The PuppetMaster (21 page)

We took our compotes and sat on the sofa where she drew her legs under her thighs and onto the pillows. Our knees touched lightly as we talked about the city and its history.

“Und your poetry und language has been at the center of all of it, ya?”

“Pretty much. Almost everything of importance is written in it. If you study yoga, or dance, or law, or anything like it, you need to know some of the language.”

“Like Latin und Greek for Westerners?”

“Exactly, but even more so here. The three are actually close sisters and share a lot of grammar and vocabulary.”

“Like all that amo, amas, amat we had to memorize in school?” Her nose scrunched. “It wasn’t my best subject.”

“Honestly, it wasn’t mine either until I found this. It just clicked. But all those repetitions we had to learn in Latin are nearly the same in Sanskrit.”

A piece of mango slid smoothly from her spoon through her lips. “So who figured out the languages were sisters?”
“A very bright young English gentleman named Sir William Jones was the first. He spoke thirteen languages by the time he was twenty, so The East India Company figured he was the right candidate to hire to master the grammar. They sent him here to learn more about the original laws so they could create better ways to make money. Sir William mastered the language in a flash and wrote a paper that he sent back to London. That little paper shook up the entire Empire.”

“Why?”

“Well, what he discovered was that Sanskrit, Latin, and Greek were identical. The structure was the same, declensions, conjugations, all of it. There were lots of cognates--similar words. It meant the people who spoke them were from the same linguistic roots. It’s like this. People carry language around like suitcases, and William’s paper proved that all three languages were closely related. Aristotle, Plato, and all the kings and queens were relatives of Kapila, Ramanuja, and the Brahmin priests. The subjects the British were trying to civilize were not only close relatives, but quite a bit older in terms of civilization.”

She flashed a sparkly grin. “So those stuffy old Britishers were really cousins to the Rajahs. I like that story.”

“I’ve always liked it too. Good example of irony. This place has a lot of stories like that.” I wanted to tell her how the city felt so transitory, how people came and went while I remained. At one point I realized that she hadn’t asked me once why I, Bhim the Linguist, lived alone in the oldest city in the world. But then, I hadn’t asked her about her past either.

As we nibbled on the last of our fruit, I said cautiously. “You know, I don’t give advice often. Honestly, I hand it out about as rarely as a hamburger around here, but I think you and Jitka could find better accommodations than The Riverview. That spot is a bit run-down.”

“Run down? Mein Gott, you should hear Jitka. The air turns blue over her head with her cursing about how filthy it is. The beds sag like rotten hammocks, the water is the color of tea, und when I asked the desk clerk why they call it the Riverview when you can’t see the river, he said you used to be able to see it back in the thirties.”

“He probably meant the 1830's.” I hesitated and then rushed through my hastily drafted speech. “Well. . . if you would like, I could help you find a better place. My tailor has a two bedroom flat that is comfortable and available. It’s upstairs from where he lives, but it has its own entrance and a balcony where you can see the north section of the river. There’s a kitchen, and I’m sure I could get you a decent price. You would just need to pay the first and last month’s rent and the electric.”

Her smile told me that my suit of armor was lustrous shiny and that my white stallion was the noblest in Uttar Pradesh. “Oh Bhim, we would love that. Where is this wonderful upstairs flat with the balcony und view of the river?”

“Uh . . . about four streets east of here.”

Almost desperately I wanted to escort her back to the stinky hotel with the foul water and view of a dung-covered wall, but she wouldn’t have it. With a cabernet glow, she laughed, “Nein, I vill take a rickshaw, and be fine, though I do like the idea of being with you in the back of a little cab. That would be sweeter than the fruit dessert. But it is late, and you must find me an apartment tomorrow and continue with all of that important work over there.” Her arm swung in a graceful arc towards my desk, bangles jingling like tiny bells.

From the kitchen I heard giggling. Lalji and Sahr had finished the dishes and were peeking at us through the crack in the doorjamb. They’d seen too many American films where the man and woman kissed during this part. Suddenly, I was nervous, differently than before, but still nervous. I called for an autorick on my cell and walked her to the courtyard. The fragrance of gardenias and jasmine drifted to us on the breeze. The air felt different, and I knew why. Looking at the moon, I saw a cloud draw like a cape across its face.

