“Yes, Masterji. I remember you telling me that.”
“He was a friend to me even when I didn’t deserve one. Sometimes I think he was the only friend I’ve really had . . . besides Mirabai.”
I interrupted. “Master, You have a world of friends right here in this city. If I may be permitted to say, having a few come to tea on the occasional afternoon might be a good idea.”
He nodded vaguely at that, and then, as if the memory returned to him unexpectedly, said, “Soma will be cremated tomorrow, Bhim. Sunrise at Manikarnika. I had . . . C.G. and I had to quarrel with the priests over the arrangements. They didn’t think giving a low caste widow dahakarana at that auspicious hour was right. Oldfangled imbeciles. I demanded to preside and they relented when we teamed up on them.” That brought a faint smile.
A lot of changes had come to my teacher in recent days, and I hoped the letter that I was about to hand him would ease them somehow. “I brought this for you, Master. C.G. gave it to me to me just before he died.” Without anything else I placed it on his lap.
Master studied the spidery script, and it seemed to bring a flood of memories. He skimmed his fingers along the border, felt the texture and departing touch of his friend. Gently he pried the seal and removed two sheets. I took Uli into the kitchen to introduce her to Mirabai and brew us a pot of tea.
Mirabai emerged from one of the inner rooms and pulled both of us into warm embraces. She had chai already mulling in a small kettle on the stove and poured three cups. I carried one back to the parlor and found Devamukti weeping, but smiling. He took the cup and laughed sadly. “Even from death he chides me. Even now. I should have known he wouldn’t let me off without a last tickle of my old ribs. Couldn’t pass into Vishnu’s arms without a last frolic at my expense.” He handed me the two sheets. “Read.”
I took a sip and read.
My Eternal Friend, Jatanaka,
I hope, as you begin reading, that you are smiling and laughing at some amusing memory. I hope you are recalling a few of the twenty-three thousand days of our friendship, so many of them brought to my own mind as I pen this. I drift in and out now, and know my time has come. As I do so I think of our mischief together, like the day we swam up beneath the bottom and tipped the finance minister’s boat just enough so everyone tumbled into the river. We caught it for that one, eh Devi? It has been a good, long life of such memories and sometime, not too soon, I pray, we shall create more mischief and merriment together in the world beyond.
It is important for you to know how proud I was to call you my friend, to share cups of chai and plates of iddly, and test each others knowledge in lifelong contest of minds. Fine competitions we had, and like far too many things at the end, I wish I had told you more often how brilliant you really are. How good to me you were. I wish I had told you how much I cherished our friendship. We wait too long to say what is in our hearts, and then the chances disappear and we wallow in regret. But always remember that you gave me so much.
Unquestionably, the greatest gift I received from you was the honor of being a godfather to your only child. It was a responsibility I took more seriously than you might know, one I relished every day of my life. Sukshmi has been a jewel the rajah’s would have coveted. She sparkled the moment she emerged from your beautiful Mirabai, and it made my responsibility that much easier.
Her light fills many dark spaces, Jatanaka.
But, my dear friend, I fear you have not looked carefully at that light of late. It is, I suppose, one of the great afflictions of fatherhood. We draft so many aspirations for our children, and too often those aspirations cloud our vision and prevent us from seeing what is true and right in their lives.
I am certain you remember the oath I took as her godfather, her Dharmapita. I believe I have fulfilled that oath quite satisfactorily. Well enough, in fact, to now call upon the old custom-- my final request of you. And being the brilliant pundit and keen traditionalist that you are, I know you remember the observance. I call upon you now to honor it.
Allow Sukshmi to marry whomever her light-filled heart desires. Let her marry for love, Jatanaka. In a world where hatred rises in every shadow, love is a far better reason to wed than ties to traditions. And that, my dear, wise, venerated, old friend, is my request. I deem it undeniable and expect you to honor it. Though it is difficult to make too many demands from where I now walk, it is our tradition to honor such things, is it not?
Be kind to yourself, Jatanaka. Cherish the gifts in your life. You have many.
Perhaps we shall soon share idly and chai once more.
