Meeting Max

by Richard Brumer

  “They do not sit or lie down, even to sleep,” Rajit explained. “This is self-inflicted corporal punishment to bring enlightenment, or maybe punishment, because of harm they caused.”

  “Can I talk to one or two of them?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rick, sir, but would be nice if you offer some baksheesh.”

  Rick approached one of the men who had a long black beard and wore a white turban connected to a white cotton robe which went down to his bare feet. His arms were leaning over a cushioned wooden board held up by four bamboo rods connected to a wooden ceiling.

  “Namaste,” Rick said, drawing out the word in singsong fashion. “Kya hall hai,” he added, “How is everything? Please tell me what inspired you to stand for so long.”

  Rajit was nearby to translate, although Rick was able to understand a few words of Marathi.

  “I had a spiritual teacher,” the man explained, “who asked me to bake him some roti, and I didn’t know how to do it because I had no tandoor oven. I told him I would try to make it in a pan, but I knew that was not possible for me because it could only be made properly in a tandoor. I tried to make it in the pan, but it burned.”

  “What did the man say after you did that?”

  “He didn’t say anything. He pushed me down to the floor and kicked me hard all over my body, broke my ribs, and left me lying on the floor bleeding.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. What did you do?”

  “I had to prove to myself that I was strong inside, and stronger than him, so I made a vow that I would stand for ten years. At the end of that time, I will know I am stronger than him, and, perhaps, find enlightenment.”

  “I see. Enlightenment is a goal many seek. What do you do when you get tired?”

  “When one leg tires, I put it in a sling that hangs from above to rest it until the other leg tires and is in pain.”

  “I understand. Then the other leg goes in the sling. How do you go to the toilet?”

  The man spoke through his toothless mouth in a scratchy voice. “I spread my legs and lean over a little with my left hand on my knee and my right elbow on the other knee and hold my face in my right hand.”

  “I see. It is not easy to do that. Do you find fulfillment in your life?”

  “I find it in my search for enlightenment, and I do many things. I am riding on the motorcycle when someone is driving it, and I am standing behind him. I can do everything, but I must keep my vow.”

  Rick handed him some rupees and bowed in respect. He turned to another man, also with a white turban and long cotton robe that hung down to his feet. The man had a constant smile when he talked, showing his shiny white teeth with several spaces in between.

  Rick greeted the man. “Namaste dost. May I ask why you do not sit down?”

  “My spiritual teacher told me I should keep standing to please him, and I took a vow that I would stand for eleven years. I have been standing now for five years, so I am listening to him. It is not so bad. When my legs hurt, I have a friend who massages them.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Yes, but it is a good pain because if I expose my body to extreme pain and hardship, it will burn off all the bad karma in the cycle of my life and death. Every moment I stand gives me a better incarnation.”

  “Did you ever want to just stop and lie down?”

  “Naa, I cannot sit because God is watching. Also people is watching me sit. They will see me and I will be shamed. I get used to standing, and I do not think of it. It is natural for me to do it. I stand on one leg and hold the other leg up with my hand, first one leg for a while, then the other.”

  “And when you sleep, how do you do it?”

  The man held up a gray blanket. “I cover my head and lean my head over on my cushion on the table and sleep.”

  “Is that a great hardship for you?”

  “You can only find God through hardship. There is no other way.”

  Rajit and Rick left the standing Babas. Rajit asked him what he thought about them.

  “I will keep them in my mind forever,” Rick answered.

  Maybe hardship is a path. Maybe karma is real...there is so much I don’t know.

  “I hope we find my son, Rajit. I have so much pain in my life now. I need something good to happen.”

  “I am knowing how you feel, sir. I will work very hard for you to make that happen. Narahari called me this morning to say that he has put the word out to everyone in the music business about Eric and said he will make extreme efforts to find him.”

  “I like the sound of your voice today. It sounds peaceful. You remind me of something I read.”

