The PuppetMaster (43 page)

“Already left for the cremation, Bhimaji,” Sahr replied. “He begged me yesterday, and I gave him permission. It is alright?”

“Yes. It is alright.” My watchman hadn’t the courage to mumble a hello to the Widow Soma while she lived, he should at least be able to say good-bye at her death. “Yes, it is fine,” I repeated.

****

Two things struck me as we stepped from the gulley onto the steps of Manikarnika--the amount of mourners already gathered, and the blast crater. It was still unfilled, ringed only by a tripod of sticks and yellow tape. Master, quite conspicuous, stood in white dhoti and kurta beside the tirtha, the eternal flame. I didn’t approach. Soma’s preta, her encased soul, rested on a small cot-like scaffold behind him. She had been cleansed with water from the river and wrapped in white, a color she had stubbornly refused to wear when alive. The color was a symbolic stripping, a societal punishment for an undefined crime. Soma, with shy obstinacy, stuck to faded green. Uli’s orange scarf still hung in stark contrast about her shoulders, though.

Her body looked so tiny to me.

Further back Mirabai, Sukshmi, and others stood quietly. Satnam Kangri sat on a stool beside them. I nodded to each with a heavy smile and led Uli and Jitka upwind of the pyre. Sahr followed, and from out of nowhere, Lalji appeared to station himself next to his mother.

Standing apart and silent were four men I didn’t recognize--young student-looking types in black trousers and white shirts. Behind them were three women, also unknown to me, two young and one older. The head of the youngest was shorn to stubble, her white sari tattered and soiled. Another widow. I wondered who they were. Even one of the police who had carried Soma’s body from the river was there. Rajneesh Sukkha, his wife, three daughters and a young son arrived. That puzzled me until I remembered that Soma had delivered the money to his family after his brother Jotilal had died.

Most of the people Soma had encountered--even peripherally--had come to bid her farewell. Everyone but her mother-in-law.

A group of beggars were assembled at the top, waiting for the traditional food and alms gifted at the end of the ceremony.

Then, with the ringing of finger bells it began. Wood was ladled with oil. Devamukti began intoning sutras from the Rig Veda and Puranas, while four doms emerged from a hut near the temple. They lifted the body onto the pyre, and I half expected Adam to appear. Nothing surprised me anymore.

With a stave from the temple flame, the head priest lit the base and flames slithered like eels through the timbers. Traditionally the eldest son performed this rite, but that was not to happen this morning.

The air was thick with smoke. Funeral fires had been smoldering throughout the night and the morning fires of the boroughs, kindled in alleys and courtyards mixed in. It was dense, biting at our nostrils, and I couldn’t see two hundred meters down the shoreline. Uli touched my arm and nodded across the river--the first rays of sun were trying to pierce the haze.

Behind me, the three women and the four students sang a short mantra, a request to Lord Shiva to release this child into enlightenment.

From ignorance, lead her to truth;

From darkness, lead her to light;

From death, lead her to immortality.

Aum, peace, peace, Aum

Flames rolled about the body. I began to weep and asked that Soma’s soul not be released from the great wheel quite yet. We still need her. Let her return, stronger, surer, with the same sweetness that drew all those people to the Ghat. Sparks rose into the fumes, and I watched an ember, larger and easier to follow, drop and float for a brief, orange moment on the currents of the Ganges. Then it was gone.

The flames, like life itself, swelled and subsided and slowly flickered out.

Suddenly, without reasoning why, I had to know who the three women were who had sung the mantra. I trotted up the steps, but they began moving hastily toward the street. “Wait, please,” I called, but the young men kept moving. I called again and the oldest of the three women stopped. Her companions halted one step above her. I hurried. “Wait. How . . . how did you know her? How did you know Soma? Please . . . she was my friend.”

They looked with uncertainty at me. It was clear I wasn’t to be trusted—a pale ferenghi in the wrong colored kurta. I was male, and that distrust glared even more in the younger women’s eyes. The one with the shaved head looked away, but the eldest, seeing the tears on my cheeks, softened.

