The PuppetMaster

by MacNair, Andrew L.

  I had to tell her sooner than later. “We have to go to Shivdaspur, the red light district, this evening. The prostitute’s quarters?”

  She grinned, but seeing the seriousness of my expression, decided against joking. “Und this red light district, it is like the boring one we have in Copenhagen? Everyone thinks is such eine grose und it is nothing.”

  “Uli, listen. Shivdas a very ugly, unpleasant part of town. I walked through it once from curiosity and swore I’d never return. I would have gone with Sahr alone, but this . . . woman asked for you also. How she knows about us, I can't guess.”

  With another grin, she asked, “Do you think she looked into a crystal ball to watch our love-making? That would have been an eyeful.”

  As we drove up the main road towards the market, a river of humanity began to close in determined waves about us. Hundreds, then thousands, of men in shortened loongis and women in saris, crowded against our doors. The under-fed, the barefoot, the wealthy, and the affluent. Pedi-cabs and autoricks came within inches of our taxi. Dust choked the air. Finally our driver slid the partition open to announce, “Saab, I believe there is funeral or a parade ahead. Possibly it is a political rally. Do you wish that I continue?” Through the windshield I saw what appeared to be a dense mob of Hindus of various sects--unusual enough in itself. Devotees of Shiva and other deities were moving in a semi-organized fashion up the avenue. It wasn't political, it was religious. That was good. Religious processions in Varanasi were usually benign and non-threatening. Usually. Then I heard chanting, and down a side street I saw Muslim protestors, followers of the firebrand Qereshy, marching in a parallel line to the first group. That wasn’t good.

  I handed our driver fare and a tip and helped Uli from the backseat into the crowd. “Hold my hand and stay close,” I whispered. “We'll go down the side lanes to the market. It's close. Keep your hand around your bag.”

  Avoiding the parades, which had piqued my curiosity, we entered one of the paths feeding into the market. Trays of okra, squash, and rice rested on dazzling fabric on the ground. Purveyors called out, “Saab, bahut acha deal, Memsaab! Sau rupee kilo ke liye.” Ignoring the hawkers, I guided us into the main market.

  As we emerged, Uli squeezed my hand with delight. The prismatic vitality of it was stunning for me even after a hundred visits. Fruits, vegetables, and legumes were piled in wooden carts and semi-permanent stalls. Urns of milk, cheese, and yogurt stood waist-high next to stacks of clay pots and moistened banana leaves—Varanasi's version of recyclable packaging. The market spread out in a grand, sloppy rectangle. Brasswares, silks, cottons, betel, teas, coffees, and the ever-present beedis and cigarettes, ran in formless sections. Fruits and vegetables of every imaginable shape, size, and color were stacked in tenuous pyramids. Music and a cacophony of bartering surged around us.

  We spent an hour and a goodly amount of rupees. My cloth sack filled up first, then the one I purchased for Uli--the first of many small gifts. She, on the other hand, only bought a single gift for me. Just as we were preparing to leave, she asked me to find her a kilo of the best coffee in the bazaar. She was on a mission, she said. I pointed to the exact spot where I would wait nervously until she returned. When she did, it was with the most beautiful fire opal I had seen outside a museum.

  “It wouldn't hurt to wear a single piece of jewelry, would it?” she asked as she tugged the strings on the pouch and slid a stone onto my palm. I was overwhelmed. An opal, a flame of vibrant blue surrounded by a teardrop of filigreed gold, hung on a strong chain.

  “My god. It's exquisite. You shouldn't have spent so much.”

  “Yes, I should. I saw it as we passed the gem shop.” Fastening it around my neck, beneath the namaghanda, she whispered lustily, “For our passion, Bhim.”

  Knowing the answer already, I asked, “And how did you know it was my birthstone?”

  “How do you think?” She laid her hand across my heart.

  “Sahr?”

  She just smiled.

  Large, dense crowds in Varanasi, you simply learned to accept their inevitability. In my three plus years there I had taken great pleasure in their anonymity. I had also learned to dread them. It depended on their mood, not mine. The multitudes in the bazaars and train stations were marvelous to melt into on normal days. I would retire to a shaded bench and watch as families parted, workers toiled, and merchants bartered. Most days it felt safe, and offered a peek at the great cross-section of Indian existence. Most days, but occasionally the crowds transformed into frightening, undisciplined monsters.