  “I do feel peaceful today walking with you on this beautiful, sunny day. The world is kind today. I know the pain you are feeling and how difficult it is for you.”

  “Did you ever read the book or see the movie Passage to India?”

  “No, sir. I am not knowing this book.”

  “Well, it takes place in the twenties in India, under the British Raj. One of the characters in the book is Mrs. Moore, who is a good-natured Christian woman. She has a strong sense of equality and is upset by the bad treatment of the Indians by the British. Her husband was a British officer.

  “In the book, she is at her husband’s club during a gathering of British officers in uniform and women who were dressed to the nines. Everyone was loud and getting drunk as hors d’oeuvres were served. Mrs. Moore didn’t feel that she wanted to be part of the party scene and decided to take a walk in the garden.”

  “I think I am knowing the story, but please tell it further.”

  “Well, Mrs. Moore walks out into the quiet moonlit night surrounded by a lush tropical garden, where she meets a young Muslim doctor. They talk about beauty, nature, and life in general, a stark contrast from what was going on inside. They enjoy being in each other’s presence and feel a spiritual connection. After awhile, she walks back into the noisy club, where everyone is still loud, abusive, and drunk. She understands the contrast and feels there is nothing she can do to change her life and is saddened by it. She knows she doesn’t belong there.”

  “I can understand her deep feelings, Mr. Rick. She was a sensitive woman and the doctor touched her soul.”

  “Yes, I got the impression she belonged in India, but not as part of the Raj. I felt Mrs. Moore made a discovery about herself that night as to who she was and who she was not.”

  “And I reminded you of this moment, Mr. Rick?”

  “Yes. When you spoke so softly, it reminded me of the gentle conversation between Mrs. Moore and the young Indian doctor. He was a philosopher and a poet. They talked as people who saw life from a human standpoint instead of from the harshness of the Raj.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Rick. I am understanding it. To be human and to have compassionate feelings, it is a good thing, but tell me, sir, what does it mean, dressed to the nines?”

  Rick smiled. His question was unexpected. “It means you’re dressed up real fancy from head to toe. I’m not sure where the expression came from, but this question came up when I was at a private club with some friends in Jaipur.

  “An Indian woman passed by with an elegant sari and I asked the members of the group the same question. I was told that Saris are made in two sizes, using either six yards of fabric or nine. Since the larger sari is worn during special occasions, you would be dressed more elegantly and would wear the nine yard Sari. So the expression ‘the whole nine yards’ means you are dressed to perfection. Rajit, I am also told there are many other explanations for the nines, but I thought you’d enjoy that one.”

  “I am thanking you to have your valuable clarification. I am learning something wonderful about my own country.”

  “Now, I don’t know if it’s true, but…”

  “I think it is true,” he said with a characteristic head wobble. “Tell me, do you like cricket, Mr. Rick?”

  “If you mean to play it or watch it, I haven’t done either.”

  “Oh, you are mi
ssing something big. The British have given us two good things, cricket and very good schooling, but nothing more...only unkindness. The season has just started for cricket last month and will go on until April. We can go to Wankhede stadium and watch a match.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’d like that sometime. What’s our plan for tonight?”

  Rajit’s mobile rang. It was Narahari. He asked again what Eric’s last name was. Rajit handed Rick the phone and he answered, “Anderson.”

  “And how are you spelling his first name?” Narahari asked.

  “E-R-I-C.”

  “And he’s an American?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Why? Do you know where he is?”

  “Maybe, I think so. Could he have a different last name?”

  “Not unless he changed it, but why would he do that?” Rick asked, his voice tinged with disappointment.

  “I know why it is that you cannot find him, but am happy to let you know he is here in Bombay. I have a very close friend and I spoke to him one hour back. Let me say that my friend, he is well known in circles of not so nice people, but these people have much information, and offer help for a price. I will not reveal his name, but he said if he provides correct information about your son he would like to be paid two thousand five hundred in US dollars.”

