The PuppetMaster (16 page)

With a sigh, I said, “There is sadness and death everywhere, Sukshmi.”

“Yes, I suppose there is, but there is more here.” Her eyes sparkled again. “You know, BhimajiMartinScott, I did enjoy myself the other night. You really are a good dancer, even though you like stodgy music.” I winced. Where had that word come from?

For the second time in two days, I boasted to a woman. Two different women, but nonetheless, a spark of self-assurance—a small spark—seemed to have been re-ignited. “Well, if you like the way my feet move to techno, you should see them dance to Frisbee sometime.”

“Frisbee? Is that a British group?”

I didn’t have time to explain. As I leapt up the steps to the kitchen, she called out, “Bhimaji?”

“Yes?”

“Have you seen Soma this morning? She didn’t show up to sweep.”

With a tingling uneasiness, I replied that I hadn’t.

Twenty-Eight

“There is nothing left for us but to use the photographs on your little jumping driver? You have saved them carefully, yes?” Devi was asking me this. The walls about his tower of aversion to things technical were beginning to show hairline fractures.

“Yes, I copied it all from the computer onto the jump drive yesterday. They’re also still on the camera.” I patted the backpack.

The two of us were sitting in rocking chairs in the front parlor waiting for an uncharacteristically tardy C.G.. Over a cup of sugared Darjeeling, Master described how Jotilal Sukkha’s family would receive a modest income for a decade. A collection was being done this morning, he explained. Calls were being made, chips cashed in, and two revered, old pundits had tugged on strings. With what was raised and what they had added, an annuity would provide some relief.

“It is very strange, this business of the cave collapsing, Bhim. You saw the rock. Did it look weak to you, because it did not look that way to me?”

I hesitated, not yet fully convinced that the rock had been brought down deliberately, though the idea was growing stronger. My hypothesis was built on clues that were too flimsy and I wasn’t sure my teacher should hear those. Being crotchety and distinguished didn’t always ensure being prudent. With Devi it usually meant the opposite. He could easily start launching scatter-shot accusations around town. I took the chance, however, because I felt he had a right to know. “Master, I don’t know how to say this any other way, but a few things happened yesterday afternoon that you should know about.”

I described the meeting with Ralki and Muktendra, and he bristled at the mention of the inspector's name. “That boy has been a number-one trouble-maker since he was born. I had the honor of blessing his mother and father’s marriage, you see, and over the years I wish I had not blessed it so well that they had four sons, because the fourth has turned out to be a very sour fruit on a good tree. He has aligned himself with that fool Qereshy and stained his family’s good Hindu name.”

The description of the boot print sent him into a rage that made him sound like a ham character in a Hindi film. “I knew it! I have suspected this accursed mining company has been up to no good all along. Do you believe that they had a hand in this foul deed?”

“I’m not certain, but it does seem suspicious. Someone wearing boots was walking near the entrance, and now it’s a pile of tumbled rock.”

He scowled. “Precisely, with a poor dead man inside, and who better to tumble rock than a mining company?”

I let the matter drop and also omitted Ralki’s episode with Soma. She had confided those ugly details in trust, and if she wanted to tell Master about it, that it was up to her. I wondered uneasily again where she was.

Looking over the top of the front wall, I saw C.G’s sparkling SUV slide to a stop in front of the gate. Ram must have polish it twice a day.

Extracting himself slowly, he puffed up the steps. His complexion was florid, but with the usual cheerfulness. I saw immediately that he’d received my message. Tucked under his arm was a black computer case, his Acer 3000. We were back in business.

He gave a short bow and wheezed, “Apologies, my friends, but unusual circumstances demand unusual schedules, and this sad business has made for unusual circumstances. Bhim, I have brought this for our use.” He handed me the computer.

“Tut, tut.”--Devi actually said tut, tut-- “It is of no consequence. We are all feeling the effects of yesterday’s grief. Let us be thankful that we are all still here ourselves.” Patting me on the knee he continued, “and our boy has saved the day by cooking all our pictures onto his little jumping driver.”