  With bags overflowing, I led us back down the side street to the main avenue to hail a taxi. It was getting late, and we were hungry and ready to wash off the dust of the day. I envisioned a naked, fragrant shower with Uli, and a quick meal before taxiing to Shivdaspur for a meeting with the nabi whose name I did not know. But as we turned from the market lanes, we came straight up, face to face with a cordon of forty policemen armed with lathees, bamboo truncheons. The wore uncompromising expressions on their faces, and by the looks of it, they were preparing to launch themselves into the procession of religious devotees we had seen earlier. That parade that was no longer a peaceful group of Hindu devotees, it was an angry mob of Hindus and Muslims together. I pulled Uli quickly back into the obscurity of the side street just as a fusillade of stone and brick flew across the opening. Shouting and cursing exploded, and then, with a single blast of a whistle, the police attacked.

  Complete chaos erupted. More whistles shrieked, debris arched and shattered on the road.

  With the police charging, the crowd splintered north, and we were suddenly on the south side with everyone scrambling in the opposite direction. It was our opportunity. I tugged on her wrist, and she looked at me with terror, as if rioting mobs were the nascence of her worst nightmares. She froze, and I yelled, “Hold my hand and run.”

  I had to yank on her wrist to get her moving. We dashed up the avenue as quickly as our over-laden bags would allow, and moments later were enough distance away to stop and catch our breath. I guided us into a nook between an empty vegetable cart and a steel-shuttered building. She was trembling violently. “I hate it. I hate the riots!” Her breath came in gasps, eyes terrified and focused far away.

  With my free arm I pulled her close and whispered, “We're safe now, Uli. Safe. It was just a rowdy party of over-zealous merry-makers.” I kissed her cheeks and smoothed her hair. “It's okay now. We can go home.”

  It took a long time for her to calm, which puzzled me. The scene had startled us, but it had been relatively small, and we had been enough distance from it.

  I caressed her cheek again, feeling the mannish pride of protection. I liked it almost as much as being a guide and a lover. Then I hailed a taxi.

  Jitka greeted us with a sour look until she saw Uli's expression and the cornucopia of food in our sacks. Uli went to shower while I made a salad and heated up some nan and barley soup. Jitka stowed the groceries and set the table, being pleasant enough toward me, though not too talkative. I sensed she was happy for her sister’s blossoming relationship with me, and I considered asking a question or two about Uli, but then decided against it. Those were discoveries I wanted to make on my own.

  I gave her a condensed, less dramatic, version of the afternoon’s events.

  Uli appeared from the shower toweling her hair. She had wrapped herself in a man’s loongi that just covered her breasts and fell in diaphanous folds to a delicious place along her thighs. Suddenly, I wanted to be closer than that silk, and must have sighed audibly, because she came and kissed me.

  “Und I suppose I will again be sleeping here tonight alone?” Jitka tried to look disgruntled, but her expression gave way to an impish smile.

  “Svester, Bhim und I have a date tonight, und time only enough for an appetizer. We will eat later und we don't know if we will come back or stay at Bhim's.”

  “You said so already, Uli. So what is this big appointme
nt?”

  “It seems my guide is taking me to the red light district tonight. We are going to the whore's town. Quite exciting, ya?”

  Jitka didn't look particularly thrilled that I was taking her sister to the prostitute's neighborhood.

  I tried to explain it without painting too unsavory a picture. “We are going to see. . .a fortune-teller tonight. She just happens to live in that part of town.”

  “A fortune-teller? You two want to know your future when you don't even know where you want to sleep? Maybe she can tell you. Ach. Go. I am happy for you und will be fine. Now let's eat.”

  I gulped my soup and took a piece nan to the shower with me. Uli came in to help me towel off. “I wanted to see you wearing just the opal,” she cooed, “something for me to think about during our date.” The loongi slipped to the floor. “Und something for you to think about, too.” We laced fingers, eyes lingering for a moment on what we would share later that evening.

