My teacher had disappeared through the fissure, so I took a nervous gulp from my Nalgene and inhaled. Flashlight in hand, I clambered across the stones into the darkness. The beam splayed into the gloom, and I saw immediately that Devi had been teasing; I wouldn’t need to crawl. The fissure expanded over a distance of eight meters and spilled into a space roughly the size and shape of a twenty-meter egg. Walnut-sized stones, black and oily-looking, littered the floor, but it was all level enough to move about easily if one treaded carefully. The ceiling appeared solid--an observation that added immensely to my ability to breathe again. It was compact but large enough to keep my anxiety at bay, and as long as no one played sound bites of Michael Jordan or Magic Johnson I would be just fine.
Ahead of me on the right, Devi was illuminated by the light of a small oil lamp. He was leaning forward on his cane, rocking excitedly as he peered at the wall near his knees. Even from that distance and in that light I knew his expression. The eyes were glistening with academic delight.
Further back the floor disappeared under a mound of the same oily rock that littered the floor. I inhaled. The air was stale but lacked mustiness. I played the beam across the curve of the walls, and there, leaping under the light, were the distinct features of thousands of tiny, recognizable faces. Script. Words. All etched into the walls in rows straight enough to make a handwriting instructor proud. The lines had been painted with some form of stain that had faded over time. Pale lotuses and red vines climbed from floor to ceiling.
“My God, It’s Brahmi,” I whispered. My words, even in low tones, bounced like ghosts about the cavern.
It was rare that I uttered even the most minor of blasphemies in Master’s presence, but in the excitement, decorum had fled. That much script, un-translated, ancient and intact, was breath-taking. My pulse quickened. These walls had waited centuries to be read. How many? I didn’t know, but it was definitely old. How much so, and what messages were hidden within, that was our puzzle to solve.
I stood with the beam flitting across the lines and knew—instinctively or intuitively--that I would be the one to free it. It felt as if a hundred voices were whispering to me. The gift is yours to solve, Bhim. Use it well.
“Precisely so, Bhimaji. Precisely so.” Master was lost in the letters in front him.
To be honest, unlike my teacher who could decipher most Indo-Aryan scripts and half a dozen Dravidian ones as well, I was momentary disadvantaged. Brahmi wasn’t something I had ventured into in my eight years. Sanskrit was recorded in Devanagari, ‘the city of the gods.’ It is India’s common script and used for everything from movie billboards to documents of state. It looks like strips of silk hanging on lines in a gentle breeze. The Brahmi I was gazing so reverently at was angular, like Nordic runes, older and less familiar.
I studied a line at eye level and tugged at my memory. As my eyes adjusted to the light, so did my ability to decode the letters. Slowly, I recognized words here and there. Phalam—fruit, mamsam—flesh, dhvani—sound.
Devi called out, “Bhim, come, come. Look at this.” The tip of his cane danced like a conductor’s baton at a section in front of his ankles. He was careful not to touch the writing itself. I scanned the floor with my flashlight and picked my way across. “This,”--he was rocking back and forth now with excitement--“is a prescription. Yes, yes. Look here. You see this word? Shastram. Precisely so. These are medical instructions. I’m certain of it. We are looking at a piece of the Sushrut Samhitas. Perhaps something even earlier.” He looked at me with gleaming pupils. “This is it, my boy, a true find.”
I glanced around. Except where it had collapsed on the left, the walls were covered in letters. Once translated, authenticated, and published, it would be hailed as a major find. Another thought came to me. If Masterji was correct and it was medical, not just linguists would take interest. That idea was a little daunting.
I dug into my pack and spent the next two minutes taking close-ups with my trusty digital Canon. Half way around, my not so trusty batteries began to run low. I swore at the oversight. I had instructed Sahr to pack everything but additional batteries. Standing close for better clarity and readability, I now, had to step back and take three wide angles to capture the rest. I could always return and photograph the remaining lines at a later time. Or so I imagined. But as I have mentioned, my life has too often unfolded with tiny, unanticipated events that change everything.
