that unusual congregation, I knew I had arrived at a crossroad. I could have fluttered a non-committal wave and shuffled off to the coolness of my fan and that tumbler of ale. I was a recluse, a bookworm, and any number of excuses would have sufficed-- hunger, thirst, or the forbidding heat of the Indian sun. No one would have considered it discourteous had I kept on my path. But I didn’t; I took a deep breath, and trying to look casual for the benefit of the watching eyes, turned and climbed the steps.

As I neared the top, the young man gestured with his fingers to a woven mat at the edge of the circle. In rapid English he called out, “Bhim, my good friend. It has been far too long since we have been in each other’s company. Come, take advantage of our shade and, as we often say in these parts, have a Fanta.” He chuckled at that, flipped opened a battered ice chest, and without waiting for an answer, produced an orange soda. He snapped the cap with a rusty opener on the side of the box and thrust it toward me. There was nothing to do but accept the drink and the camaraderie of the group.

With a traditional palm-to-palm thank you, I took the Fanta and sat in the only space left, on the mat between the only people that I knew in the group. I’d chatted with them on occasion through years and referred to them as The Sadhu Wannabees, Petey and Shawn.

They were English, and the focus of a lot of jokes around the local merchant stalls. For a few obvious reasons. They were overtly gay, dressed in orange loincloths, and never once wore shirts. They anointed themselves with gray ash and red paste and had the longest, filthiest, dreadlocks in human history. Their feet made C.G.’s look attractive. Naturally, they were the subject of some humorous comment. The amount of holy beads alone that dangled from their necks was enough to start most laughing.

In their quest for spiritual enlightenment, Petey and Shawn smoked no less than ten chillums of hashish a day, drank a lot of sharab, and ate balls of black opium in the afternoon to enhance their dreams. To put it mildly, they liked to get messed up. It brought them closer to nirvana.

Like all year-round ferenghis, you eventually crossed paths. We had chatted enough at the Ghats or fruit stalls for me to realize that they were harmless and more interested in brain altering substances and each other’s penises than who I was. That was fine by me.

Shawn, whose dreads were coiled into a wooly beehive, whispered as I sat down, “Bhimaji Man, it is righteous good to see your light amongst us again.” I hadn’t thought it had left, but whispered amiably, “Good to see you too, Shawn. You guys still staying at the Hodge Podge?” The Hodge Podge Lodge was a few notches lower on the rating scale than The Riverview. A true dive.

“Yeah, but me and Petey are in a better space now, Man. We got a shower.” That must’ve been an exciting improvement, but by the looks of it, neither of them had yet to avail themselves of it. I took a long pull on my Fanta.

Our host seemed to be wrapping up some sort of discourse on the physics of the river below us. “And so, good friends, our little molecule of oxygen and hydrogen, two gases drawn into mysterious partnership of liquid, flows with no fanfare whatsoever from this very spot in front of us down to the vastness of the ocean.” He chuckled. “And in my opinion, a journey of such perseverance and length deserves more recognition. A toast. To The Process of Light Energy.” He raised his own bottle. His was grape. I took that moment to study him.

The first word that came to my mind was--eccentric. Then I changed that. Eccentric from Latin eccentricus and Greek ekkentros, meant outside the center. He wasn’t outside, he was right in the middle. Then the word ‘quirky’ came to mind. That seemed appropriate. He was Indian, but had the look of wealth and education, perhaps an affluent Vaishya family— the merchant caste. He had handsome features, like a Punjabi, was medium height, and wore comfortable pajama-pants and a loose-fitting green kurta the color of unripe mangoes. His hair, brushed straight back, had none of the oil-slick worn by most of the young men in the region. I suspected he was Oxford-educated because he had retained just enough of that accent for my ear to detect. He had a straight nose and eyes that were exceptional; they danced and absorbed everything around him with humor, a lot of humor. They were also the most intelligent eyes I had seen since the university at Berkeley, but without the haughtiness of the academicians I had met there. Even with all those refined features, the word that still came to me was. . . ‘quirky.’

His eyes focused on me. “So, Bhim, we meet again. I told you we would, did I not? Let’s see, you already know Shawn and Peter. Uliana and Jitka you have seen but haven’t formally met.” I glance shyly in their direction, wondering how our host knew this. “Marley and Frederick you don’t know from Archie and Betty. Okay everyone; this is Bhim, a great Sanskritist in our fair city. There, now we all know each other.” I glanced shyly at the other’s faces. The blond-haired Uliana, at that distance and full light, was simply stunning.

If the rapid-fire introductions hadn’t sounded so odd, I might have felt uncomfortable, as it was, I nearly started laughing.

I screwed up enough courage to state the obvious, “Not quite all. . . I don’t know you.”

He laughed as if that were outrageously funny. “Yes, yes, we have met, but you are quite correct. You do not know my name. I was once known as Sharmalal Dijna. Years ago. Now I’m Adam.”

Okay, I’d expected something like Bhapu or Gopal, something a tad more indigenous. Adam didn’t fit. Not yet.

He looked inquisitively at my wrapped package, but I had the distinct impression he knew what was inside. He validated my suspicions by asking, “Feta?” I nodded. He held out his hand, and thinking he meant to feel its weight, I handed it to him. Then I turned to Shawn and Petey on the pretext of asking if the shower was actually working in their new room. I wanted to steal another glance at Uliana and Jitka. Uliana had deep-ocean eyes, high cheekbones, and full lips. Michelle Pfeifer from Oslo. Jitka was plumper, and wore a travel-weary expression that told you to back away slowly lest your testicles be at risk.