The PuppetMaster (37 page)

“The students call it The Main Library.”

“Well, they’re smart. I guess that’s why they go to the university.”

A few of those students went jogging past us, though no classes were in session on Sunday morning. The riots had kept anyone else at home. A bicyclist wheeled by and glanced back at the tall ferenghi couple holding hands. We picked up our pace, my Casio reminding me that we were now a minute behind schedule, but unlike my teacher; C.G. never seemed to mind if I was tardy, early, or punctual. I had visited his house twice before and remembered that it was nestled in a quiet, wooded area between the cricket fields and one of the massive lecture halls.

I asked her about her university in Denmark and added, “Ms. Hadersen, have I told you how stunning you look in my kurta this morning?”

She smoothed a few wrinkles along the torn hem and replied, “You realize that you are taking me to meet one of your famous pundits und the Queen of Haroon’s, und I am wearing one of your shirts, which is torn, und a rather smelly skirt.”

“And you still look more beautiful than anyone on earth. Anyone.”

She stopped, her face and hair bathed in splintered sunlight. We stood on the path near a copse of betel palm and sandalwood. She touched my lips with the tips of her fingers and said in a low voice, “How do you manage to say such perfect things to me, always make me feel like I do right now? Do you know how incredible that makes me feel as a woman?”

“It’s because you are the most beautiful woman in the world. Five days and I know it. All this craziness keeps spinning around us, and I look at you and it stops. I want to spend the rest of my life learning how to say the right things you.”

“You see,” she whispered, “that is exactly what I mean, Mein Schatzki, you always make the perfect words.” She smiled and turned down the path again. “Geology,” she said after a moment.

“What?”

“Geology. You asked what I studied at university. I told you on our first date. I studied earth science. Rocks. Boring old rocks.”

I kicked a piece of gravel. “I love boring old rocks. They’re like boring old languages. You study them long enough and you find a universe inside them.”

“You see,” she laughed.

Sixty

The door flew open before we had finished climbing the four steps to the porch. Sukshmi, in a rust-colored sari, motioned us quickly into the front parlor. The sari was traditional, but little else was. Her nouveau hairstyle was uncovered and radically cropped, lipstick and fingernails blazed in bright shades of peach, and her rose-tinted sunglasses were still perched like a canary on her head. She wore the same sad smile I’d become accustomed to, but behind it was an expression of puzzling vitality.

I stood for a moment not knowing what to do or expect. The note of the previous evening hadn’t provided much. Sukshmi placed her palms together and with a little bow said, “Namaskara, and you must be Uliana. Now I see why Bhimaji has been smiling so much lately. A beautiful woman has filled his heart with peace and joy, what a blessing.” She took Uli’s hand in both of hers.

Uli, with the poise of a duchess, replied, “Bhim has filled my own heart with joy, and told me often how beautiful and kind his teacher’s daughter is. I see for myself that both are true.” I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me, but each seemed completely sincere.

Then Sukshmi, with a sweep of her hand toward the inner rooms, said something that truly surprised me. “Welcome to my godfather’s home. Follow me.”

“Your godfather?” I asked in amazement.

She glanced at me, puzzled. “That’s right. Of course, you didn’t know. C.G., as Father’s oldest friend, was asked to be my spiritual guardian.” She aimed her teasing smile at us and added, “Father just didn’t guess what kind of guardian C.G. would turn out to be. Come, come, there is little time. And Bhim?”

I stopped behind her in the arched entry. “Yes?”

“Two things. Do not be alarmed by what you see. Or sad. They are not.”

“And?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I am in love and engaged.”

“The boring bank clerk from Delhi?”

“Not a chance,” she snapped.

Oh God, I thought the battle has escalated now. I motioned for Uli to go in front of me, and as we walked down the hallway to a room on the right, I pondered how so much had changed in such a short a time. That is India, I thought to myself.