With all my respect and love,
Your friend,
Chamuk G. Chandragupta
Tears streamed down my cheeks now. The professor was gone. His laugh was gone. His petition was not. I wished Uli and he could have known each other longer. They would have laughed well together.
In due course, Mirabai entered and the four of us passed a pleasant, though expectedly solemn, half hour together.
Before we left, Devamukti told us what had been arranged in regards to the translation; a traditional announcement to all the major Sanskrit societies in the country was going out. It included four tantalizing couplets and a full description of our findings. To ensure every group took it seriously, his name, Chandragupta’s, and mine appeared on B. H. University letterhead. Dozens of mailings were being prepared by two of C.G.’s former students, and it would all be finished that afternoon. He had also concurred with Satnam Kangri’s idea of announcing it to the Ayurvedic societies first.
It was beginning.
Sixty-Three
An hour later I checked us into the Clarks Tower Hotel--a deluxe, white layer cake of modern air-conditioning, wrapped hand soaps, soft pillows, lotions, and cream rinse. Before we took to the elevator to our room, I took us through a richly-tiled lobby to an over-priced boutique. Together, Uli and I chose a pair of silk pajama pants for her. They were green and gathered at the ankles. We also found a rose and peach-colored blouse that set her lapis eyes ablaze in contrast.
We both knew the reasons we were there, had to be there. It wasn’t the clothes, or soft pillows, or scented linen. It was the need to slow it all down and shut it out for a while, to offer a sense of sanity midst the lunacy that swirled like gust about us. And that is why we didn’t rush to shed our clothes. We went slowly, deliberately. Buttons, straps, and clasps became ribboned bows of Christmas silk tugging us soothingly to mutual nakedness. We touched each others cheeks with patient fingers, letting our eyes and lips speak of love, nothing else.
Our kisses began tenderly, tentatively, and came to place where our only desire was to give totally of our selves, one to the other. And at the pinnacle of our passion, in the center of a powerful climax, Uli began sobbing. She turned her face into my neck and wept hard. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. We were escapees. Nothing else mattered. Just that moment in time, and just our union.
We slept dreamless and calm. I awoke first and gazed at her face until her eyes opened. Then I dialed room service--something I hadn’t done for a half a decade--and ordered fruit compotes, Gouda cheese, cashews, and lassis. Uli brushed her hair, which I believe was one of the most sensual things I had seen in my entire life. Then she brushed mine and fluffed our pillows so that we could lie on our sides like spoons.
As I settled my arm around her, she asked, “Do you know why I was crying?” It was a simple question but deep as a kettle lake.
“Maybe. I hope it was for good reasons and not . . .”
She ignored me. “At that second, with you inside me and me around you und all that shivering love, I felt more happy und. . . alive than I have ever been, und it just. . . made me cry.”
I kissed her shoulder and drew my finger along the underside of her breast. “I understand that. I feel it just when I look at you.”
She rolled over so our faces were close, her eyes studying mine, palm caressing my cheek. “You know, I like it that you weep sometimes.
It is a good thing when we do, it makes us stronger.” She inhaled and exhaled--almost a sigh, but more like a release. “I came here looking for answers for a feeling I thought was guilt. I now know it wasn’t guilt; it was emptiness. What I did with my father wasn’t wrong, Bhim. You were right about that, but it left me empty. You took that place and filled it. Maybe that’s why I needed to cry, because you filled me.”
I licked her eyebrow. “We filled each other. Seven days ago I was on my way to the cave and still having nightmares. Then I meet you, and now all I feel is completeness.”
Our lunch arrived on a rolling cart and we ate in bed. The lassis were cold and frothy, and as we were nearing our last bites she kissed me and said, “Thank you for this.”
“The lunch?”
“No, for this.” Her hand swept about the room and settled on my chest. “Just to be alone for an hour, it makes it possible to do what is necessary.” I knew what she meant. It was possible to go on. “Do you want to talk about Mej?” she asked. “Or do you want to keep this time to ourselves?”
“Let’s talk about it tonight. Right now, this is ours.” She smiled and kissed me because I had answered how she wanted me to.
