Season of Sacrifice

by Bharti Kirchner

  The woman fixed her proud eyes on her child. ‘Justin, Junior. My son like outside. So we come out.’

  The name lashed at Maya. Justin, supposedly a bachelor, had a son? Maya did the math. The boy must have been born when she and Justin were still seeing each other. And the boy’s mother, this woman standing in front of Maya – what sort of an involvement did she have with Justin? Although Justin moved in a different social circle, he still hung around with two guys who had approached Maya, when she worked as a nutritionist, for advice on weight-loss. Neither had mentioned him getting hitched.

  Had her relationship with Justin been a complete lie? Had Maya been only a sideshow? Her eyes scanned the surroundings. No trace of the man yet. Would he soon appear? How could you do this to me? Maya wanted to scream.

  The blonde studied her. Maya recovered and introduced herself by her last name, Mallick, then regretted it. What happened to her P.I. instincts? What if the woman mentioned her to Justin and described her? Mallick: five foot four, dark hair and dark eyes, dressed in the same white tunic and black pants she’d worn a hundred times with Justin. What if the woman had already heard Maya’s name?

  ‘My name is Jennifer,’ the woman said hesitantly.

  An adopted name, Maya could tell; a name that was a mask or a robe, a substitute, not a flesh-and-bone, blood-and-guts type of identification. A different person resided in the inner recesses of her mind – a person born and brought up elsewhere, whose name at birth was not Jennifer.

  Plump-cheeked, with a thatch of blond hair, the boy again smiled at Maya. ‘Such a sweet smile,’ she said. ‘His father must dote on him.’

  What a silly thing to say. How revealing it might be to someone who wasn’t as clueless as this Jennifer. Then again, was she so clueless? On a closer look, her eyes appeared to be full of guile. Maya mentally pointed a finger at Jennifer, a woman who did whatever it took to get what she hungered for, using beauty, sex and charmingly poor English. Except a wedding band, that is. She wore only a jade ring on her middle finger and somehow that helped Maya cope better.

  ‘His daddy like to play with him.’ Turning to the boy, her voice buttery-soft, Jennifer said, ‘Dada come soon, take us to park.’

  The boy stared at Maya for a long beat and grunted. ‘He like you,’ Jennifer said.

  Emotions tore through Maya. One minute, she adored Justin Jr and couldn’t take her eyes off him; the next minute she couldn’t bear to look at him. The boy, displaying an expression of tenderness and kicking his legs, reminded her that a child much like him could have been hers. How Maya would have liked to hold her own baby to her breast, place the pillow of her cheek against his satin hair and smell the milky sweetness of his skin. She glanced at Jennifer. However down-and-out in appearance, she was younger, taller, prettier and luckier than Maya, and she had this lovable child by Justin. Maya hadn’t known she was fighting in a battle all along – one she had lost.

  She shuffled her feet. She shouldn’t linger just in case Justin showed up. She wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. Yet she couldn’t help but risk one last question to Jennifer. ‘Oh, there are so many great parks in Seattle.’

  ‘We like Golden Gardens.’

  How many times had Maya accompanied Justin to that park, joining bonfire parties, grilling tofu, watching beach volleyball and listening to the surf, mindless of the itch of the sand in her shoes?

  Maya jerked back. ‘Enjoy the afternoon.’

  Her eyes focusing on an invisible, buzzing insect, Jennifer took a step back. ‘Not another mosquito.’

  The word mosquito coming out of Jennifer’s mouth sounded significant, but she stopped herself. A flurry of thoughts raced through Maya’s head. Had her jealousy about Justin’s new lover gotten out of hand? Or could there be something more sinister about Jennifer drawing her attention?

  Before turning away, Maya gazed at Justin Jr one last time. His attention had shifted to a man walking with two muscular, gray-and-white Irish wolfhounds, each weighing at least a hundred pounds. Justin Jr looked down, stretched an arm out toward the creatures and let loose a happy, gurgling sound.

  Maya spun around and walked away toward her car.

  SEVENTEEN

  ‘Justin called while you were in the shower,’ Uma said the next morning at breakfast. She placed a platter of stuffed parathas on the table. Her gold bracelet shone against her olive skin, smooth but for a network of blue veins on her slender wrist. ‘He’s got the coroner’s inquest. The coroner had already spoken to Veen. Knowing of your interest, Justin wanted you to hear the report, too. You can call him.’