It was a fair-sized space, books, desks, and pillowed divans, wrapped around the walls. Long windows hid behind thick curtains. In the center, two beds were set a few meters apart, a chair and table between them. C.G. was propped up in one and Adam in the other. C.G.’s private study was now converted into a type of hospital ward. Satnam Kangri leaned forward in a high-back chair between the beds, his fingers on the professor’s wrist. And as soon as I saw the old pundit, I knew he was dying. The eyes were dim, the light fading like late evening in his pupils. It was a good-bye, and Uli and I had, for unknown reasons, been asked to put in an appearance.

What ultimately convinced me of C.G. passing was Satnam. He looked drained, as if the power of his skills had been tested and were no longer proficient.

We stepped forward and all three men spoke at the same time.

Satnam--“Ah, my boy welcome. This beautiful woman must be the same who has restored your heart to such fine health.”

Adam--“Bhim, Uli, how marvelous that you have arrived. Please, sit.” I watched as he pushed himself up against the headboard, wincing slightly with pain. An unseen stanchion buoyed the sheet around his knee and lower leg.

But it was Chandragupta’s words, barely audible, that caught my ear and brought me habitually to my knee to touch his feet. “My boy, come let me see you and this beautiful light in your life.” He reached weakly for my hand.

“Professor…” My voice caught. I took his hand and touched my forehead to it.

His breathing was labored and soggy.

Uli moved to the opposite side of the bed.

“Have you brought it?” He whispered. “I would like to see it just once more. That is my only regret, you know, that it will enter the world as I leave. It was a fine time with our project, was it not?”

I raised my head to look at him. “One of the greatest privileges of my life, Punditji”

“And you will see that it is done correctly? Devi will need your help. He doesn’t see the ways of the world like us.”

“I know, Professor.”

“Satnam and Adam will help. My boy has finances and knows many very important people. Use his help.”

From Adam I heard a familiar chuckle. “Ah yes, another unmentioned detail. We really have not had enough time to talk about these things, have we? Chamuk, whom you call C.G., and Mundika are my parents. They are the loving people that saved me from the cholera of the gullies.”

It astounded me momentarily, then it all fit. The professor from BHU. Chandragupta and his wife had raised the infant boy. Mundika had died six years earlier, after Sharmalal had been sent away to England.

C.G. smiled and lapsed into a nasty coughing spell, and when it passed, he said, “After we scrubbed him off he turned about to be quite a curious gift, a prodigy for two old Benarsis who couldn’t have children. He sucked the world in like a sponge, our Adam did. A gifted learner with far too much aptitude for this place. I sent him to Mundika’s sister’s in London for a proper education.” He smiled weakly. “My friends in the physics department at Oxford still tell me how he taught them a thing or two when he was seventeen.” I guessed at some of the parts C.G. wasn’t telling me. Sooner or later someone had discovered that Adam was a harijan. It would have been difficult for all of them had he stayed. In England his origins could be obscured, but not in the holy city.

I opened the files on the laptop while Uli took Satnam’s chair next to Adam. Laying her hand lightly on his arm she asked, “Are you badly hurt?”

He chuckled, “Scratches, Dear Uli, just scratches. The good doctor has removed a few splinters from my leg and one of his disgusting pastes is seeing to it that infection will not set in. I seem to have a remarkable capacity for survival, known otherwise as good luck.”

Satnam chided, “That paste comes from a recipe a thousand years old, and those weren’t splinters.” He looked at us seriously. “The explosion sent two sticks the size of my fist into his right leg, one in the back of his thigh, the other in the calf. Fortunately for the world, they didn’t sever any major arteries. He was moving away from the hut when the bomb went off above.”

“Actually,” Adam corrected, “I was being pulled quite forcefully towards a river barge by some compassionate young followers. They saw to it that I was brought here unnoticed.”