Seven
I helped Devi back into the sunlight, guiding his torso with a palm on his lower back. As we stepped through the opening, he unexpectedly seized my wrist and whispered, “Bhimaji, we must speak of this to no one. It cannot be mentioned until we have had the opportunity to study it.” I wasn’t certain why it was said with such intensity, but I understood his reasoning. Until it was translated and published we would need to be circumspect about its discovery.
Master was fatiguing, so it was good when we settled into the shade next to a drowsy Rajneesh. Our driver had taken it upon himself to arrange our picnic on the blanket that held the food. Then he'd dozed off for a proper nap. He’d assumed neither Master nor I would mind his touching the containers, a risky assumption as Brahmin law requires only members of their own caste touch their food. Rajneesh had guessed correctly that since he’d been asked to tote the bundle up to the tree, it was acceptable for him to open it and arrange the Tupperware.
Devamukti adhered to many, but not all, guidelines of an orthodox Brahmin. For example, he never touched leather. That meant green vinyl sandals and blue watch bands were always in vogue. Personally, I thought they were ugly as sin and added significantly to his already questionable features.
Though I saw certain aspects of my teacher as humorous, my admiration for him was immeasurably deep. For three years and four months he had forged my skills like a coppersmith, and during those months I had come to love him as a father, an irascible, miserly, but affectionate father. He'd taken me, a non-Hindu, as his vidyarthi, and in doing so had thumbed a nose at traditions and the conservative council in the city. He had recognized my passion for the language, and recognized the pain that was devouring me. A full baptismal in the language would be the best restorative. I was dunked headfirst into translation.
Rice, dal, and chapattis materialized like magician’s props on our cloth. Condiments, fruit, and sweet lassis followed to wash it down. Mirabai, Devi’s wife, had prepared the entire meal. She was the only person—man or woman—who could match Sahr with her cooking skills, not something I ever mentioned to my cook, however.
It was an afternoon of boyish delight. We ignored the heat and ate like rajahs, laughed at the folly of new Hindi films, sang silly tunes, and in sleepy fashion swapped stories of our youth. Rajneesh and I, being closer to that age, listened to Masterji more than we talked. He told us of times when the rajah still roamed the corridors of the great palace across the river. I attempted to engage them with anecdotes of surfing Southern California waves, but the image of ripping across roaring tubes of liquid didn’t come across in Hindi quite as well as I’d hoped. Rajneesh, whose jovial company I was enjoying more and more, pumped me for information about Hollywood, especially of Julia Roberts and Angelina Jolie. I suspected he had recurring dreams about them.
At one point our driver broached the subject of the terrorist bombings that had gripped everyone along the rail lines. “This man, the one they call Sutradharak, Sirs. Do you think he really exists? He has set off another explosion near Lucknow this week. Some say he is the leader of the Taweel Churi, and others that he is a Kashmiri nationalist; my brother swears he is al-Qaeda. Personally, I think he’s just another religious nut case.”
I picked up enough local news from the morning paper, but this wasn’t a subject I wished to enter into.
My teacher, on the other hand, responded instantly. “This PuppetMaster, if that is his accursed name, is a murderous fiend. He leads a pack of evil rodents and is most assuredly an Islamic fanatic. I am certain that
he has now scurried with all his rodent pack back to Islamabad where he is boasting to all his neighbors how many righteous Hindus he has killed in our righteous city. If I were not Brahmin, I would curse his name out loud. Let us not speak any more of this abomination.” I sipped my lassi and pondered Devi’s statement that the terrorists had left the region. I doubted it.
Eventually it was time to gather the containers and hike down the slope to the autorick. We climbed in and motored along the dusty strip past the guardhouse. No one emerged with clipboards or assault rifles, though I was pretty certain I saw two circular reflections follow us down the road when I glanced back.
