The Seeker
Authors: Karan Bajaj
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Karan Bajaj is the bestselling author of
Keep off the Grass
(2008) and
Johnny Gone Down
(2010). He was among
India Today’s
35 Under 35 Indians and nominated for the Crossword Book of the Year, Indiaplaza Golden Quill and Teacher’s Indian Achievers (Arts) Awards. His interests in travel and Eastern mysticism are key writing inspirations.
The Seeker
was inspired by Karan’s one-year sabbatical backpacking from Europe to India by road and learning yoga and meditation in the Himalayas.
He can be reached at
[email protected]
.
“An amazing journey. Wonderful characters who keep you hooked until the very end”—Raju Hirani
“A racy and entertaining account of a romp through an ever-changing yet timeless India . . . Wild, witty and wicked!”—Ruskin Bond
“Simply unputdownable. Dark, mysterious, sexy”—
Mid Day
“Not for the faint hearted! A captivating, fascinating read that evokes a dramatic sense of awe”—
Deccan Herald
“Restores one’s faith in the pace of a thriller”—
Asian Age
“A taut, gripping saga”—
Hindustan Times
“Pacy, unpretentious and great fun to read”—
Outlook
For Leela, so one day you set out to find your own truth.
Arise! Awake! Approach the feet of the Master and know THAT. Like the sharp edge of the razor, the Sages say, is the path. Narrow it is and difficult to tread.
The Katha Upanishad, 400
B.C.
“I give her a week at most.”
“Don’t say that, Max,” said Sophia.
Max and his sister stepped out of the hospital lobby onto deserted, icy West 59
th
Street. Sophia looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the snowfall with a gloved hand.
“She’s only forty-nine for heaven’s sake,” said Sophia. “Everyone else’s parents are alive.”
The wind gusted. Max wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. They shuffled along in the thick blackness of the night, past the bare trees covered with snow and the closed Starbucks, toward Ninth Avenue. Max tried to find a cab that would take Sophia back to Brooklyn but none passed. His eyes burnt. He’d been up for more than twenty-four hours, since midnight the previous day when his mother had to be rushed to the hospital once again. The cancer had spread to her lungs making it difficult for her to breathe.
“Do you want to crash at my place tonight?” said Max, who lived only a few blocks away on 63
rd
Street and Columbus Avenue.
They turned on Ninth Avenue. Sophia looked up at him, blue eyes brimming with tears, tight brown curls wet at the ends, face creased with years of worry. She looked older than twenty-five. Max put his hand on her shoulder.
“You’ll . . .”
He stumbled over something. A man lay slumped against the stairs of the Church of St Paul on Ninth Avenue.
“Watch it, giant,” said the man.
“Sorry, sorry,” said Max.
The man gripped Max’s leg. “Give me change,” he said, his red eyes staring out of his pale, unwashed face.
Despite the weathered but thick blanket that covered the man, his unkempt beard was speckled with ice. Max didn’t want to see yet another cold, dying body that day. He dug into his coat pockets and gave the man a ten-dollar bill. The man let go of his leg. They had barely walked a few yards when they heard the man shouting.
“Hey, big guy, give me more.”
“God bless, God bless,” said Max.
Max held Sophia’s hand and moved faster. He’d been around junkies all his life and knew how unpredictable they could be.
“Wait, you selfish giant.”
Quick footsteps. Max turned around. A shock of white hair rushed toward Max.
“You hit me,” said the man facing him.
The man stood a head shorter than Max’s six feet six inches yet Max’s heart clutched. The sidewalk was empty except for a man wearing an orange cloth frying something in a food cart a block ahead.
The man grasped Sophia’s coat.
“The city demands compensation, restitution and retribution, Madam. The city demands compensation, restitution and retribution,” he said.
“Don’t touch her,” said Max.
The man pulled Sophia closer. “The city demands compensation.”
“Get away,” said Sophia, pulling free from the man’s grip.
Max pushed the man back. The man rushed forward and threw a gloved fist packed with ice at him. Max felt the thud against his nose. A warm, hollow sensation pulsed through it. Blood dripped from his face down to the ice below. It looked crimson, unreal.
“Get away from him. I’m calling the cops,” said Sophia.
The man blew a mouthful of foul air at Max. “The city demands compensation . . . ”
A dam burst inside Max. He grabbed the man’s neck. The man raised his thin arms weakly. Max let go of his neck and shoved him back with force. The man fell on the ice. Max swooped down next to him and raised his fist to break the man’s quivering jaw.
Someone grabbed his hand.
Max swung his other arm back, trying to break free. Again, someone caught it. Max pushed his shoulders back. The grip tightened. Max whipped his head around.
A naked man.
Max broke out of his trance. A tall, thin Indian man with a naked torso held his arms. The bright orange cloth around his waist flapped in the wind. The food cart guy.
“Yes, okay, sorry,” said Max.
The Indian man let go of Max’s arms. Max got up from the ice. The homeless man curled up into a tight ball, whimpering.
“Max. Your face,” said Sophia, her hair dripping with sweat despite the cold.
Max touched his nose. He was bleeding.
“Should I call 911?” asked Sophia.
He shook his head.
The homeless man picked himself up and limped up the stairs of the church.
“The city, the city . . .” he mumbled.
The Indian man had returned to standing behind his food cart, a pan in one hand, a mug of water in another.
Max went up to him. “Thank you. I could’ve hurt him badly,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Think nothing. Indeed, you are like my child,” said the man. He began to cut onions, seemingly unaffected by the cold.
Max stared at him. The biting wind screamed. No one could possibly live through this freeze without a shirt on his back. Would it be insulting to offer him money? Max took out his wallet. A cab stopped in front of them finally.
“Your face is bleeding, Max,” said Sophia. “Should we go back to the hospital?”
Max hesitated, then put his wallet away. He opened the back door of the cab for Sophia.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Just get home safely.”
Sophia got inside the cab. “We never catch a break,” she said.
“But we always have each other,” he said.
Max shut the cab door and rapped twice with his knuckles on the window. She looked up at him and smiled. The cab left.
A cold draft blew through Max’s nose, hitting the space between his eyes. Jesus, what had come over him? Would he have really smashed the homeless guy’s face? How quickly he’d regressed to the violence of his teenage years. Max wiped his nose with his scarf and walked toward his apartment.