“The rains will be coming soon,” I whispered. “The season of marriages will end and the season of honeymoons will begin.” I looked at her. “The rains will be very welcome this year.”

She smiled and took my hand. “There are no words to describe this afternoon, Bhimaji of Varanasi. And this night too.” A rickshaw chugged to a stop at the gate. “No words.” She placed a silencing finger to my lips and stood on her toes to kiss me—a warm, moist kiss, not too long, but not a peck either. She turned and with all that beauty and jingling, stepped into the darkness of the cab, and my second date in a very long time was brought to an end.

Thirty-Five

As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t sleep in the following morning. I was trying to re-insert myself into a dream where Uliana Hadersen and I were hovering like Superman and Lois Lane somewhere over the Himalayas. Nice dream, but my alarm rudely reminded me that Mej was arriving at my gate in half an hour with Frisbees and some form of gift.

Extracting my weary body and reluctant psyche off the top sheet, I plodded into the kitchen. There I found a very cheerful Sahr and the best cup of coffee I’d had in a month. “And how is the handsome Bhimaji with the beautiful girlfriend and soon-to-be wife and mother of his children, doing this fine morning? Don’t forget that it is going to rain this afternoon, so you will need to take your umbrella today.”

I bolstered my strength with three sips before answering. “You mustn’t say things like that Sahr. She is a good friend and that is all.”

“Hah, good friends don’t kiss like that, besides, I have seen it in my cards.”

I groaned. “You were spying on me, and that isn’t nice, or good manners.” I took another gulp. “But you are forgiven, because you’re the best cook in all of Northern India and I probably wouldn’t have gotten that kiss if it weren’t for the incredible dinner last night. Thank you for every delicious bite. By the way, where did you get all those extras? Lalji’s serving gloves were a nice touch.”

“Thank you, big boss ferenghi. I do have my connections.”

“An understatement if there ever was one. Listen, I will be off to Master Devi’s right after Mej and I get some exercise. Would you mind saving me a few left-overs for tonight?”

“They will all be here, hot, and ready.” The bell rang raucously at the gate, reminding me of another concern. “Sahr, could you also ask quietly of the whereabouts of the young widow, Soma. No one’s seen her since yesterday morning. Perhaps one of the neighbors has heard something. You know, gup-chup.”

“I will ask, Bhimaji.” Her expression became serious. “I can consult my bhuta if you wish. He see more than any of these rumor-mongers.”

“I know, Sahr. But let’s wait on that. She is probably just feeling ill and doesn’t want to be at her mother-in-law’s. Not surprising. I expect she’ll turn up at Master’s this morning.”

I pulled on my ugly tennis, trotted out to meet Mej, and was immediately relieved that tucked under his arm wasn’t a life-size doll, but two leather-bound books. “Nanu-nanu, Bheemster. Greetings from planet Delhi.” Two pairs of forked fingers thrust into a Vulcan salute in front of Mej's homely visage.

“Nanu, nanu back atcha, Brother Mej. How was planet Delhi?”

“God-awful, worst city in the ‘ole fucking world, Bhim, especially driving, not that I ever do that. I ‘ire taxis. Largest, fookin’ tanks I can find, and my cabbies are instructed to push all those little farting tuk-tuks out of our way. It was also ‘otter than a gigolo’s pecker in that fucking ‘ole. I did manage to score you a couple of gifts though.”

I opened the gate and the books popped through first. I took them and read the titles--The Kama Sutra and The Arthashastra. Finely bound editions, printed on a quality, cream paper in both languages, and as puzzling as could be. Before I could thank him he chirped in rich cockney, “I know, I know. I didn’t ‘ave a foocking clue what I was getting. I mean, I know the Kama Sutra, read it eighteen times meeself, memorized most them positions. Practice makes perfect, right?” He went to slap me on the back, but I spun and held up the books in a defensive move. “I got ‘em because the covers were right cool. Cool pictures inside, too. The Arthawhatever is way over my ‘ead, ‘istory, politics, wars with a lot of army shite, but I figured you know all that stuff. ‘Ell, you can use them for door stops if you fookin’ want. Books ain’t my gig. I once gave a girl a book called Candy thinking it was about chocolates. That one didn’t last too long. Anyway, I know ‘ow much you like adding to your library, and the sex manual might come in ‘andy.”