“Your friend?” she asked.

“She was. My Master’s servant and my friend. I called her Sister. Please.” I set my fingers together in a hasty namaskar.

That seemed to further soften the oldest. “Ah, Devamukti’s student.” And with that universal acknowledgment, she smiled. “When Soma the Timid spoke, which was rare, she spoke kindly of one she called Bhim.”

I namasted again. “I am Bhim,”

“Mata,” was her reply. No handshake or namaskar.

The women looked to each other and Mata made a decision of some kind. “Come.” With nothing more, she spun and marched up the gully towards Aurangbad Road. I waved for Uli and Jitka to follow and hurried to catch up. The trio came to the rear of Vishvanath temple and waited. Uli and Jitka came and the three of us ran to join the others.

“Mata, these are friends. They will do you no harm,” I said.

Without a word, she nodded an assent and continued up the lane, turned right and went nearly to the gap at Aurangbad Road. At the alley before the main road the group turned again and stopped in front of a narrow, thick gate. Mata pulled out a ring of keys and pushed open the door. We followed into a courtyard full of women--dozens, young, middle-aged, and old. The entire space was filled with white saris. And every face had the tired, creased looks of pain, some appeared sick and weak, others had shaved heads. And all bore the look of the wretched--soiled and tattered, barefoot, wrinkled, and emaciated. They avoided our eyes, and I realized instantly where we stood, in the inner refuge of the shunned. The hand-carved sign above the door of the only building announced, Ashraya, The Haven.

“This is a home for widows?” My voice was hushed with the respect for what was being done in that small space.

Uli stepped from behind me to squat next to a child-girl who couldn’t have been more than twelve. Within the minute her smile had woven its magic. The young girl began chattering in Bhojpuri about something, her hands flitting about. Uli couldn’t have understood a word, but it didn’t matter. The child drew Picasso art in the dust and they conversed in other ways.

“Yes, it is.” Mata answered. Her hand waved in an arc. “We have the roof, a few beds, and some food. Not enough, but we keep them from the death of the streets.”

I looked around. Here and there were tiny sparks, signs of something not seen in the world of widows, hope. On the wooden entry to the rear of the building, I saw two of the four men who’d been at the cremation tending to a woman lying curled up on the boards.

“Soma was one of our fortunate ones. She had a few decent people around her, unlike these poor souls.” She waved her again. “Devamukti and his family treated her well. She had hope and some trust. She trusted you. I would not have let you in if I didn’t also.” She motioned me toward the building.

“I am grateful you did,” I replied” . . . How many live here?”

“Thirty-two permanents and ten or so who drift in when they need safety or nourishment.”

A choking feeling rose in my throat. “And Soma? Why did she come?”

Mata’s eyes pierced me, tender and tenacious in equal measures. “I believe she was lonely for the companionship of other women like her. She talked little and never asked for food.”

“What about the last time, four days ago?” I asked.

Mata smiled sadly. “I thought you might ask that.” We went up the three steps to the porch. “She was terrified of something or someone, and as much as we tried, none of us could get her to speak of it. She only asked to remain in the courtyard for a time.” Ralki! I knew it in my heart. It explained her disappearance and the missing Wednesday I’d been trying to account for. This was her place of hiding.

Our hostess led me through a small kitchen and into an infirmary—rudimentary rooms of rough wood and austere furniture. Basics were sparse, but it was plain to see small miracles were happening there. The shelves boasted medicine, salves, liniment, gauze, and improbably, three bottles of Flintstone vitamins. White-saried women squatted before piles of thread and cloth, stitching pillowcases to be sold in the market. Others strung tiny spheres of bright plastic and laminated wood, beaded curtains. But, as Mata explained, the profit was small. It wasn’t enough and food was always exiguous.

Uli and Jitka entered with their young companion, Abha, she, holding each of their hands like rope swings. Mata told us how the The Haven accepted donations from the big international charities.

