Our hostess led me through a small kitchen and into an infirmary—rudimentary rooms of rough wood and austere furniture. Basics were sparse, but it was plain to see small miracles were happening there. The shelves boasted medicine, salves, liniment, gauze, and improbably, three bottles of Flintstone vitamins. White-saried women squatted before piles of thread and cloth, stitching pillowcases to be sold in the market. Others strung tiny spheres of bright plastic and laminated wood, beaded curtains. But, as Mata explained, the profit was small. It wasn’t enough and food was always exiguous.
Uli and Jitka entered with their young companion, Abha, she, holding each of their hands like rope swings. Mata told us how the The Haven accepted donations from the big international charities.
“But they don’t see us as a priority,” she sighed, “with so many more visible problems in the city, AIDS, malaria, the sex trade, even the pollution in the river. Destitute widows? We are not deemed worthy of such large donations. The smaller foundations provide some, groups of women with open hearts and enough courage to come here and fight for us. But, always we need more.” Her finger pointed at the circles of working women on the floor. “They come abused, beaten, malnourished, dehydrated, and diseased. Most would die out there, or suffer so horribly they wished they had. We take them in and do what we can. I just . . . wish we had more.” She closed her eyes and touched folded hands to her forehead. “It is my great prayer, because too many nights that pot isn’t deep enough.” I looked at the large kettle over the wood fire.
I needed to get back to Manikarnika, but a larger part of me didn’t want to leave; I wanted to be where Soma had spent her last hours, just sit and absorb her energy. But . . . there were people to talk to, and Sahr would be waiting with Vin to take us home. “Mata,” I breathed. “Soma was. . .” I struggled to find the words. “special in my life. You helped her, and I will return that somehow.”
Uli looked at me and smiled in that Uli-knowing way. She knew how hard it was for me to say that, and with a quick step came and slipped her hands around my neck. “May I?” I smiled and nodded. The silver chain and fire opal came off my neck with the same words that fastened it there. “For passion, Bhim. Only that.” Then she turned to hand it to Mata. “Take this to the jewel merchant near the coffee stands in the market. He knows its value und should give you a fair price. It can fill that pot for a few more weeks.”
With Mata’s gratitudes trailing us through the gate, we trotted back to a pyre now reduced to ash and embers. Alms were being divided amongst the poor. I found Sahr and asked her to give me two more minutes, then went to where Devamukti and Sukshmi stood. She was holding her father by the arm, supporting him. Satnam and Mirabai stood to the side.
I touched his feet. “You honored her in life and death, Master. It was a beautiful dahakarana.”
“She was old on the great wheel, but young in years. Just a child. We did the best for her in death because she deserved better in life.” He looked at Sukshmi, eyes brimming, and she kissed his hand. Father and daughter, it appeared, were reconciled. He heaved a sigh. “And next, we must bid good-bye to my daughter’s godfather.”
I felt uncomfortable with what I had to say. “Master, I will be gone for a time. I don’t know how long, but there are some personal matters I must take care of. I cannot be here for Sri Chandragupta’s cremation.” I wanted to tell him that I had paid my respects at his deathbed, but his smile told me he knew.
In typical fashion he patted my arm and wagged his head. “I understand, My Boy. Sukshmi has explained it, you see. But do not be troubled. He will have the most festive celebration this Ghat has seen in a decade. Hundreds will gather to send him on.” He reached across and patted Uli’s hand, and I took the opportunity to introduce Jitka. There were flurries of namastes and little bows before Master drew me to the side.
“There is good news. The notice of our work has been mailed. The world will soon read about the new samhitas. Satnam also assures me some good friends are studying very carefully the prescription. Then I’m sure there will be a hundred thousand interested. All those scientists that C.G. talked about will be coming to our little cave like a herd of buffalo.” He grinned. “Let them come.”