Once we were airborne again—not a misstatement, as we undoubtedly spent more time off the ground than on it—Masterji turned to me. “Bhim, we will have busy days ahead. C.G. will join us, and together we will form a team.” This image was pleasantly exciting. “Can you change your schedule to spend mornings at my house and put the Bhavabuti play on the shelf for now?” I nodded an affirmation. “We must set things in motion correctly, one step at a time, you see, and speak to no one until we know exactly what we are working with. I will discuss the same with C.G., but he also understands the need for discretion.”
He peered through the spattered windshield towards the haze of the city. “Discoveries like this bring risk, you see. In this part of the world there are those who would steal anything of value, and I believe what we have seen today is of value. Valuable bring danger.” The words hung in the afternoon heat.
We delivered Devamukti to his front gate at sunset, and I watched in astonishment as he gifted Rajneesh a fifty-rupee note in magnanimous fashion. At the current exchange it amounted to one dollar and five cents. It was accompanied by a large spoonful of advice on how to spend it. Wanting to assure his safe entry into the house, I waited until he shuffled across the courtyard and through the door. His wife Mirabai greeted him and waved to me.
As the autorick rolled down Shivanan Avenue, the sky above the spires of the Durga Temple were streaked with apricot and maroon. Across the river, purple and indigo had taken hold. Varanasi, the city of light, was fading into evening.
I stood wearily at my gate. Lifting my knapsack, I asked, “Rajneesh, how many children did you say you have?” I unfolded a stack of sweat stained rupees.
“Four, Sahib, three girls and one unfortunate boy in the middle who cannot find any siblings to play soccer with.”
“Yes, well he will likely become a very good cook, dress impeccably, and know exactly how much money to take to the marketplace.” He laughed. “Here is your fare for the day and some extra for your family.” I handed him twice our agreed upon fee.
“Sahib, you are far too generous.” But the rupees were pocketed quickly. There were mouths to fill and shoes to buy. I liked my new acquaintance and inquired how I might contact him in the future. His brother, he explained, owned a cell phone, and he scribbled the number on a scrap of paper. If we were ever in need of employees . . . With a quick namaste, he throttled his rickshaw and bounced down the road towards the bridge over the Asi River.
I pushed upon my gate and the action recalled the memory of the man I’d seen walking past it the previous day. It also brought back the memory of the encounter I’d had with him three and a half years ago--the first night I entered the city. The Delhi to Kolkut train had just lumbered into the station, and I had just stepped into the human bustle of the platform. My clothes were covered with soot, my spirit covered with sadness. I wished only for the anonymity of a new life in an old city. The young man appeared from within a cluster of passengers and luggage porters, looking in all ways like a college instructor or aspiring entrepreneur. He strode towards me as if he had been waiting for me to arrive.
“My good friend, welcome,” he fired off in rapid, articulate English. “Tonight you enter the perennial city of Varanasi like a newborn, and for that reason, you really must have a new name.”
I stepped back uneasily, and then seeing that he was not preparing to assault me or pester me for alms, I replied, “What?”
“You need a new name, my friend, one to match your new identity.” He smiled as if knowing that was my intention.
I blinked, dumbfounded. “Right . . . Okay. And what…what do you think I should be called?”
With the quickness of someone who already knew the answer, he laughed, “You shall be named Bhim, like the great Pandava brother,” and without asking permission, slipped a black namaghanda about my neck and tied it. Christening me, if that verb may be used for the gift of a Hindu name, he whispered, “Bhim. Yes, yes, perfect. We shall meet again, Bhim. Be assured. Do good deeds, My Friend. It will help with the healing.” I blinked again, baffled by what he had seen in me.
Then, he disappeared like vapor into the crowd.
I closed the gate and decided his reappearance the same morning I received the invitation to the cave was merely coincidence.
With a splitting yawn, I plodded into the courtyard where the only thing that greeted me was Lalji’s snoring and the savory aroma of Sahr’s banana fritters.