I adjusted the laptop and set it gently on C.G.’s stomach. I wanted to lift him higher against the headboard, but he looked too fragile. His attention went immediately to the screen, and I turned to Adam whose eyes seemed changed now, serene and filled with confidence. Seeing him that way prompted me to ask, “Why would someone want to set off a bomb at your sermon?”

He lifted a glass of water from the bedside table and gazed intently at it before answering. “Too many reasons, Bhim. Anarchy, hatred, violence; they were likely all at the heart of it. It is likely someone wanted the city set upon itself for a time, or perhaps they really do detest the words I speak. Whatever their reasons, they wanted the result to be chaos.”

I thought of what Haroon had said and tried to place Mej in that role. Like a misshaped puzzle piece, he still refused to fit.

Adam continued as if he were sitting in the shade of his shala, “We are entering desperate struggles, Bhim, large and small, but with each battle, the ripples will spread. At the center of it, there is still love. Christians call it agape. Hindus, bhakti, but it is the same. Love for the energy. Love for creation and everything in it. Those who have understood this have merged with it. But, it is always done through love. And that is why hatred can never be a part of any truly righteous belief system. It has no place.” He still held the glass. “Look here; a plain glass of water. But is that it? Is it all we see? If we choose, we can see more. See its shape, its color, the refracted light on its surface, the bubbles that cling to the edge.” I looked at the glass, momentarily absorbed by his voice. My breath slowed, eyes closed halfway. Relaxed, Adam’s voice guided me. “See its smaller parts—connected, spinning orbs circling at speeds beyond imagination. But is it beyond our imagination? Choose to imagine it. Go deeper. The suns of the universe spin inside. See them, fly within them, and let go. Feel the light, the infinite speed. Nothing remains but that light, Bhim And that light is you. It is Lilia, and Soma, and Uli, Sahr, your parents, and all the galaxies of the universe. It loves you, and it is all that you should love. Now see the glass of water again.” I came drifting back, feeling like a hypnotist’s subject. “Now, when you look upon anything, see this. Know that center. Continue to love it and you will become one with it. And remember, from that, good deeds will be done.” I looked into his eyes. His face shone like the sunrise over the river.

In that moment I saw Adam as he truly was, a man young in years, and ancient in wisdom. A prophetic leader capable of mending. A healer. “The good has arrived,” he continued. “More comes each day, and it will not, cannot be stopped. Our battles are waged without violence, and the ripples are spreading ” He lifted a large sheaf of bound pages from the table and set it on his lap. “You know what the most powerful instrument of change is, don’t you?”

I answered without hesitation, “Language, spoken or written.”

He smiled. “Precisely so, as Devamukti would say. Take this. Read what you wish. I think you will find some of it technical, some inspirational, and some downright boring. But I will ask you to consider doing an important favor for me.”

I was puzzled, but more so, questioning my confidence.

“It is because you understand the power of language that I ask this.”

Editing? Proofing? My mind jumped from lily pad to lily pad.

“Write the forward. An introduction in your own words.” Four plus inches of bound document was handed to me. “Neither long nor complex, Bhim. Employ your poetic conciseness, and when you are done with it, deliver it to Britland Press on Connaught Circle in New Delhi. They will know what to do.”

I immediately asked myself, why me? Adam seemed to think I was proficient. Am I?

My thoughts were cut short by C.G.’s voice, stronger now, “I knew it! Bhimaji, come and look at this.” I stood and came to his bed. “This corner, where it disappears under the rock, can you read the first line?” He pointed to a faint string of angular lines magnified on the screen. I studied it, but it was too difficult to read. Magnifying it created a distortion and the resolution was too choppy.

“I need to reduce it to normal size and use a magnifying glass,” I said.

Satnam pointed to the desk below the window. “Bottom left drawer.”

Uli went and returned with a large, black-handled lens. She peered through it at the screen to focus it for C.G. and then lifted his hand to the handle. I came to the other side of the bed and the three of us peered at the script along the base of the wall.

“Asvini twins,” he whispered, and I understood immediately what it implied. It was another salutation.