I turned to Satnam, whose dimples were imploding in a grin. “It is incredible, Bhim. Things still to be worked out, of course, trials to be employed, but my colleagues have forwarded it to the other Ayurvedic societies, along with the story of how it was discovered. It will be done informally at first, but in large numbers, and then the world can apply all its empirical judgments. We shall see what we shall see.” He grinned again.
We chatted about the prospects, which countries would be in denial, which would receive it openly. “Eventually,” he said, “they will all have to consider it.” I took that opportunity to tell him of our travel plans and ask about Adam.
“He heals quickly, Bhim, more so than the rest of us, even claims he will be dancing within the week.”
That image was amusing. “But not lecturing?” I asked.
He answered, “Not for the moment, and not here. The shala was a source of strength for him. Now his words will go with the book.” His eyes sparkled at me. “As well as yours.”
People were migrating to cars and taxis. Thoughts of death were over, the work of the living continued. The morning haze was starting to rise and the mist burning off. I looked at Uli and Jitka. They nodded. The hour of anonymous cold-calling was upon us.
We hustled up to Aurangbad Road, where Vinduram and Sahr stood in front the purring taxi. Sahr opened her own door and settled with an interesting familiarity into the front seat. Uli and Jitka slid into the back. I looked over the roof, down the long avenue towards the center of the city. And blinked. Something there made my skin prickle. I wasn’t certain, but just before the curve in the road I thought I saw a flash of folding umbrella and a familiar turn of arms and leg slide into a black Mercedes. But like a ghost, it disappeared into the haze.
Sixty-Eight
Three factors made the calls proceed without incident. First, I made certain my Hindi was indistinguishable from that of any common citizen in Northern India—standard, non-vernacular without accent. Knowing that my voice was likely to be recorded every time I read it, I spoke quickly and didn’t answer a single question. Shipments of illegal uranium are being smuggled from Imperial Holding near Sarnath. Corrupt police, especially one Assistant Inspector Madru Ralki, were involved in cover-up of activities—I particularly enjoyed that one—and possibly Cabinet Minister Qereshy. Trucks are moving today. Click. Repeat. Click.
Second, the phone we used was untraceable and throwaway. Adam gave it to me with the understanding that it would end up in the deepest latrine in the gullies. In addition, any brave soul willing to dig it out would find the man whose name it was registered to was beyond reproach and now beyond anyone’s reach.
Finally, Jitka had done commendable research. Not only had she located the phone numbers we needed, but she demanded the names of the superiors, the ones who wouldn’t hesitate to act on the information.
But I still didn’t stop shaking until I pressed the end button on the last call. We had just inflicted heavy damage on some extremely powerful people, not something they would quickly forget or forgive. I prayed we had protected our anonymity.
“Okay, it’s done,” I breathed. “Let’s hope it works.”
“It will, Lover. Four newspapers und three intelligence groups won’t ignore it. They will climb over each other to be first out there.”
“I hope so, and I hope they do it with some serious backup.”
****
I was the only one of us not packed, so as Jitka went to find a bigger breakfast than the abbreviated one we’d had earlier, Uli and I went to my room.
I pulled two small duffles from the bottom of the closet and began folding clothes. There wasn’t much. The laptop, camera, my manuscript, and Adam’s, fit into one. Uli, refolding a shirt tossed in a bit too sloppily, looked up. �
��You really didn’t mind that I gave your opal away, Mein Schatzki?”
“No. Not that I didn’t adore it, but you could probably ask me to give away everything I own,” I pulled her hand to my heart. “except this, because you already have it.”
“Und I’m keeping it right here with mine.” She giggled and pulled mine onto her breast and held it there.
This was followed by excited questions. Did I wish to return to America soon? Yes, as soon as we returned from traveling and affairs were settled. Will we take time together after Jitka goes? Yes, to the mountains for weeks of lovemaking and climbing and more lovemaking. Would I miss the city? Yes, acquaintances definitely, but it was time to leave. Would I continue my studies? Of course, maybe at the university in Berkeley, if they would have me. I had answers to all but one. What was to be done about Mej?
