Before leaving for the day, I showed Master and C.G. the final photograph of the partially crumbled section of wall. The letters sank to illegibility under the rock.
“Oh my,” Chandragupta coughed. “I can barely make out the lines,” His fingers trembled as they slid across the top of the screen. “We will need to guess at some of the parts.” He sighed. “It appears as if it is discussing varnas, or colors, but I don’t think that is the full intent.”
Devamukti leaned across to study the screen, and then nodded. “You are correct, C.G., but look at these two words, dosha and vayu. Those are references to diet. And look, this is another list.” His finger tapped the left corner where the text disappeared. “It is a list of foods.” He sighed. “Tragic that we cannot get inside to see it.”
Hell, I thought, nothing that a sixteen ton back-hoe couldn’t remedy. I closed the computer. I had my own list of things to do.
Thirty-Seven
Three months after I’d settled into my villa, I’d fallen ill. Very much so. It hadn’t been the typical alimentary cleansing from overly-spiced curry. It had been longer and much worse. Poisons excreted from every pore and orifice of my body, and after six days of unintended weight loss, Sahr came to my aid. I weakly attempted to shoo her away with a wave of my fingers, thinking to outlast it on my own. Her head proved to be harder than mine, as it usually did. First she spoon-fed me green apple skin scrapings. Then she sent for Dr. Satnam Kangri.
Kangri knew a great deal more than his fluffy mustache and dimpled smile suggested. With piercing eyes and a warm smile he prescribed tea that tasted like lacquer and settled my insides instantly. But he didn’t stop there; he probed the deeper wounds. For a week and a day he came to my house at sunrise, sat by my bed, and plied me with delving questions. I, being a weak and captive audience, mumbled answers as he massaged my muscles and tendons with adroit fingers. Then there was a rubbing of my feet and questions about my childhood. It seemed to be mixture of foot reflexology and psychoanalysis. I told him of being raised in seaside luxury and wealth. That part was easy. But as we neared the episode of Lilia’s death and my tumble into my own personal abyss, it became more and more painful. My wounds were still fresh and Kangri sensed it. Still he demanded in his gentle manner that I tell him what I would.
Slowly, as I returned to a place where Sahr's cooking was appealing again, I learned about him—an unusual medical practitioner to say the least. He was a specialist in two systems. Following an internship in Los Angeles, he had trained as a cardiac electrophysiologist at UCSD Medical Center. That happened to be in my hometown, so it somewhat validated his Western credentials for me. But equally as important, he had trained under the best Ayurvedic teachers in Northern India. Kangri knew the body, mind, and spirit from two cultures and two systems.
It was he who encouraged me to talk with Sahr, patting my hand and stating in articulate English, “You need to rid yourself of these contaminants, my boy. Pain coats your heart like patina and the despair is polluting you. Remove it if you wish to live in good health. And talk to Sahr. She knows more of these things than you might think.” Then with a grin he added, “and eat more bananas, small greens ones will do the trick nicely.”
From Master’s back veranda I punched the buttons of my cell to call Satnam. He answered immediately and agreed to meet me in his office in twenty minutes. I was just pressing the end button when Sukshmi stepped from the kitchen, wearing a sari of deep plum and maroon that magnified the black kohl around her eyes. Her bodice was a rich betel nut red, but it was her hair that shocked me--sheared to just above her shoulders in a style I knew must have infuriated her father. The whole effect was one of sultry attractiveness. And determined resistance. Seeing my hands on Surya’s handlebars she frowned. “You are skipping out again, Bhimaji, and not stopping to shoot the breeze with your dance partner? Are you avoiding me?” I winced. Twice. I had been avoiding her and ‘shoot the breeze’ was one another of those catchy phrases that grated on my ears.
“I’m not avoiding you, Sukshmi.” I whispered. “I’ve just been a little too busy with . . . things recently. I’ve had my laptop stolen, a man’s death to discuss with the police, and a mountain of translation to finish with your father and C.G.” I decided prudently to leave Uliana’s name out.
“And you have no time now to chill and make chit-chat, or dance any cool tunes with me?” If we had not been below her father’s back veranda I believe she would have tried to tickle me. She did like to tease.