  ‘Be right back.’ Maya stepped into the living room. A brief call to Justin brought her the news. The women were alive before the fire started. No suspected homicides. The two deaths have been called suicides from the burns.

  After hanging up, Maya reclaimed her chair and served herself a paratha and condiments. ‘I worry, really worry, Ma, that this report will give the police an excuse to close the case.’

  ‘Well, my guess is Justin will go along with the findings of the coroner unless it’s proven to him that there’s more about those two “suicides.” He’ll, as they say, follow the party line.’

  Although he’d been kind enough to make a phone call with the coroner’s conclusions, yesterday’s scene at the flea market still ate away at Maya – the discovery of Justin’s current lover and son. She slammed her fork down and took Uma through the sequence of events, while a sense of unease about Jennifer fluttered inside her.

  Astonishment flooded Uma’s face; she wound her shawl tighter around her shoulder. ‘My God – Justin has a son? Well, since we don’t know the full story yet, we mustn’t jump to conclusions. I don’t approve of him because of what he did to you. But who knows what situation he was put into due to circumstances?’

  ‘Ma—’

  ‘It’s a gut feeling, that’s all.’ Uma’s voice grew stronger. ‘Given what you’re going through, I don’t blame you. But do try to feel the pressure he’s under.’

  ‘What pressure of his are we talking about?’

  Before Maya could begin the next sentence, her cellphone vibrated from a side table. She rose, stumbled and snatched it, wondering, with a surging heart, if it might be a call from Justin. Instead, the caller ID indicated a restricted number and she caught Atticus saying a pleasant hello at the other end. She uttered a greeting.

  ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Miss Maya.’ Atticus sounded as though he was a proud messenger declaring the results of a lottery. ‘Our guru has squeezed in half an hour for you at ten. He doesn’t usually receive those who don’t follow his discipline but it fascinated him that you were a nutritionist. He’s into herbal medicine.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you tell him that I’m working for you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘You keep secrets from your guru?’

  ‘Well, no, not usually, but in this case …’ He paused and added, ‘I must warn you – our guru is frank. You might find it hard to accept what he says.’

  ‘Let me first hear him out. Then I’ll decide if I can accept his views or not.’

  ‘Our guru also has X-ray vision. He can take pessimism and convert it into spiritual energy. No one knows how he accomplishes that.’

  Some guru. An X-ray machine. A transformer. A black box.

  Atticus rattled on about the master: he spent much of his day taking solitary walks in the neighborhood and afterward praying in his house. The latest fire death in front of the meditation center had upset him considerably. He’d been praying for longer hours and receiving fewer visitors. ‘Be aware also that the police might be watching all the comings and goings from his house,’ Atticus added, giving her the guru’s address. ‘Only a guess on my part.’

  Maya thanked Atticus profusely and disconnected the call. Seeing a text from Hank, she called him right away.

  ‘OK, Maya, here it is.’ Hank summarized his findings on the guru: a Tibetan, Padmaraja had been reinca
rnated a zillion times. In this life, he did academic studies in London, then went to India, where he studied yoga and a secular form of meditation and spirituality at the feet of a renowned master named Atman. In due time, he was entrusted with the responsibility of carrying on Atman’s teachings. Following Atman’s death, he roamed the globe and lectured on the benefits of gentle living, pure thinking and a consistent spiritual practice. He finally settled in Seattle, where he now had a studio: Padmaraja Meditation Center. Rather than make his teachings accessible to the general public, Padmaraja preferred the ancient Indian way of taking in a few promising students and devoting special attention to each.

  ‘His students literally give him high marks as a spiritual master,’ Hank said in conclusion. ‘But his neighbors consider him quiet and secretive, maybe even a suspicious character.’

  ‘Any parallel to your writing world?’

  ‘Oh, yes. A scene can’t be about what it appears to be about. You have to, like, dig deeper to get at what’s really going on. Talk about a challenge! I go nuts trying to even figure out a character on a page, much less in real life.’

  ‘How’s it going with Sophie?’