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I actually thought I saw him this morning, or the goatskin guy, right after the cremation. It was too hazy to tell for certain, but he drove away in a Mercedes exactly like the one Sahr described. Speculation again. This morning I had the crazy idea that he’s been using his bombs as some kind of diversion—a plan to keep the authorities looking everywhere but the mine.”
She considered this for a moment and then began nodding rapidly. “Trickery, like the magician with the handkerchief? The words in the vision, do you remember, ‘Master of diversion. Sutradharak, The PuppetMaster.’ It makes sense, Bhim. He’s not Islamic, he just wants everyone to think he is.” Her eyes met mine with a new look of worry. “Mein Gott, what if he’s timing them with the shipments?” I stared back, suddenly realizing what that meant. According to what we had seen the previous night, a shipment could be leaving soon. Now I really hoped our calls spurred some action.
As we finished packing my duffles, an infuriating truth came to me. Mej had not only used Islam as a deceptive instrument, he had used me as well. I had been a selected pawn in his game.
****
Sahr would not relent. She was going to tell me what her bhuta had told her, and I was going to listen. She dragged me to the front parlor, away from the sisters, and set me in my chair. The stance was struck—hands on hips, bosom straining against her chola, and swan’s wing crushed into a frown.
“He is not wrong, Saab. Believe me. There is danger with the rising of the next sun. He warned me of flames and death at dawn. Many times over.”
I was confused about what she meant. “He said it many times over, or did he mean it would happen many times over?”
“The second. He speaks his words only once, never twice. I am expected to pay attention the first time.”
The entire morning had been filled with images of funerals death, and now this. It made me anxious to have us on our way to Delhi. In addition to feeling the need to appease her, I now placed enough faith in such messages to ask, “What else did Durgubal say?”
“He said there will be death from flames, from steel and water. All coming at dawn” I felt a shiver ripple down my back.
“Another attack on the city?”
She shrugged. “Nothing else was said, Bhimaji.”
“Then,” I replied. “There is nothing more we can do than be more watchful and more careful.”
Sixty-Nine
Sutradharak closed the door to his cottage and locked it. He tucked the keys into a pocket, thinking to himself, departing this place will be like leaving a theater with a second-rate production under way—find the side door, erase the memories, and breathe better air. He had witnessed his last cremation that morning, eaten his last meal in the Chowk, returned to the cottage and packed new belongings. Then he closed the door. Every vestige of the Ahkmed Jamil, the goat merchant of Varanasi, and Mejanand Whiton, the NRI of East London, disappeared with the turn of the key. His new persona, Remo Marselinni, an investment banker from Naples, Italy, was born easily, without a shred of contrition.
The Italian sat behind the steering wheel of the black Mercedes and drove at moderate speed confidently northwest on NH56. He moved unobtrusively and drew no attention to himself.
All connections to the two aforementioned men—beard, clothes, umbrella, goatskin bag, documents, and even the computer—had been reduced to ash in an incinerator two blocks from the loft. In the boot of his car a valise was packed with fashionable Neopolitan shirts, three trousers, two pairs of slightly worn Caponi shoes, a pair of scuffed cross-trainers and a used squash racket. His toiletry bag contained expensive colognes and a gold-plated manicure set—all purchased in Naples. His wallet and multi-national bank accounts were bulging, his sunglasses perfectly coordinated to a new ascot and crew cut hairstyle. The Anza fixed-blade hunting knife was still strapped to his calf and three additional passports were taped in a hidden compartment in the boot of the car—instruments of last resort. His most valued items, for the next twenty-four hours at least, were just within arm’s reach. Inside the dash of the Mercedes were two fully charged mobile phones. The final and most lethal event he had ever designed would commence with the touch of two buttons. Then Remo Marselinni would board a late evening flight to Rome. And disappear.
He eased the seat back to settle into the drive, just over four hundred kilometers west by northwest. Traffic, he knew, would be moderately heavy at the onset, less so as he veered northward. The five hours would give him ample time to polish his new accent. Details. Success depended upon them. The PuppetMaster will also be incinerated, tomorrow, he mused. And Remo Marselinni will rise like the winged Phoenix from his ashes.