  “That is a lot of money, but I will do it. Does he want the money first before he gives the information?”

  “No, that is not necessary. Honor is very important with these people, especially when friendship is involved. He is a close friend and I will vouch for you since you are a friend of my cousin- brother.”

  “I give you my word, Narahari, and I will pay you for your time and trouble.”

  “I want nothing. Maybe we will share a chai together one day. That will be my payment.”

  “Yes, of course. Can you tell me anything now?”

  “I can tell you everything. The reason you have not been able to find your son is that you’re looking for the wrong name. Maybe he is setting up obsticles so he cannot be found. I don’t know”

  “But I’m using his…”

  “Please, sir, if we are going to discuss about this you must let me speak. I know you are anxious about these things, but I have good information for you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your son’s real name may be Eric Anderson. However, when he came to India, he changed his last name to Weber. I do not know why, and his first name was misspelled the first time on a CD jacket or other place spelled E-h-r-i-c, which it is possible an Indian person might spell it if the name was just spoken to him. I cannot be sure.”

  “Do you think Eric Anderson and Ehric Weber are the same person?”

  “I do not think so, sir. I know it is the same person, and he is here in Bombay. There is to be no doubt. Eric has worked exclusively for Black Cat Studios. It is a small studio, and it is very expensive for musicians to make recordings there, but it is known for its high quality work. Your son, I am told, he is the chief mastering engineer, and is very well-liked.

  “My friend went to Black Cat studios to investigate further. They were still closed for vacation, but there was a man in attendance. My friend asked to see Eric, but Eric’s next work assignment is in about ten days, so he cannot be reached. I do not mean to offend you in any way, sir, but I must be open about the things I have learned.”

  “Narahari, yes, of course. Please be open with me.” Rick hoped his nervousness wasn’t apparent in his voice.

  “It seems Eric has a darker side to him. I do not know, maybe he deals with drug people too. Your son gives no information about how to contact him, and he is always the one who makes the contact for a work assignment. Because he is an exceptional audio engineer, Black Cat lets him make his own schedule. Maybe he is afraid of something or is hiding from something. I do not know. However, my friend can find out anything, and for many rupees, you will have all the information.”

  “Does he know where Eric lives?”

  “Yes, indeed. It is believed that he lives with an American friend named Bill who teaches English at the university and plays music at night with a band in Bombay. From the information that was conveyed to me, he also worked as an audio engineer but not in a high quality way, so he did not work for the better studios. So, within one day, what was conveyed to me is that we will have the exact address and phone number of Bill tomorrow. I have to go.”

  Narahari hung up before Rick had a chance to thank him. Rajit had a huge smile on his face. His gleaming white teeth shined as Rick put his arms around him and gave him a hug.

  “I’m a happy man, Rajit! Finally!”

  “I am so happy as well, sir. It is important to know the right people. Even I did not know how to do it.”

  “But you led me to the right people. I’ve done a lot of things wrong on my trip to India. The first mistake was to fly into Delhi instead of Bombay, but when I looked at where International flights left for India from New York, it only listed flights to Delhi, Kolkota, and Mumbai, and I’m ashamed to say that I didn’t know that the name Bombay was changed to Mumbai. I should have selected Mumbai and started my search here.”

  “It happens, Mr. Rick. Each thing we do, whether it is good judgment or bad, changes our path. Please be kind to yourself, sir. Blame is not a good thing.”

  “You never know the direction life will take you. If I didn’t fly to Delhi, I would not have met the woman I love. Maybe the beauty of life lies in its mysteries.”

  “I think that is true, maybe.”

  “What you have done for me is something I could never have done on my own. Thank you, Rajit.”

  Chapter 23

  Rick heard from Narahari the next morning. He had Bill Zimmerman’s mobile number and Rick called him immediately.

  “Hi, is this Bill?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Rick Newman from the USA. I wonder if we could have a few words.”

