Maya (50 page)

Across the lawn, a kiosk was tucked into a small grove of spindly trees that struggled to assert themselves against the parched landscape. A group of students gathered nearby in a patch of shade. The sounds of Bollywood music, conversation, and laughter drifted languidly through the air. The American felt his way carefully down the stairs, squinting and shuffling like a blind man. The soles of his sandals were worn into small pockets of warm rubber that cradled his calloused heels, the thongs nestling snugly between his toes. As he crossed the yard the packed earth momentarily stirred to life, and pink clouds of dust snapped at the cuffs of his pants.

At the kiosk an old man bent forward over the counter, resting on his elbows. He wore a Nehru cap and a short waiter's coat stained with perspiration and grease. Nearby a child squatted, washing cups under a trickle of water that spilled from a concrete cistern. Somewhere in the distance a dog was barking.

The young man ordered a Limca, paid with a two-rupee note, and retreated to a nearby bench where he could sit quietly and watch. The bottle was cold and wet against his palm. He tipped the neck away,
running his tongue against the polished rim of the glass. An exquisite flurry of wet sparks showered up inside his nostrils.

The fear had withdrawn now, like the sea at low tide, leaving the world awash in a gentle sadness, an elusive, tender beauty that belonged to no one and to nothing. It was as if the present moment were itself only an especially vivid and compelling memory. Even these thoughts and feelings were beyond his grasp, things already lost in time. But hadn't it always been this way—everything secondhand? Always only the echo, never the cry itself. Only the tracks in the snow, the reflection of a face in the mirror,

Across from where he sat, the college boys strutted and crowed for girls who clutched their books tightly against their breasts, filmy dupattas fluttering like the flags of unconquerable nations. Several devotees were clustered around one of the co-eds. She was dressed in tight jeans, high heels, and a sheer kurta, her hair cut short and bobbed. She appeared to be genuinely amused by someone's clever remark. They were discussing, in a seamless blend of English and Hindi, the poetry of Thomas Hardy.

In the street nearby, an auto rickshaw was parked, a stunning yellow and black chariot, with red fringe trailing along the edge of the canopy. An elderly Sikh leaned heavily against the windshield, hands cupped over his mouth. A curl of smoke wound upward through his fingers. This time the young man was not fooled; he saw who it was. The driver spotted him, finished lighting the bidi, and took a long drag, simultaneously letting the match fall at his feet. He ambled over.

“Auto rickshaw, Sahab?”

The American nodded.

“
Kahaa jaanaa hai?
”

“Connaught Place. Jai Singh Road.”

“
Aaiyay, Sahab
.” The driver tipped his head and turned, walking in the direction of the street.

The young man finished the last of his soda and set the empty bottle on the table, then followed his guide to the rickshaw and slid in back, skimming his fingertips over the glossy surface of the vinyl seat. A picture of Guru Nanak was fastened to the dashboard just in front of the handlebars. The saint in golden turban, luxuriant white beard spilling halfway down his chest, his right hand raised, bestowing a blessing. The ornate frame was wrapped in a garland of marigolds, remnants of a morning puja. Wilted orange petals lay slack against the glass.

In one graceful motion, the driver swiveled around and pushed the flag down on the meter and leaned over and yanked up on the starter handle. Beneath his seat the engine popped and whined, spewing a haze of burned oil into the air. His wrist cranked backward on the throttle and the vehicle threaded into traffic, heading for Ring Road and the maelstrom of Old Delhi, driver and passenger hurtling between iron monsters that bellowed and roared. Once again the young man was along for the ride in a crazed South Asian ritual of surrender to the road and its perils. He clung to the metal bar that held the meter; the canopy rattled in the wind.

Near Ramlila Maidan they were sucked into a tide pool of trucks and taxis, cycle rickshaws and bicycles. Two-wheeled carts stacked high with cargo were dragged along by oxen or pushed by sweating, emaciated spirits cloaked in rags. A camel towered above the chaos, gazing impassively out over the swarm that raged around his knobby knees. Strapped across his hump and suspended, one on each side, were two canvas saddlebags stitched together with hemp. A man perched just in front of the bags, his legs straddling the animal's neck. Everywhere horns screeched and two-stroke engines coughed up a poisonous smog. The maidan—a long meadow the size of a football field—was thronged with people. At one end a high platform had been erected, over which, in large red letters, a banner proclaimed the victory of the Janata Party. A group of politicians stood on the platform behind a table draped in orange, white, and green bunting. One of the politicians was speaking into a microphone, and his amplified voice boomed out over the crowd.

Inside the stalled auto rickshaw, the driver feverishly punched a button on the handgrip with his left thumb, which triggered an angry, insect-like buzzing. He persisted in this futile effort for a minute or two, then killed the engine and slumped back against the seat, wiping his brow with one sleeve. His face was visible in the rearview mirror above the windshield, his weary eyes gazed back at the American in apparent resignation to their
shared fate. The two of them looked at each other through the reflecting surface of the glass. The old Sikh smiled and shrugged.

“
Araam karo, Sahab. Ham kahin nahin jaaengay
.”

“Relax. We are going nowhere.”

A boy in shorts emerged out of the pandemonium and snaked his way barefoot through the dense tangle of traffic. He carried a dented aluminum kettle in one hand and with the other gripped a burlap sack slung over his shoulder. A frayed T-shirt clung to his ribs. The American leaned out and waved the boy over and purchased two cups of hot, milky chai: one for the Satguru—the True Teacher—and one for the pilgrim, come so far to learn.

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

C. W. H
UNTINGTON
, J
R
., translates and interprets classical Sanskrit and Tibetan Buddhist texts. He is on the Religious Studies faculty at Hartwick College and is the author of
The Emptiness of Emptiness: An Introduction to Early Indian Madhyamaka
. This is his first work of fiction.

Wisdom Publications
199 Elm Street
Somerville, MA 02144 USA
www.wisdompubs.org

© 2015 C. W. Huntington

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system or technologies now known or later developed, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Huntington, C. W.

Maya : a novel / C. W. Huntington.

pages ; cm

ISBN 1-61429-198-5 (softcover)

1.
  
Fulbright scholars—Fiction. 2.
  
American—India—Fiction. 3.
  
India—History—20th century—Fiction.
  
I. Title.

PS3608.U594968M39 2015

813'.6—dc23

2014044814

ISBN 978-1-61429-198-5
       
ebook ISBN 978-1-61429-215-9

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Cover design by Phil Pascuzzo.
Interior design by Gopa&Ted2.
Author photos courtesy of Samuel L. Huntington.