Eight
The plan for the next bombing came to Sutradharak in the small hours just beyond midnight. He rarely slept through an entire night, often suffering from prolonged bouts of insomnia, but in that sleeplessness, he was creative, his mind intensely active. Details bubbled to the surface like tar and he worked them to higher and higher levels of intricacy. Every element, every component was visited and analyzed, every contingency assessed.
At first he had rejected the idea based on redundancy. A similar event eight months earlier had gone well, but one of his rules was never to repeat events. Repetition created patterns and patterns brought traceable clues.
However, the more he considered this new design, the more he liked it. There was enough variation to it.
Ultimately, his decision to accept the plan came from the numbers. The earlier attacks required more plastique, more charges, and a larger team. This required a small team and in all likelihood, only six charges. But the numbers, the deaths it could produce . . . that was the deciding factor.
With the basic idea still twisting around in his mind, Sutradharak got out of bed and made a pot of coffee. Details always needed research, and research needed to be done in the capital. He began preparations to travel to New Delhi.
Nine
I screamed and strained every muscle against the walls of the cell, but like an animal being slowly choked into submission, no sound came out. The sphere that surrounded me, trapped me, was transparent and nauseatingly tight. I clawed and scratched at the slickness, pushed out in four directions like DaVinci’s naked man. But the surface only flexed like thick, unyielding cellophane. Impenetrable. I screamed again. Silence. Colors pulsed from blue to scarlet and back again, the colors of blood. I sobbed. Beaten, I slid to my knees. With shoulders slumped, I began twisting in slow spirals. It was always slow spirals. My nightmare had returned.
I woke up drenched in sweat. The air was still cool by summer standards of Uttar Pradesh. The sun had not yet risen above bank of the river, but atop my linen, I was soaked in pools of my own perspiration.
The fan above me spun in a slow thwumping tempo, and I exhaled in panicked breaths into the draft. Three years I had suffered through my nightmare. Like a soap opera it came with variety, but always with the same theme. Over the last ten months it had receded enough that I believed it had left for good, but like a silent thief it had crept back. And the bubble, that fucking corpuscle of blood, still trapped me.
That bubble had changed my life, every facet of it. It was the tiny unforeseen event that had altered my course of life forever.
I stared at the blades of the fan. For a year now I’d been able to push her memory down, or back, or wherever we push such things--managed to keep her fragrance and eyes locked inside a vault of unwanted recollections.
The fan drew me in, and there at the center lay Lilia--where I always saw her--curle
d and shaking upon the carpet. She looked strangely peaceful, like a child twitching in an afternoon nap. Our pizza sat half eaten on the table, our mugs of beer half full. The air was dry and hot with the Santa Anas that had been whistling in from the Mojave.
Moments earlier we had been laughing--an exchange of childish stories that lovers do so well. She was telling me about her mother’s house in Oaxaca, of eating mole poblano with her cousins on the porch. Then mid-sentence she stopped, and with a puzzled look, stared at me, and then looked at the lights as if they were too bright for the softness of her eyes. Like a priest beseeching the heavens, her eyes rolled upward. Her hand reached out to touch my face, then she leaned forward and slid most naturally from her seat, looking as if she were simply retrieving a napkin from the floor. But Lilia Garza Morales, the woman I had loved for a year and a thousand lifetimes, slid to the carpet and never got up. She died with my hands wrapped pleadingly about her head.
The doctors explained everything. They clipped images and scans onto white lights and showed me the post-aneurysm section of her brain. Pointed with sad, intelligent fingers at the bubble, and explained in practiced phrases all the reasons for how Lilia had slipped from my life.
But none of them, not a single one, could explain why.
It was September, and we were to be married in November in a ceremony of elegant simplicity on a knoll above the ocean. It was something we looked forward to more for our family and friends than for us, because Lilia and I were already joined. We knew it the moment we met--a union of a thousand lifetimes, the botanist and the linguist our friends called us, naturals together.
We had met during a dreary wait in the admissions office at the university in Berkeley. She was standing behind me swearing colorfully in Spanish and I began laughing at the creativity and turned to see who the speaker was.
The PuppetMaster Page 4