  “Yes, of course,” he answered hesitatingly.

  “I’m looking for my son, Eric. I’m his birth father and I heard that he is living with you. Is he there?”

  “Uh, no. Uh, I’m sorry. He’s not here. Do you want to come over and we can talk? Eric told me about you.”

  “I am so happy to have reached you, Bill. Can you tell me when he will be there?”

  “I’m not always home, but now would be a good time.”

  “Excellent. Thank you. Tell me where you are and can you tell me when Eric—”

  “I live on Mereweather Road, next to the Salvation Army Red Shield Hostel. The hostel is a four-story building with windows outlined with red paint and a sign that says Red Shield House. You can’t miss it. I live in the house next door. It has no number. It’s white with the front door trimmed in black. Where are you now?”

  “I’m in Colaba, on the waterfront, not far from the Taj hotel.”

  “Any driver will know where to take you.”

  “Can’t I come when Eric will be there?”

  “Mr. Newman, I don’t know you, and the people in Mumbai are not always the people they say they are, so, for now, I would just like to meet you.”

  “Okay, I understand.”

  Rajit knew the house. He waited outside as Rick knocked on the door. A heavyset young man invited him into the living room, which was large and clean. It was well-appointed with a modern leather couch, woven sisal rug, and two oversized reclining chairs facing a large screened TV. Striking artwork adorned one wall and a teak bookcase, filled with art and history books, lined another, displaying the eclectic tastes of the people who lived there.

  “Mr. Newman, I’m Bill Zimmerman.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Bill looked Rick over, saying nothing at first, but then asked if he would like a beer or anything else to drink. Rick opted for a beer, and Bill brought each of them an ice cold Kalyani Black Label. They sat on the couch and talked.

  “How long have you lived here, Bill, and how did you meet Eric?”

&nbs
p; “I’ve been in India almost two years, all the time in this house. Let me tell you about my friendship with Eric, and then we can talk about other things. I think it will help you understand more about him and his friends.”

  “Agreed, it’s an excellent idea. I’ll just listen.”

  “Eric and I met when we were both ten. My family had moved from Binghamton, New York, to Cheektowaga, just outside of Buffalo, and we’ve been close friends ever since.

  “My strongest memories of our friendship revolve around music, especially progressive rock. I had mainstream tastes until I started hanging out with Eric. He introduced me to music that was compelling and original. We spent hours and hours listening to music, either at his house or driving around in his car as teenagers.

  “I moved away from that neighborhood when I was in my late teens, but I always stayed in touch with Eric. I was best man at his wedding and made many trips down to Brooklyn to visit him and his wife, Sarah, who is a high school chemistry teacher. He turned me on to a lot of things, like hiking, and the two of us have climbed to the top of Mount Katahdin in Maine.

  “I was the best friend he had for most of his adult life. Later, after his marriage fell apart, he shared an apartment with my brother, Michael, and me. The last few years have been tough. Eric’s addiction and self-centered behavior caused the collapse of his marriage with Sarah and limited his visitation rights to see his son, Max. You do know about Maxwell?”

  “Yes, he has told me, but my God, what is he addicted to?” Rick stared at Bill in disbelief.

  “Too many things. Let me be honest, Mr. Newman. We all did drugs. We were musicians and using drugs was part of the scene. We sat around, listened to music, smoked pot, snorted coke, used pills and whatever we could get a hold of. We eventually quit and went on with our lives, but not Eric.”

  “It must have been painful for Eric not to be able to see his son and not even be able to see his wife, who he once loved.”

  “It was excruciating, but Eric wasn’t always the best person he could be. There were times I had to hold the phone away from my ear because he was more or less obsessed with vilifying Sarah. He vented his anger and often got stuck in a rut with his ranting, but I stayed on the phone, let him blow off steam, even though he was wrong. I gave him support and advice. He was my best friend.”