Leaving the Clarks Tower wasn’t exactly easy. The desire to cuddle naked was pronounced for both of us, but it was made palatable by how Uli looked in her new blouse and pants. Her smile was quicker and surer now and filled with love. Mine was, I’m certain, made of the same ingredients.
****
I drove around the outskirts of the southern part of the city. The streets were wider, with fewer people, and more conducive for maneuvering a Grand Cherokee. I parked in front of my villa, noticing immediately that the gate was unlocked and Lalji not to be seen. I was glad. It meant Sahr was home and Lalji was on the first real date of his life.
I set Adam’s manuscript on the desk and went to the kitchen.
Sahr had completed her morning readings, and she and Jitka were back to stirring up culinary magic. Jitka seemed comfortable, really having fun for the first time since she had left Tonder. It pleased Uli to see her laughing and not grumbling or cleaning or standing guard for both of them. She and Sahr were disappointed when I confessed that all we wanted was some of the baked nan. As we explained that we had already taken lunch in a hotel room, a rosy smile crossed Jitka’s face. She had seen Uli’s eyes.
After lunch the sisters sat in the parlor and chatted about Tonder. It was a peaceful hour, sibling memories of youth. They decided to take a rickshaw to the flat to pack their belongings. I knew they needed alone time with each other.
I took the opportunity to hear what Sahr had discovered about Mejanand Whiton.
We sat in our customary places in the kitchen—the same chairs where we had shared so much of our lives. She shook her head. “Honestly, Bhimaji, there is little that people know of him. Most say, just as you said, that he is an Indian from London. He owns some type of import export business and travels to Delhi a lot, always on the train, though he has a fine car.”
“Really, what kind?” That was a detail Mej had certainly not shared.
“A Mercedes. Black, fancy thing, and fairly new.”
I took this in, deciding that it didn’t sound particularly clandestine or heinous. “Did your good spies tell you where he lives?”
“Uhmm, a small cottage to the north in a nice part of the city. There is a garage, some rich neighbors nearby that he never speaks with. No gardeners, no cleaners, dhobi, or cook. That would be unusual except that he travels so much he isn’t home enough to need anyone.” She stopped.
“And nothing else? Does he have any unusual habits, go anywhere in the city regularly.”
“Oh yes.” I waited. “He goes on foot to South Nagpur every few days to play with the flying discs with Bhimaji. Everyone knows that.” Of course they did.
“And this information is from reliable gossips and customers?”
She grinned. “More or less, oh, he also goes to visit a man on Lahurabir Road sometimes, very rarely.”
“What man?” My curiosity was rekindled.
“No one knows who he is, but they say he is in some kind of dairy business.”
“Dairy. What kind?” I felt my neck hairs rising again.
Sahr shook her head. “They don’t know, but from the way the man dresses, they think he may be a merchant of goat products.”
I thought carefully about my final question. “Sahr, has anyone ever seen these two standing together?”
Her head tilted thoughtfully. “That I do not know, Bhimaji.”
****
I was asking a lot of questions none of the answers were coming, so I retreated to my best brooding spot--the wobbly chair in front of my desk. A glass of cold lager usually helped with puzzle-solving. I leaned back, drifted into the aroma of sandalwood drifting out from the mats over the window, and flowed into a string of what-ifs. What if Mej and the goat merchant were the same person, and both happened to be Sutradharak? What if--as the cobra’s voice had inferred—he was involved somehow with the mining operation? Smuggling processed uranium? So why was he setting off explosions from Delhi to Varanasi? For what purpose? I paraphrased what Haroon had said as we sat at his bar. India and Pakistan were starving for fuel. ‘A few acts of terrorism, people get angry, so we practice troop maneuvers and launch rockets in Kashmir. The ante goes up, more follows and we get new missile guidance systems and fuel from France or Washington, all an intricate, dangerous game.’ Haroon just hadn’t considered that some of those materials might come from the black market.