  When we slid apart, she stood in front of me unabashed. I reached for her hand again. “You are so beautiful, Uliana, like Radha or Parvati. I never. . .”

  “Shhh, don't say anything. Just promise to hold me like you did this afternoon and write poetry about us.” She kissed me again. “Just that.”

  “I promise. Lovers will read about us a thousand years from now.” I took a deep breath. “We need to go.”

  Forty-Five

  A taxi large enough for the three of us to sit comfortably was on the list of requisites, one with a driver that could get swiftly through evening traffic. We got lucky. As soon as Uli and I stepped onto Asi Road, a gregarious, green-turbaned Sikh hailed us from the window of his cab. “Hallo, Sahib, Memsahib. I am most reverently at your service. Where may I take you this glorious evening? Vinduram Singh I am called, Vin by my good customers.” This was all announced in English, through the window before the car had pulled to the curb.

  “Namaskar, Brother Vin,” I said cheerily. “You may take us down Shivanan Avenue to South Nagpur, There we will pick up one more. Then you may take us to Shivdaspur as quickly as your fine car can get us there.”

  “All this is I can do with pleasure, Sahib. And I will not venture to ask why you wish to go to such a section of the city at this time of the day.” His eyes met mine in the mirror.

  “That is good, Vin. Because I would not venture to tell you.”

  Vin was good to his word. He moved us quickly down the avenue, detoured around two blocks of thickening traffic, and brought us to my gate punctually. As I entered, Lalji approached. His normally infectious grin was missing, replaced by a melancholy I'd rarely seen before.

  “Lalji? Is everything all right?”

  “Saab. . .I. . .” Words caught in his throat. “It is . . . so horrible about the widow. She was so pretty, and should not have died. She . . . She just needed someone good.”

  Suddenly I understood, and it astounded me. Lalji had had feelings for Soma, and in all our time together, I had failed to notice. He’d not spoken a single word to her, and it had me wondering if was from shyness or the fact that she was a widow.

  The rims of his eyes filled and he blinked back tears and croaked, “I am sorry, Saab. I do not know what has happened to me.” A fleck of grin returned and his shoulders drooped just enough for me to notice. “Perhaps I am coming down with illness and need a day of rest to regain my strength.”

  Sahr entered just then from the side of the villa and Lalji’s shoulders straightened like one of the Queen’s Guard. She eyed him skeptically.

  Her sari was a shade of pale ivory, the shawl drawn over freshly washed hair. There wasn’t a single piece of jewelry, make-up, or tilaka powder. I noticed she was breathing in a deep, even rhythm, which I assumed was part of a calming routine. Whether it was for meeting with the nabi or for simply entering into Shivdaspur, I didn’t know.

  She set her hands on her hips and spoke quickly to Lalji. “You will lock these doors, leave the kitchen and salon lights on, lock the gate and sit on that middle step until our return.” A small, but menacing finger wagged at him. “And you will not, under any circumstances roll your scrawny legs into that hammock.” Her finger swiveled toward the hanging bed. “Lalji?”

  His head wagged in perfect time with her finger. “No sleeping, Maam. Only my best duties as night watchman.”

  “That is the answer I wish to hear, and I don’t need to remind what will happen should you forget.”

  The bandaged pinky that desperately needed re-dressing, flew instinctively to the side of his head. “No, Maam. I know what would happen.”

  Vin opened the door in a chivalrous motion, asking if Sahr wished to sit in the front. “I have a fine working radio for the music,” he added as an incentive. With an stern nod she settled herself onto the vinyl.

  I slid in next to Uli with the ridiculous feeling that I was going on a double date. I lay my head back onto her shoulder and drifted into the scent of her patchouli and perfume.

  Vin chattered like a mynah, green turban bobbing with every word. Sahr stared silently through the windshield. “You know, I grew up in this city,” he chirped. “Born here, raised here, apprenticed in the fine art of taxiing here, but it has changed so. Look at these streets, so crowded they are now. How can a driver be expected to make six trips a day in a car like this, much less the twenty he needs to feed a family. Not that I have a family. I am unmarried, you know. And you bahina, you are Benarsi?” The turban rotated jovially towards Sahr. I couldn't see her birthmark from the back seat, but I knew it had scrunched into a warning scowl. Without answering, she turned and continued staring out the windshield.