“No, they’re great. Really. Both of them. Thank you.” I thumbed through the Arthashastra. Sketches of cavalry and foot soldiers in fine detail stared back, a good research book to add to my library.

I ran them inside and called to Sahr to make sure Lalji attended to duties while I was gone. When I returned to the porch, Mej was already trotting towards the fields.

It is said, or perhaps written somewhere, that to truly see India one must view a sunrise in Varanasi and a sunset in Goa. Whoever said that knew his or her guidebook to some degree. The sunrises over the river are magical, but they are not just to be seen. One must, like all things Indian, open all the senses.

They arrive through the dusty haze of the Gangetic Plain, accompanied by the intonations of priests calling to the gods in a dozen tongues. The smoke of morning fires, fried dough, and temple incense drifts like fog. Bells chime and voices swell in chants. Colors cling along the shore in muted layers of crimson and salmon above a smooth river where poling guides steer drifting boats. Women glide barefoot in saris with urns balanced on their heads, buttocks swaying like elephants, and for the patient observer, there is an undeniable connection to a very deep past. One feels the greed of monarchs lusting over the realms, and listening carefully, one hears the feet of a million soldiers and a billion slaves. The life and death of a thousand battles arrives with the first rays. The sunrises along the river are not just the heralds of a new day; they are the portals to five thousand years of history.

I’m not sure if Mej saw them quite that way, but he always took the time to watch them, and that morning the arrival was spectacular. The rays shot upward into shifting clouds--gathering plumes that held a promise of moisture. The breeze tasted sweet and foretold of rain. There would be dancing in the streets that afternoon, and that morning we would dance with the Frisbee in the marigold fields. I sprinted across the dirt, turned and leapt. The disc met my hand in perfect timing.

On our return Mej ripped off a couple of tasteless jokes involving blondes, George Bush, and Osama Bin Laden. As sweat continued to roll down my chest, I laughed “Typically crude. You pick those up in one of your Delhi brothels?”

“Nope, not this trip, not enough hours to visit any of my favorite whores or add to my jokes. I had to work.” He said it casually.

“Work? No, no. You’re employed?” I thought he’d been joking and was ribbing him, but when he answered, I realized he was serious.

“Yeah, had to bugger a pair of big-arse shears cross a bloody fat wad of red tape, I did. Two fookin’ days of it.”

I didn’t say anything until we turned down my street. Curiosity tugged at me. “So, what kind of tape? Bureaucratic stuff?”

“Naw, You could call it import-export ‘assles, little money-makers I dabble in. And it isn’t drugs, if that’s whot you’re thinking. Anyway, I gotta run. Enjoy the books. Check out the birdie on page two-fourteen in the Kama Sutra. I think she’s me next year’s prom date. See if you can get me ‘er phone number.” He lit off down the avenue leaving me amused and puzzled.

Inside, I collected my notes and the Acer, and then on an odd hunch did a simple experiment. I set the Kama Sutra upright on the desk on its spine and let the covers drop equally. Eight out of ten times it opened to the same page. Mej was right; the woman in the illustration was a contortionist of exceptional skill. As Mej would have said, “right cool picture, Mate”

I let the Arthashastra fall the same way, but it dropped to the side as if it had never been opened.

Thirty-Six

Soma had not returned to Devi’s. Mirabai had dispatched Sukshmi with a container of rice and dal to the mother-in-law’s house in the hopes the young girl was just feeling ill. Such remedies usually helped, but Soma’s mother-in-law snapped that the lazy girl had not been seen for two days, and she had needed to light the morning fire all by herself. However, if Sukshmi wished to leave the food . . .

Concern was spreading through the household, and I felt like someone was taking sandpaper to my skin. Could Ralki have been so insidious as to harm her? The question returned throughout the morning session.