Had the terrorism been created--as Haroon had speculated--for ulterior reasons, something totally unrelated to what the agencies and media were saying? If the two countries were at each other’s throats, the need for processed and raw materials would rise, and the demand for black market goods would rise.
As I drained the last of my lager, an uncanny ‘what if’ struck me. Every available agency was being used to search for Islamic fundamentalists or ultra-nationalists--house-to-house searches, warrants, detainment, and interrogation. Radicals groups were under scrutiny and being infiltrated at every opportunity. And none of it producing results. Yet seventeen miles away, in the bleakness of the plains, an ordinary mine was mining ordinary bauxite. Or so it seemed. What if, I asked myself, the bombings had been a ruse, a well designed, perfectly executed, and frighteningly deadly diversion?
Possibly. Perhaps. Maybe.
I pondered my limited options. If the mine was extracting uraninite and processing it, whom could I alert? More importantly, how was I going to keep us from getting sucked into a vortex of exposure? Figuring that out was at the top of my to do list, because fingering a mafia capo or other such nasty guys assured you of a one thing, a quick death. I needed a plan. I just couldn’t do it by myself the moment.
Adam’s binder sat like the boulder of Sisyphus on the desk. From curiosity I untied the string and turned to the final sheet. Seven-hundred and eighty-two pages, single spaced, ten point Palatino. A tome. Back to the first page, I read two quotes below the title. The first one I recognized from one of Adam’s lectures.
Ideas of great merit, pure thoughts and plans,
Move effortlessly about the world.
They hasten without swords or armies to enforce them.
They spread with the grace and simplicity of the power of truth.
The second quote was more ominous.
Since the world points up beauty as such
There is evilness too.
If goodness is taken as goodness,
Wickedness enters as well.
The Way of Life by Lao Tzu
Sixty-Five
Adam had entitled his opus, not surprisingly, The Simple Plan. I smiled, thinking he could have titled it A Thousand Incredible but Plausible Resolutions for Damned-Near Everything. It began simply. “Change is constant, essential, and elemental to humankind.” And from that short declaration, his statements expanded into a full b
lueprint for world change. The language was clean and concise, which as a wordsmith I appreciated greatly. It branched into divisions and subdivisions outlining hundreds of advancements similar to the ones he had described at the river. I skimmed the titles: Resolutions for Open-Ocean Aquaculture, Distillation and Water-Reclamation, Reforestation for Climate Change Reversal, Coral Reef Rehabilitation. It went on, and at the core, inside each idea, metaphors for the great energy were woven like fine thread. Nothing was undertaken without embracing the three tenets, compassion, common sense, and pure science. I spent twenty minutes reading excerpts here and there and came to the conclusion that it was a work of genius. Should that have surprised me? A world-changing, magnum opus of hope, just like Adam himself. Yet, there was something else concealed, unmentioned, but palpable. There was the distinct impression that battles were looming. I inhaled deeply. I was supposed to write a forward for this?
****
For obvious reasons, I wasn’t particularly keen on venturing to the cave after dark, and for a moment considered asking Sahr to fetch Megadhuta for a quick check on my short-term future. Cave and nighttime were words I did not like to combine, but Uli had been resolute--it was the only way we could determine the truth. Besides, she said, we actually weren’t going inside anything. Camera images weren’t enough, she said. I thought they were more than adequate and attempted to make my point. The argument was lost before it began, so I spent nervous time checking bulbs and batteries in the flashlight.
Around four in the afternoon, I heard an off-key voice drifting up the street. “Lage Raho Munna Bhai.” I recognized the newest movie theme that had been blasting from radios most of the summer. From my chair I saw the front gate swing open and Lalji—looking almost dapper in new loongi and fresh shirt--come skipping into the courtyard. I assumed from all this that his date with Ramuna the Tailor’s Daughter had gone well. Indeed, as soon as he saw my face in the window, he started telling me all about it--the movie, the lunch menu, the waiter’s haughty attitude, and all the details of his conversation with Ramuna. The flowers had been a grand success, and Lalji seemed happier than I had ever seen him. He was so affected by the events of the afternoon that he didn’t even notice the Grand Cherokee parked in front.
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