The PuppetMaster (22 page)

We gathered in the front salon as usual, and as soon as the computer was whirring and the old boys were bickering, I attempted to explain my new theory.

“Masterjis, I think I know why the adjectives are used to describe the plants.”

I waited for some encouragement, a short round of applause, but C.G. merely patted my knee and wheezed, “They are rubbish, my boy. Pure nonsense, you must know that.” Pointing to the legal pad he shook his head and said, “Even the gender and case do not match.”

I let it fly in a burst, “Exactly, they don’t match. That’s the whole idea. It’s written that way on purpose as a signal. It’s nothing to do with the denominations or declensions at all. They’re numbers. Fractions! The number of syllables gives the ratio in the mixture. Look, eight syllables means eight parts of neem, nine parts of kino, seven parts fenugreek. They’re directions for a pharmacist, and it even tells which herbs are supplementary and which are primary. There’s no other answer, and I would bet my very shiny bicycle that we will find a similar pattern for the pressure points. We know the locations, but there has to be more. What order they’re supposed to pressed. I’m sure of it.” I was out of breath.

Outside, a bicycle bell clanged with a Doppler sound as it zipped past the house. Inside there was silence.

“The syllables you say?” They both stared at me, unblinking.

“Yes, look.” I pointed at the calculations. They studied my notes.

“Well,” Devi conceded slowly, “it seems to make sense. The boy may be onto something you know, C.G.”

“Of course he is onto something, Devi. I told you how smart our Bhimaji is. You really should listen more carefully.”

Before that one could escalate, I tossed another item onto the table, “And there are also patterns with the long and short syllables. Look. This one is used three times. I think it tells which part of the plant we are supposed to use. Two longs, a short, a long means the bark or resin is to be used. At least I think that’s what it is.”

“Well,” C.G. replied. “I believe you are correct again, Bhimaji. It is the bark of the Kino that is used to make dragon’s blood.”

“Exactly,” I blurted out, “and this adjective for the neem bark has the same pattern. It’s a work of genius.”

“Precisely so, Bhim. Precisely so.” Masterji accolade resonated with hollowness.

I knew why.

We had come, by laborious and exhilarating steps, to the time when we would have to relinquish our discovery to the world. We might have done it earlier, brought them in at the start, archeologists and others, but we wanted our time with it first. Now it was clear that others would need to take the fruits of our labor and bake the pies and tarts from it.

There was another concern that I had. The discovery of the text, like additional threads in the great linguistic tapestry, was one thing to publish, but a medical discovery, that was a gift to be shared cautiously.

I understood enough about the control of medical knowledge, the malicious competition and staggering regulatory processes. Lilia had talked about it often. I had also been in close proximity to some very ugly diseases over the last three years. In a place like Varanasi death swept with casual indifference through the city’s neighborhoods. Infections and viruses, from AIDS to hepatitis, sliced like scythes through the destitute sections, always the destitute sections. Some survived, many did not, but those who had the medicine always had better odds, and that came down to money. And control.

I was too guarded, or stubborn, to allow some corporate goliath snatch away our four thousand year old gift. The voices in the cave reminded me that profit wasn’t the reason they had preserved it. “It was a gift to us, it is a gift to you. Let it remain that way,” they whispered.

Before leaving for the day, I showed Master and C.G. the final photograph of the partially crumbled section of wall. The letters sank to illegibility under the rock.

“Oh my,” Chandragupta coughed. “I can barely make out the lines,” His fingers trembled as they slid across the top of the screen. “We will need to guess at some of the parts.” He sighed. “It appears as if it is discussing varnas, or colors, but I don’t think that is the full intent.”

Devamukti leaned across to study the screen, and then nodded. “You are correct, C.G., but look at these two words, dosha and vayu. Those are references to diet. And look, this is another list.” His finger tapped the left corner where the text disappeared. “It is a list of foods.” He sighed. “Tragic that we cannot get inside to see it.”

Hell, I thought, nothing that a sixteen ton back-hoe couldn’t remedy. I closed the computer. I had my own list of things to do.