“I always have time for you,” Sukshmi, I said, feigning offence in my voice. “Dancing is another matter, and it’s not that I didn’t enjoy myself the other night; I’m just feeling like everything in my life has . . . begun moving so quickly. I hardly have time to look at the clouds in the sky or a sunset over the plains. I haven’t written a line of my own poetry in two weeks, or even read a good book lately. Anyway…once it settles down again, maybe we can meet at Haroon’s again.”
The teasing smile faded. With a nod she said, “You know, Bhim, I believe you are more Hindu, or perhaps more Indian than me or most of my friends. These things you desire are what a proper Hindu would prefer to do on most days.” Her eyes met mine and looked as they had when she exited the restroom at Haroon’s—pained and stripped of defenses. “It makes me like you more, you know. But it also lets me know we are quite different from each other.” She sighed.
I wanted to stay, because I sensed that she needed to talk, needed to tell me that being forced to marry a man she’d never met was perfectly detestable. I wanted to sit in a quiet pastry shop and listen, and I suspected I might have been the only person besides a girlfriend or two that she had confided this to. Young, modern, and educated, with the cords of tradition strangling her. It was an all too common dilemma in modern India. I wanted to stay and listen…but I couldn’t. Satnam Kangri was waiting.
Offering a convincing smile, I whispered, “You and I are alike in more ways than you might imagine. I like to think that you will listen, and remind me to keep my dancing feet moving. That’s a generous attribute in any culture. You set a time and place and I’ll be a better listener. I promise. Maybe we can even dance to a few more of Randy Dogs’ tunes.”
“That is a pleasant thought, Bhim. I will wait.” She glanced at Surya and the teasing grin returned. “Your bicycle has had a face-lift, yes?”
I glanced at her hairstyle. “Actually, more like a total make-over.”
“And what do you call her now that she has this special look?”
I wiped a speck from the chrome bell and answered proudly, “She used to be named Ugly Bike, but now I call her Surya.”
As I rolled through the back gate with a second promise to listen, Sukshmi called out, “You know, Bhim, you might have called her Jatana with all those new features. She does not look like she used to at all.” I left her comment drift into the heat of the afternoon.
Satnam’s office was west of the Alamgir Mosque on the Kabir Chaura, a mile from Master’s back gate. Barring large herds of cows, carts, or funeral processions, and I would make it to his waiting room punctually. What I didn’t count on was a large group of migrating clouds.
I had just wheeled onto the Chaitganj Road when the skies cracked open with a single slap of thunder. It was as if a giant creature of myth had stepped in and struck a colossal drum announcing the end of the dry season. Seconds later the rain began to fall, large scattered drops that bounced and smacked against the tarmac in dark circlets. Then it thickened and came with determination. The paths that bordered the road, previously of fine rouge, transformed to lanes of pink ooze.
That first downpour of the year—though less than an hour in total length--obliged all but the most infirm Varanasis to celebrate. The drought had felt interminable, but the relief, instant. The air cooled, the sun disappeared, and people poured into the streets eyes turned upward with gratitude. In seconds there was dancing, clapping, twirling, and jumping. Bodies of every age
and size leapt and spun until they were soaked to the skin in a festival of innocent jubilation. The men, as a single entity, decided that shirts were superfluous and bared their chests like polished shields to the drops. The women, in an uncommon display of immodesty, loosed the braids of their hair and began twirling like maple seeds, palms aloft. Saris, soaked and sheer, clung sensuously to every breast and buttock. No one paid attention to anything but the savoring of moisture. Children ran with mouths turned skyward, and everyone, without exception, laughed and sang to the glory of the gift.
It made me twenty minutes late, and I cared not. Kangri, of all people, would understand.
“Bhim! These welcome rains arrive at the same moment as my most cherished patient. What a delight. Let me look at you.” He took my hand in both of his and studied my pupils and some facet of my face.
We stood in the front parlor of one his medical offices, white-washed stucco with wooden benches portioned along the perimeter. It was an old room with a curious blend of odors--spices, medicines, and mold--empty and silent, but from beyond the door the music of rain and singing filtered in.