“But they don’t see us as a priority,” she sighed, “with so many more visible problems in the city, AIDS, malaria, the sex trade, even the pollution in the river. Destitute widows? We are not deemed worthy of such large donations. The smaller foundations provide some, groups of women with open hearts and enough courage to come here and fight for us. But, always we need more.” Her finger pointed at the circles of working women on the floor. “They come abused, beaten, malnourished, dehydrated, and diseased. Most would die out there, or suffer so horribly they wished they had. We take them in and do what we can. I just . . . wish we had more.” She closed her eyes and touched folded hands to her forehead. “It is my great prayer, because too many nights that pot isn’t deep enough.” I looked at the large kettle over the wood fire.

I needed to get back to Manikarnika, but a larger part of me didn’t want to leave; I wanted to be where Soma had spent her last hours, just sit and absorb her energy. But . . . there were people to talk to, and Sahr would be waiting with Vin to take us home. “Mata,” I breathed. “Soma was. . .” I struggled to find the words. “special in my life. You helped her, and I will return that somehow.”

Uli looked at me and smiled in that Uli-knowing way. She knew how hard it was for me to say that, and with a quick step came and slipped her hands around my neck. “May I?” I smiled and nodded. The silver chain and fire opal came off my neck with the same words that fastened it there. “For passion, Bhim. Only that.” Then she turned to hand it to Mata. “Take this to the jewel merchant near the coffee stands in the market. He knows its value und should give you a fair price. It can fill that pot for a few more weeks.”

With Mata’s gratitudes trailing us through the gate, we trotted back to a pyre now reduced to ash and embers. Alms were being divided amongst the poor. I found Sahr and asked her to give me two more minutes, then went to where Devamukti and Sukshmi stood. She was holding her father by the arm, supporting him. Satnam and Mirabai stood to the side.

I touched his feet. “You honored her in life and death, Master. It was a beautiful dahakarana.”

“She was old on the great wheel, but young in years. Just a child. We did the best for her in death because she deserved better in life.” He looked at Sukshmi, eyes brimming, and she kissed his hand. Father and daughter, it appeared, were reconciled. He heaved a sigh. “And next, we must bid good-bye to my daughter’s godfather.”

I felt uncomfortable with what I had to say. “Master, I will be gone for a time. I don’t know how long, but there are some personal matters I must take care of. I cannot be here for Sri Chandragupta’s cremation.” I wanted to tell him that I had paid my respects at his deathbed, but his smile told me he knew.

In typical fashion he patted my arm and wagged his head. “I understand, My Boy. Sukshmi has explained it, you see. But do not be troubled. He will have the most festive celebration this Ghat has seen in a decade. Hundreds will gather to send him on.” He reached across and patted Uli’s hand, and I took the opportunity to introduce Jitka. There were flurries of namastes and little bows before Master drew me to the side.

“There is good news. The notice of our work has been mailed. The world will soon read about the new samhitas. Satnam also assures me some good friends are studying very carefully the prescription. Then I’m sure there will be a hundred thousand interested. All those scientists that C.G. talked about will be coming to our little cave like a herd of buffalo.” He grinned. “Let them come.”

I turned to Satnam, whose dimples were imploding in a grin. “It is incredible, Bhim. Things still to be worked out, of course, trials to be employed, but my colleagues have forwarded it to the other Ayurvedic societies, along with the story of how it was discovered. It will be done informally at first, but in large numbers, and then the world can apply all its empirical judgments. We shall see what we shall see.” He grinned again.

We chatted about the prospects, which countries would be in denial, which would receive it openly. “Eventually,” he said, “they will all have to consider it.” I took that opportunity to tell him of our travel plans and ask about Adam.

“He heals quickly, Bhim, more so than the rest of us, even claims he will be dancing within the week.”

That image was amusing. “But not lecturing?” I asked.

He answered, “Not for the moment, and not here. The shala was a source of strength for him. Now his words will go with the book.” His eyes sparkled at me. “As well as yours.”