  ‘She’s a chill girl, a puzzler to me. Hasn’t returned my call offering to take her out to chow, like, in forty-eight hours. I’m going nuts, Maya.’

  ‘I’ll advocate the practice of patience, even though I don’t always exercise it myself.’

  ‘Whatever you say, boss.’

  Maya hung up her cellphone and turned to Uma. ‘Getting back to the guru – how might one approach a god-man?’

  Uma smiled from her heart. ‘Be respectful, speak little, don’t ask direct questions and take a pack of paper tissues with you.’

  ‘I’m OK with the first three, but what are the tissues for?’

  ‘Oh, you might find yourself tearing up. That happened to me when I was introduced to a renowned mystic from Kerala whose title was Babaji. As you know, I’m not religious, nor am I the tear-shedding type. A friend who was a devotee of him had invited me to come along. I was curious and told myself to be open-minded. It was a group session, with fifty or so people crowding the room. There he was, Babaji, settled on a throne, and I could see the golden aura around him. After he gave a brief talk, we lined up in front of his throne. Each of us, in turn, was asked to step forward and face him. My turn came. I greeted him with folded hands. He blessed me by extending a hand and touching my head. Although I was in my forties then, my knees got wobbly. I stood staring at Babaji, feeling like a lost little girl, tears falling down the sides of my nose, no tissue in my purse. Babaji handed me one.’

  ‘Mind you, Ma, I’m investigating the guru, not going for his blessings. My mission is to figure out whether he and his meditation program were behind Sylvie’s suicide. You’re telling me he’ll reduce me to tears? That’d be perfect, just perfect.’

  ‘I think this is the right time for you to visit Padmaraja, see if he’s any good, whether for Sylvie’s sake or your own. You’re coming unglued, dear.’

  Maya’s chin dropped. How right her mother was. She was so frazzled that she had a sense of being broken into pieces.

  ‘And remember to pick some lilies from the garden, like Atticus suggested.’

  White lilies. Sylvie. Self-immolation. And now the guru?

  After excusing herself, Maya retreated to her bedroom, dug through her closet, swapped her workday skirt and blazer for an eyelet white dress and wrapped a white scarf around her head. Satisfied that she’d met the guru’s standards of propriety, she slipped out the back door and stepped into the yard under a sky cloaked with heavy black clouds. Her patch of white lilies emitted a sweet perfume. She snipped a few blossoms – some fully open, others still in the budding stage. For a brief moment, holding the lily bouquet, she allowed the wind to caress her face. Now breathing like a whole person, she somehow felt better about things.

  EIGHTEEN

  At ten minutes to ten, Maya reached Linden Avenue and turned onto the gravelly driveway of Guru Padmaraja’s private residence. She must see the holy man with her own eyes and make an assessment. The two-story standard stucco, a well-maintained property set back from the street and serenely detached from the adjoining buildings, appeared solemn under a gray-purple cloud cover. The sun’s harsh rays, peeking through the clouds, gave a brilliant sheen to the triangular roof.

  After parking her car, Maya ventured up the brick-paved pathway across the front lawn, her instincts whispering that someone had set a tail on her. At the entrance, she stood for a moment and scanned her surroundings but, upon seeing no one, pressed the door button.

  Finally, a young, wiry and expressionless man, dressed in a checked shirt and denim trousers, answered her summons. Although his bowed head initially suggested humility, he lifted his chin and appraised Maya with his coffee-tinted eyes.

  ‘Maya Mallick. I’m here to see Guru Padmaraja.’

  ‘Samuel.’ He waved her inside and led her down a carpeted hallway.

  She paused inside the doorway. Now in a watchful state, she studied the living room, struck by its simplicity and unique decor. Laid with a bluish-purple carpet, it was dominated by a raised platform illuminated by a row of candles. The platform housed a low chair, a small bowl of water and a box of tissues; shedding tears was expected.

  Arranged in a semicircle around the platform was a series of low stools. The back wall, paneled in oak, was spottily drenched in daylight from an open window. Wearing a loose maroon attire, the guru emerged from a side door. Although he had to be approaching eighty, there was a bloom of color on his face as well as an overflow of vitality. Displaying grace, a warm expression and an erect bearing, he bowed gently and took the chair on the platform.