Thirty-Seven

Three months after I’d settled into my villa, I’d fallen ill. Very much so. It hadn’t been the typical alimentary cleansing from overly-spiced curry. It had been longer and much worse. Poisons excreted from every pore and orifice of my body, and after six days of unintended weight loss, Sahr came to my aid. I weakly attempted to shoo her away with a wave of my fingers, thinking to outlast it on my own. Her head proved to be harder than mine, as it usually did. First she spoon-fed me green apple skin scrapings. Then she sent for Dr. Satnam Kangri.

Kangri knew a great deal more than his fluffy mustache and dimpled smile suggested. With piercing eyes and a warm smile he prescribed tea that tasted like lacquer and settled my insides instantly. But he didn’t stop there; he probed the deeper wounds. For a week and a day he came to my house at sunrise, sat by my bed, and plied me with delving questions. I, being a weak and captive audience, mumbled answers as he massaged my muscles and tendons with adroit fingers. Then there was a rubbing of my feet and questions about my childhood. It seemed to be mixture of foot reflexology and psychoanalysis. I told him of being raised in seaside luxury and wealth. That part was easy. But as we neared the episode of Lilia’s death and my tumble into my own personal abyss, it became more and more painful. My wounds were still fresh and Kangri sensed it. Still he demanded in his gentle manner that I tell him what I would.

Slowly, as I returned to a place where Sahr's cooking was appealing again, I learned about him—an unusual medical practitioner to say the least. He was a specialist in two systems. Following an internship in Los Angeles, he had trained as a cardiac electrophysiologist at UCSD Medical Center. That happened to be in my hometown, so it somewhat validated his Western credentials for me. But equally as important, he had trained under the best Ayurvedic teachers in Northern India. Kangri knew the body, mind, and spirit from two cultures and two systems.

It was he who encouraged me to talk with Sahr, patting my hand and stating in articulate English, “You need to rid yourself of these contaminants, my boy. Pain coats your heart like patina and the despair is polluting you. Remove it if you wish to live in good health. And talk to Sahr. She knows more of these things than you might think.” Then with a grin he added, “and eat more bananas, small greens ones will do the trick nicely.”

From Master’s back veranda I punched the buttons of my cell to call Satnam. He answered immediately and agreed to meet me in his office in twenty minutes. I was just pressing the end button when Sukshmi stepped from the kitchen, wearing a sari of deep plum and maroon that magnified the black kohl around her eyes. Her bodice was a rich betel nut red, but it was her hair that shocked me--sheared to just above her shoulders in a style I knew must have infuriated her father. The whole effect was one of sultry attractiveness. And determined resistance. Seeing my hands on Surya’s handlebars she frowned. “You are skipping out again, Bhimaji, and not stopping to shoot the breeze with your dance partner? Are you avoiding me?” I winced. Twice. I had been avoiding her and ‘shoot the breeze’ was one another of those catchy phrases that grated on my ears.

“I’m not avoiding you, Sukshmi.” I whispered. “I’ve just been a little too busy with . . . things recently. I’ve had my laptop stolen, a man’s death to discuss with the police, and a mountain of translation to finish with your father and C.G.” I decided prudently to leave Uliana’s name out.

“And you have no time now to chill and make chit-chat, or dance any cool tunes with me?” If we had not been below her father’s back veranda I believe she would have tried to tickle me. She did like to tease.

“I always have time for you,” Sukshmi, I said, feigning offence in my voice. “Dancing is another matter, and it’s not that I didn’t enjoy myself the other night; I’m just feeling like everything in my life has . . . begun moving so quickly. I hardly have time to look at the clouds in the sky or a sunset over the plains. I haven’t written a line of my own poetry in two weeks, or even read a good book lately. Anyway…once it settles down again, maybe we can meet at Haroon’s again.”

The teasing smile faded. With a nod she said, “You know, Bhim, I believe you are more Hindu, or perhaps more Indian than me or most of my friends. These things you desire are what a proper Hindu would prefer to do on most days.” Her eyes met mine and looked as they had when she exited the restroom at Haroon’s—pained and stripped of defenses. “It makes me like you more, you know. But it also lets me know we are quite different from each other.” She sighed.