  After a few more unsuccessful attempts to engage her in some form, any form, of conversation, Vin caught my gaze in the mirror. “Yes, Sahib. Most definitely this city is changing. Why just this afternoon I am taking a rather obese fellow, who tipped quite miserably I might add, to the Chowk Market and a riot springs up in right front of my bumper. Folliticians and holy men it was. Imagine, holy men in a holy city, rioting.”

  I felt Uli tense.

  “We saw them also,” I replied evenly. “What was it about? It looked like Hindu and Muslim sects together.”

  “Oh yes, Sahib. Even Christians. All different groups, it was. But it was the hooligans in the mix who got everyone riled up over some chap talking on the Ghats. Foolishness.”

  Uli leaned forward. “What man talking on the Ghats.”

  Vin glanced to see if Sahr was paying heed to his ability to be so well informed. “Some man has been making lectures, you know, and the priests organized a walk in support of traditional Hindu beliefs, or some such nonsense. Then the cabinet minister Qereshy called for his Muslims to object to something. Trouble-makers joined in and riots start. Those young fools are always the first to pick up a rock when the police arrive.”

  We had missed Adam's sermon that afternoon, but I had to assume it was as inflammatory as the previous day. It worried me. Small riots had a way of magnifying. “Do you know what this man talked about?” I asked.

  The turban wagged assertively. “My customers tell me he is selling a new religion.” Our eyes connected again in the mirror. “But perhaps new religion is not a bad thing. The old-timers would disagree, but not me.”

  Uli replied, “We know this man, und he is not talking about religion. It is about making our world better. That can't be wrong.” I could tell she was irritated, or maybe frustrated. I was just concerned.

  We snaked our way through a maze of narrow cobblestoned lanes until Vin found a space wide enough to open the passenger doors fully. Faster than I imagined possible, he had Sahr's open and a hand extended to help her out. To my surprise, she took it. As I was settling the fare, she asked rather icily, “Mr. Vinduram Singh, It is said that a proper Sikh does not imbibe alcohol or swear. Is that true for you?”

  Vin glanced at me for help. My look told him to tread carefully. “Ah . . .well, I have been known to sip a glass of wine on
the rare occasion, Maam. But that was in my ill-spent youth. Now, I am much too busy for such frivolity. Clean as Himalayan snows I am now.” He tapped his chest to illustrate that purity.

  “Then a bright light will shine upon your future, Mr. Singh.” And with a perceptible sparkle in her smile, she turned towards the darkness of Shivdaspur. Uli and I followed as the last of the sun's rays disappeared behind a layer of clouds on the horizon We were right on time.

  Forty-Six

  The dominant first impression was the color of lips. Red. Entering from the side street, we were immediately struck by the vibrancy and variation of red. Fire engine, cherry, flame, and grenadine, all moistened with hungry tongues. Then you saw the eyes, vacant like street dogs, and you looked quickly down to the cobbled stone and gray puddles before your feet.

  I took Uli’s hand.

  At first it was just women. Along the outer lanes the jaded veterans casually sized up our disparate trio. Some stood with hands set casually on hips, others sat sullenly under bare bulbs in the doorways of musty two-story hovels. Their cheeks were dusted with bright circles of rouge--orange or crimson. I had to assume we didn’t present ourselves as customers, but from habit they called quietly, seductively to us, and it didn't seem to matter that Uli and Sahr were women. One lifted her chola to expose wilted breasts, another the hem of her sari. Every debauchment was offered, prices were cheap.

  Then you noticed the smell. Rancid garbage and excrement assailed the nostrils.

  Pimps, soiled and grimy, approached with whispers and dodging looks. Sahr backed them away with a cold stare.

  We moved deeper into the jumble of tin-roofed shacks.

  A ghostly melody from a sitar drifted from a radio or music player in one of the larger buildings, and below the resonation of strings I could make out animal gruntings and the rhythmic slapping of skin upon skin. Uliana's fingers laced into mine. I could hear her breathing, shallow but distinct.