Seventy
At 1:30 Vinduram dropped us at the entrance to the Varanasi Cantonment Station—a massive cream and rouge bulkhead of faux temple domes, a hundred windows, and a grand rectangular clock that managed to show the correct time twice daily. Inside, concrete stretched almost a kilometer in both directions, and almost every square meter was covered with people, napping, sitting, eating, or squatting in conversation. It was denser to the left where second-class passengers waited to elbow their way on in fifteen minutes. I had braved second class a few times before, and it wasn’t how I wanted us to reach Delhi this trip. We stood at the other end, waiting to board one of two air-conditioned first-class cars.
The two diesel engines, in front of our first class compartments, emitted low growls, and behind them a long string of second-class cars stretch down the station. All of them, in a display of egalitarianism, had beige, iron bars covering the windows. This deterred illegitimate entry, and easy exit for that matter.
Hawkers circulated. I bought choley bhatur, samosas, and spicy peanuts in paper cones. Bottled water topped off our menu. We sat on our bags against a column and passed the snacks back and forth, sampling flavors.
“Are you all right?” Uli asked. In truth, I was exhausted and ready to fold into a soft seat, rocking to the rhythms of the rails. The commotion of the station, the mechanics of it all used to fascinate me, the assortment of human shape and movement feeling like an impressionist oil painting. Right now, I wanted only to put it away and feel nothing but Uli’s head on my shoulder, or vice versa.
“It will be good to be on board,” I answered. A whistle shrieked down the line, causing me to flinch. Conductors down-folded metal steps, redcaps jockeyed for position, and passengers completely ignored the suggestion of a queue. I motioned to an industrious looking teen, a barefoot boy with shredded blue shirt and a scarlet rag about his head—the only indicators that he was a porter. He grinned—with less teeth than most—snatched up our bags, and squeezed through the door between the cars. Within the minute we were settled into our seats, bags stowed, and snacks floating again between us. Uli was next to me on the window side, Jitka to my left, across the aisle. I breathed in the oily perfume of the engine, closed my eyes, and slipped into the symphony of departure.
A hiss of the brakes was followed by Jitka’s voice, throaty with melancholy. “I vill miss a few things here, you know.”
I popped open an eye to look at her skeptically. “Really?�
��
“Not a long list, mind you, but after you, Uli, and Sahr, Johnny Chang’s stir fry comes to mind. The kebobs at the Afghan café, they were gut, too. But Adam’s sermons I vill miss them the most. The ones without explosions were more to my liking, but I did enjoy his ideas.”
“You will be able to read more of them soon enough.” I told her about the manuscript in my duffle.
“Und you write the forward? What an honor, Bhim.”
I looked at Uli. She was just gazing out the window, smiling in her knowing way.
With a groan of hydraulics and a series of small lurches, we left Varanasi.
Seventy-One
Lucknow by sunset. Uli said little as we the passed hours rolling over flooded fields of rice, yoked oxen, and barefoot women. The rains had brought life back to it all. I said less and less, eventually drifting into an erratic sleep with my head in her lap. Even her caress couldn’t assuage my uneasiness. Until we heard good news concerning the events we had set in motion, we would probably all feel some level of apprehension.
I bounced through kaleidoscopic dreams--dashes of conversation, images of corpses and flying sparks.
What if he is timing them to match the shipments, Bhim?
Who? Sutradharak, Yes, the master of diversion. Who? Sutradharak.
Flame and death at dawn. Little Sister, where are you?
Death from steel and water. Durgubal told me.
Flames and death at dawn. Who? The Sutradharak.
I woke with the slowing of axles and the mantras of food merchants floating through our window. Uli was smoothing my hair and looking down at me with deep-water eyes. My nightmares floated away like charred embers in the river. “Hello, Lover,” she whispered.
The PuppetMaster Page 33