“Burning, Devi. The term is burning.” C.G. winked at me.

Master’s smile disintegrated. “That is the same thing.”

“If cooking and burning are the same thing, Mr. Devamukti, then I do not wish for you to prepare me dinner anytime soon.” The boys were off to a rapid start.

“Punditjis,” I interrupted. “Shall we continue on C.G.’s computer?” It was the best way to keep us off the fact that we couldn’t enter the cave for an undetermined time.

They nodded, and within minutes we had three steaming cups of chai and the next photograph expanding on the screen. I breathed a sigh. Other than the same flash blemish in the upper corner, nearly every letter was readable. Then a detail I had missed earlier became apparent. I opened the next photograph to verify it. The last three pictures were from further away, and as the wall circled left towards the collapsed portion, the script was more difficult to read. The rock must have been softer there, because the etching was shallow and faint.

I swore silently.

C.G. noticed it also. He frowned and then started into the translation. Devi followed, and soon my pencil began to buzz along once more.

Fourth photograph, which I labeled Remedy, Part One.

Straightaway we were plunged into anatomy and the central feature of the writing. It was also the most complex and technical part yet.

While the pundits conjugated, I scribbled like a mad stenographer: Thirty six lines described precise points on the body, eighteen pairs of points called bastis with lesser partners called urvi. It was a type of acupressure. The width of fingers and the creases of the knuckles were used as measurements to locate them. I realized it was a simple, but ingenious, method; a person’s own body became the measuring device, so the smaller the body, the smaller the measuring units. Custom made. And by the time we had finished translating the thirty-six lines, I was ready to run out and find a set of anatomical charts.

The next section dealt with plants, just as the pundits had predicted. They were beaming, and after a few I-told-you-sos, were tossed back and forth, C.G. announced, “It seems to be a list of nine, each with a silly adjective in front of it. See these? Delicate, passionate, delightful, etc. Clearly nonsense. The first three plants are Nimba, Medhika, and Haridra--neem, fenugreek, and turmeric in English. Add butter and onions and we have a fine batch of curry.” He chuckled.

Devi responded with, “I know the Neem plant. It’s an astringent. All of these are. They are blood purifiers.”

Ignoring the medical opinion, C.G. forged on. “The next three are amalaki, emblic myrobalan, and kino—cousins we could find in any of the old apothecary shops. And this one,” he pointed to the screen, “is Guggula, the British called it beddelum. These are all still used today. Fairly common.”

Common to him, I thought.

Then C.G. hesitated, looked stared at the screen and frowned. “Hmmm . . . that is a rather sticky compound. Wouldn’t you agree, Devi?”

Master stared at the screen. “Indeed.” The boys, it appeared, were stumped—not by the words in front of them, but by the name of the plant itself.

“Spreckledtounguespoonsoftpinkconchshell. Unusual name for an plant, eh C.G?”

I, being the rookie, could ask dumb questions and get away with it. “So, is that a description? I mean, it sounds like a compound describing what it looks like.”

They both stared at me, verifying that it was a dumb question.

“My Dear Boy,” C.G. answered tenderly—father to two-year-old. “That is of course what it is. You have encountered these compounds in your poetry?” I had indeed. Classical Sanskrit was full of them, long combinations of smaller words. English has short, closed ones like lawnmower, and longer hyphenated ones, like mother-in-law. German employs them, but Sanskrit connects them like boxcars on a freight train. “Well,” C.G. went on, “This is a fine example. We can read the words, but we still don’t know what the actual plant is, only that a part is spreckled and shaped like a spoon, and another part pink and soft.”

I mused out loud, “Well, it sounds to me like a pink flower shaped like a conch shell. The pistil or stamen, which I think they are calling the tongue here, is spreckled and looks like a spoon. Sort of sounds like an orchid or bromeliad.” Lilia’s botany lessons hadn’t been entirely lost on me.