I wanted to stay, because I sensed that she needed to talk, needed to tell me that being forced to marry a man she’d never met was perfectly detestable. I wanted to sit in a quiet pastry shop and listen, and I suspected I might have been the only person besides a girlfriend or two that she had confided this to. Young, modern, and educated, with the cords of tradition strangling her. It was an all too common dilemma in modern India. I wanted to stay and listen…but I couldn’t. Satnam Kangri was waiting.

Offering a convincing smile, I whispered, “You and I are alike in more ways than you might imagine. I like to think that you will listen, and remind me to keep my dancing feet moving. That’s a generous attribute in any culture. You set a time and place and I’ll be a better listener. I promise. Maybe we can even dance to a few more of Randy Dogs’ tunes.”

“That is a pleasant thought, Bhim. I will wait.” She glanced at Surya and the teasing grin returned. “Your bicycle has had a face-lift, yes?”

I glanced at her hairstyle. “Actually, more like a total make-over.”

“And what do you call her now that she has this special look?”

I wiped a speck from the chrome bell and answered proudly, “She used to be named Ugly Bike, but now I call her Surya.”

As I rolled through the back gate with a second promise to listen, Sukshmi called out, “You know, Bhim, you might have called her Jatana with all those new features. She does not look like she used to at all.” I left her comment drift into the heat of the afternoon.

Satnam’s office was west of the Alamgir Mosque on the Kabir Chaura, a mile from Master’s back gate. Barring large herds of cows, carts, or funeral processions, and I would make it to his waiting room punctually. What I didn’t count on was a large group of migrating clouds.

I had just wheeled onto the Chaitganj Road when the skies cracked open with a single slap of thunder. It was as if a giant creature of myth had stepped in and struck a colossal drum announcing the end of the dry season. Seconds later the rain began to fall, large scattered drops that bounced and smacked against the tarmac in dark circlets. Then it thickened and came with determination. The paths that bordered the road, previously of fine rouge, transformed to lanes of pink ooze.

That first downpour of the year—though less than an hour in total length--obliged all but the most infirm Varanasis to celebrate. The drought had felt interminable, but the relief, instant. The air cooled, the sun disappeared, and people poured into the streets eyes turned upward with gratitude. In seconds there was dancing, clapping, twirling, and jumping. Bodies of every age and size leapt and spun until they were soaked to the skin in a festival of innocent jubilation. The men, as a single entity, decided that shirts were superfluous and bared their chests like polished shields to the drops. The women, in an uncommon display of immodesty, loosed the braids of their hair and began twirling like maple seeds, palms aloft. Saris, soaked and sheer, clung sensuously to every breast and buttock. No one paid attention to anything but the savoring of moisture. Children ran with mouths turned skyward, and everyone, without exception, laughed and sang to the glory of the gift.

It made me twenty minutes late, and I cared not. Kangri, of all people, would understand.

“Bhim! These welcome rains arrive at the same moment as my most cherished patient. What a delight. Let me look at you.” He took my hand in both of his and studied my pupils and some facet of my face.

We stood in the front parlor of one his medical offices, white-washed stucco with wooden benches portioned along the perimeter. It was an old room with a curious blend of odors--spices, medicines, and mold--empty and silent, but from beyond the door the music of rain and singing filtered in.

I stood, embarrassed that I was dripping so much water onto the tiles.

After a moment he took my hands warmly and said, “You look well, my boy, clearly better than the first time we met. That was a messy week, eh?”

“Messy is the right word for it, Satnam. Not my best appearance, but I have you to thank for getting me through it. You and Sahr.”

He raised a bushy eyebrow. “I see your pain has grown less, a great deal so. That is good. There is evenness in the eyes. Even a bit of softness now. Hmmm…” He chuckled, as if at an inside joke. “This heart is smiling quite a bit more. Quite a bit. . He grasped my shoulder with, “You have not become a sadhu, I assume.” I shook my head, and with a small squeeze he released it. “Countenance is strong, heart smiling, so, what can this curious doctor do for you today?”