I stood, embarrassed that I was dripping so much water onto the tiles.
After a moment he took my hands warmly and said, “You look well, my boy, clearly better than the first time we met. That was a messy week, eh?”
“Messy is the right word for it, Satnam. Not my best appearance, but I have you to thank for getting me through it. You and Sahr.”
He raised a bushy eyebrow. “I see your pain has grown less, a great deal so. That is good. There is evenness in the eyes. Even a bit of softness now. Hmmm…” He chuckled, as if at an inside joke. “This heart is smiling quite a bit more. Quite a bit. . He grasped my shoulder with, “You have not become a sadhu, I assume.” I shook my head, and with a small squeeze he released it. “Countenance is strong, heart smiling, so, what can this curious doctor do for you today?”
I trusted Kangri on the same level I trusted Sahr, both seeing to my well-being far beyond what was customary. That develops trust. I knew he would not divulge what I was about to show him. I also knew he could give me more answers about it than anyone in the province.
Tentatively I explained, “I’d like you to look at something. But I can’t tell you where it comes from, or why I have it. I know that’s not exactly fair, but if you could look at it and tell me what you think, I would be even further in your debt.”
He glanced at my bag and nodded quickly. “There is no debt. Let me see what you have.”
Half a minute later the jump drive was open to my notes. Tilting the angle of screen for his eyes, I said, “Just read and tell me what you think, your best medical opinion.” I paused and added, “Perhaps your western opinions would be better for the moment, but…” He hushed me with a wave of his hand, having already read the references to the basti and urvi pressure points.
For a long time I sat on a bench and listened to the rain clap against the windows. A few streets over tablas and a wooden flute had been added to the rhythm of the dancers. Soft rumbles of thunder added to the symphony. I thought of Soma and hoped she was celebrating somewhere, bare feet and green sari soaked and cleansed by the rain. I hoped she was spinning happily like all the others, hair loose and splayed like a fan.
The storm pushed to the north over the plains toward the Himalayas. Inside it was silent as a cemetery. Kangri read on, then re-read. Still he said nothing. Finally he pinched the bridge of his nose and straightened up. “So . . . you want me to tell you what this could be, eh? You want me to offer my medical opinion of these pressure points, the plants, all of it?”
I nodded. “I don’t know any other way to say it . . . but I trust your judgment more than anyone. I need to know whether it’s even remotely legitimate.”
He pursed his lips. “Whew . . . well it is, I’m sure you realize, an amazing work, a true masterpiece of the ancient cures. But is it legitimate? Yes and no.”
I arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t help much.”
“No, I suppose not. But, bear with me. Let us say you present this to the medical societies of Europe and the United States, maybe via a carefully written article. There is nothing to validate it, no trials, no clinical tests or assays to support the findings. Active elements are not isolated, which by the way, would reduces their efficacy, like taking kernels of fresh corn and making Fritos. There are no data to identify which nerves are stimulated by these acupressure points, and so on and so on. Most would huff and puff and dismiss it before they had read five lines. Medical purists are the world’s worst skeptics, you see--officious, self-important, nonbelievers of every curiosity that falls outside the realm of understanding and methodology. But that is just my objective opinion.” He tapped a dimple.
“But here, in this country where such things are accepted because they have a six thousand year history, it might be viewed with less cynicism.”
“But do you think that it is . . . ?”
Satnam cut me off. “In my opinion, my boy, this is not merely a preventative or a stay of the symptoms. This is designed to be a cure.” He let that hang for an instant before adding, “but one requires a more time and effort than eating a few nicely colored pills and taking a ten minute nap in a machine. It is a holistic approach, you see, designed to augment a lifestyle. These for instance,” He pointed at the pairs of basti and urvi pressure points, “are meant to stimulate the Isles of Langerhans and pancreas, but meant to be done over a period of months, not days. That leads me to certain conclusions about the disease itself. But, I’m not willing to share that with you quite yet.”
I was preparing to protest when he added, “Because you will likely discover it yourself. Is this all of it?”