The boys stared at me again; this time I guess I hadn’t sounded dumb. Without a word, Devi hustled away and returned with six over-sized books. We each took two, and forty minutes later his old condor eyes found it. With a stab of a finger on the page he declared, “It’s the orchis mascula, the Salep orchid.” He held up the book. A black tongue stuck out at us from a pink flower.

We were nearing lunch and had identified eight of the nine plants, or herbs, or spices, or whatever they were. It was a decent fraction, but not complete. I was ready to push on, but when Devi called for a break, I didn’t object. It gave me the opportunity to ask what had been buzzing in my brain. Not wanting to sound ignorant again, I treaded carefully, “So . . . is this . . .are we supposed to combine these pressure points with these plants somehow.” That didn’t come out sounding quite as smart as I hoped.

Being our Vedic leader, C.G. answered. “The old cures could be quite complex. Fancy sacrifices that could go on for years. Some had very odd treatments, like hanging upside down over a smoky fire for a month. Pure fancy. But this is a rather straightforward Ayurvedic remedy. These pressure points energize something, maybe like those little pins the Chinese use. The herbs get mixed into a potion. And there you have it, your cure.” He paused and added, “for whatever the sickness is.”

It was all a little too vague for my Western brain. “Okay, that sounds . . . reasonable, but how would a person know how much of the herbs to use? Don’t you ned amounts? And what order do you press the basti and urvi points?” Both of them frowned and neither looked at me like that was a dumb question.

The last plant didn’t have a fancy name. In Sanskrit it was called Shilajit, Mineral Pitch. What it had, though, was the oddest adjective in the entire list—Sweat-drenched Shilajit. C.G. again was adamant that they were nonsense. Little did we know how important those nonsense adjectives would become.

Nine of nine from the list. We were shooting a hundred percent, batting a thousand, and had just performed the equivalent of a linguistic hat trick. For me it was only over-shadowed by the images of Jotilal’s crushed body and Soma weeping in the dust of the courtyard.

Twenty-Nine

There were too many chores on my list that afternoon. I needed to be in three places at once, and Miss Ugly had better be ready or one young bike-wallah was going to be very sorry he hadn’t patched her tire.

I slipped out the back gate noticing that my bicycle, Sukshmi, and Soma, were not there. One of those concerned me.

My eye caught the first hint of a sparkle as I entered the final curve of the gully. Encouraged by the thought that maybe, just maybe, my bicycle boy had followed my instructions. I picked up my pace. Twenty meters further and I saw her in her entirety, and she looked like a queen in a wedding. Her rims shone like circular mirrors, her frame like a show car. Even her dented little bell was reshaped and had reflection that you could floss your teeth with. The young boy, my new friend, Charup, the under-aged bicycle-walla, stood next to her with a soft rag and a bottle of Armor-all. Damn, even her chain looked like something out of a BMW catalogue.

Charup--at the age of fourteen--was a master. He had no shoes, eight fingers, and fewer teeth, but he was an artisan. And because he was a harijan, an untouchable, he would have to love his work. It would be his calling until he died.

Ugly Bike was tuned and polished to perfection, no softness in her brakes, no squeak in her pedals, and she now had three gears that flowed like quicksilver. “Is it to your liking, Sahib?” He asked as I wheeled to a stop after my test run.

“Charup, this is the best she has ever looked or felt, and I will be the proudest ferenghi in the city sitting on her. She’s a rejuvenated lady, my friend. There is only one small problem.”

He looked crestfallen. “There is a problem, Sahib?”

“Yes. Now that she is the finest bicycle in Uttar Pradesh, I will need to give her a new name and purchase a thick chain to keep her safe.” Relieved that it wasn’t his fine work that was being called to question, he told me where I might locate the chain and lock for a decent price—a shop owned by his uncle. The re-christening he had no suggestions for.

I paid him the agreed upon balance and added enough tip to buy at least one of the shoes for his feet. With a promise that he would be my number one bicycle maintenance engineer for as long as I owned her, I swung my leg over her frame and pedaled proudly towards the Sigra section of the city. I had business with the police.