  Samuel prostrated himself before the guru and touched the floor with his forehead, as though his master was a god to be worshipped. At first, Maya recoiled. She’d come here only to question the man but she mustn’t offend him – how well she understood that from her childhood in Kolkata. She lowered herself and touched the floor with her head, just as Samuel had done, then rose slowly.

  Samuel introduced Maya to the guru, who murmured a Sanskrit mantra and swept a hand over her head in a reassuring manner. As she extended her hand and presented the flower bouquet to him, he bent forward in a humble gesture, accepted the bouquet and his eyes took on a shine. Maya seized this opportunity to observe him more closely. Soft gray hair, as sparse as summer clouds, framed his forehead; an aura of thoughtfulness encircled him.

  Samuel left the room, only to return in a second with a crystal vase filled with water. He arranged Maya’s lilies in the vase and placed it on a nearby table.

  The guru dipped his fingers in the bowl of water and sprinkled drops of it onto Maya’s head. Then he invited her to sit. Maya’s stool was so low, she could touch the floor with her hands. She felt like a lowly servant before a great king.

  As Samuel took a similar stool to rest on behind her, the guru spoke in a deep voice. ‘You’ve worked as a nutritionist. Have you ever recommended any healing plants to your clients?’

  ‘Oh, yes, quite often.’ Maya felt flattered to talk about a topic familiar to her. ‘I grow some myself. Yarrow to help heal bruises, feverfew to lessen fever and stinging nettles to alleviate joint pain.’

  A pleasant smile played on the guru’s lips. ‘You grow healing plants; I heal people. Our ways are different but we try to seek the same result.’

  Speak little. Uma’s voice echoed in Maya’s head. Yet, given that she only had half an hour, she had to plunge into the topic of her choice. ‘I suppose that is why Sylvie came to see you several weeks prior to her death.’

  ‘Yes.’ The face was cool and unperturbed. ‘And I suspect you have reasons for wanting to see me, too?’

  The guru’s utterance cut through Maya. Although she’d come to enquire about Sylvie, if she dared to admit it, she needed healing herself to get over the agony of her severed relationship with Justin. The guru, with his keen eyes and
grandfatherly presence, had set loose that issue and accompanying bleak emotions inside her. The pressure of tears behind her eyelids, she took a deep breath and tried to speak, but couldn’t formulate any words. She hadn’t expected to feel so humbled, to lose all control, to become once again like a child.

  The perfume of the pungent incense clogged the air. The guru looked away, as though to give Maya a few moments to recover.

  She steadied her feelings and spoke calmly. ‘I’d like to ask what, if anything, you’d noticed about Sylvie that might have struck you as unusual before she stopped coming for meditation.’

  The guru closed his eyes and went silent for a moment, as though collecting solace from within. Half a minute later, he spoke in a quiet, unwavering tone. ‘You see, Maya, we live in the shadows of life. Only a thin line separates us from the light of death. You cross that line when you wish to do so. I could see in Sylvie’s facial expression that she had already stepped to the other side.’

  ‘Do you know why she made that decision? Her family can’t accept that she could have wished to die. To their knowledge, her life was going superbly. It’ll help me a great deal to hear—’

  ‘The truth?’ the guru said in a genial tone. ‘You must understand, the words exchanged between a teacher and his disciple are private.’

  Maya leaned forward, her heart thumping faster in the urgency she felt. ‘As you might expect, Sylvie’s family is grief-stricken. They’re innocent people whose lives have been turned upside down by her death. They also feel terribly guilty for having failed her in some way. If I could appeal to your sense of compassion …’

  Samuel cleared his throat a little forcibly. ‘I’d like to answer our guest, master.’

  Maya turned to face Samuel.

  ‘Let me go back a little further.’ Samuel’s eyes were cool. ‘Sylvie joined our group two or so years ago of her own volition, due to a friend’s recommendation. She began attending our sessions and became a regular. She visited us here a number of times, whenever she wished to talk about her life issues in private. Then one day she left us – that was her decision, too.’ His tone turned condescending. ‘We’re not a political organization. We don’t discuss China or Tibet. Neither are we a religion, and we don’t provide psychiatric assistance. We simply sit and meditate for personal growth and world peace. Our meditation practice and those suicides are not linked.’