I was anxious to hear what he thought the disease might be, but replied, “For now, yes. It’s all we can get our hands on.” He didn’t seem bothered by my holding back, his mind leaping a step ahead.
“I ask because there is usually more. The Ayur often prescribed complimentary guides for diet, mind-set, and a host of external influences. This is from early Ayur, is it not?”
“Yes, we think it is from the Sushrut Samhitas, perhaps earlier. There are some pieces missing, parts that are inaccessible right now. That’s all I can tell you . . . really.” He nodded and I unplugged the memory stick to begin repacking the computer.
He nodded toward the screen. “I can make a fairly good guess about the cure, but I’d rather wait until we all have more time to study it. Will you do me the favor of showing me the last of it when you get it? I would enjoy studying it more thoroughly.”
“Satnam, you have my word that it will be the first person I contact.”
“Good, because to answer your most important question, it is legitimate.”
I stared at him and he nodded again. “Yes, legitimate.”
As we moved to the door he said, “Think about this. Two-thirds of the plants made into modern medicines came to the attention of pharmaceutical companies from how they were used in traditional ways. And most of those came from developing countries.” I tried to grasp the implications of that.
Outside, the rains had slowed. Random streaks of sunlight were beginning to slant through the front windows. Satnam took my hand and reminded me to call him soon. As I wrapped Surya’s chain beneath her seat, he laid a palm against my chest and smiled. “You know, this chakra is healing better than any of the others, still tender, but definitely healing. She must be beautiful, this potion of yours.”
I swung my leg over the seat, and with a shy grin and a push on the pedal, replied, “Yes, Satnam. She is.”
Thirty-Eight
It took me longer to locate Uli and the ever-present Jitka than expected. The crowd surrounding Adam’s chair had multiplied six-fold from the previous day, and locating the sisters, even with their distinctive features was not easy. People stood in concentric rings ten meters out from the shala. Children in tattered shorts scampered about, searching fo
r unguarded items to pilfer. Vendors, entertainers, and two policemen were positioned on the upper ledges. I even saw the Chapins, Frederick and Marley with their battery-operated hats, standing at the outer edge. I had expected an increasing number of listeners for the sermons—they had the magnetic quality of loadstone--but this was taking on the air of a carnival.
I noticed a few spectators that I didn’t want to see. Standing near the wall below the mosque in an easily identifiable robe and turban was the Imam Nomani. Further back was Yakoob Qereshy and a small cadre of his jacketed followers.
Adam had just had just offered a welcome and asked everyone to join him in three deep breaths of rain-washed air. I was pleased; this time I hadn’t missed a word.
I lifted Surya down through phantoms of steam floating up from the moistened stone. Standing to the side, three Benarsi women were translating into Urdu, Hindi, and Farsi. There was a feeling of organization to it all, all new.
He closed his eyes and momentarily seemed to mentally depart the place where he stood. When he opened them, his voice rang out strong and clear. “The ancient metaphors of our universe, my brothers and sisters, carry with them outdated ideas, pictures and myths that have been painted for far too long. A flat earth, flaming chariots, or bearded gods with bolts of lightening, they are obsolete, incorrect, and must be abandoned. Our survival depends upon it. God is not a he or a she, does not sport a mustache, beard, or freckles. Jehovah, Vishnu, Allah, and Shiva don’t wear sandals or sport rivers of blood in their hair. There are no gnashing teeth or burning cauldrons.
The hour has arrived when we must create new names and new descriptions with no likeness to humans. The energy we attempt to so vainly define has no gender, no recognizable shape, and certainly no resemblance to us, none whatsoever, even though it might comfort us to think so. We are simply another form of life standing at the peak of a vast array of complex organisms that have risen from this energy. If, in our need to do so, we feel compelled to give a shape to this universal force, then let us say it has closer resemblance to humming strands of wet spaghetti than anything else.” There was a considerable and understandable wave of murmured confusion at this. “Like the taut strings of a sitar, subatomic strands of light give rise to particles of matter—miniscule strands of energy that begets matter and forms our entire universe. They just happen to look like Barelli pasta. That energy is creation, my friends. Always in motion, ever-changing, with absolutely no human attributes.”
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