The PuppetMaster (2 page)

I stepped from the shade of the gnarled mango, folded my hands, and affected a playful voice. In local dialect I said, “Soma, your eyes are a rather difficult to see concealed half a meter inside your sari, but I am sure they are as beautiful as the sunrise this morning.” It was a good tease, one I knew she would enjoy. A visit to my courtyard and a wad of betel nut to chew on were probably the only true pleasures in her desolate life. “Are you bringing a smile for me this morning or just another trifling message from Master Devi?”

A stifled giggle. She drew the shawl back just far enough for me to see the inky curvature of her eyes. They were focused timidly on my toes. Her mouth, I saw, was already stained blood-red from her first chew of betel that morning. “I have both for you, Master Bhim.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Excellent. Let’s start with the smile shall we.” I glanced at Lalji, who was still looking our way and still standing idly in the corner of the garden. I signaled with a thumb and a frown to get moving towards the kitchen to help his mother. Soma wouldn’t raise her eyes until he had left, and as soon as he did, they rose timidly to mine. “Ah, so much better when you actually look up from the stonework, Little Sister. So, how are you today? I see you’re already chewing a rather sizable fold of betel. You will keep those pretty teeth in that beautiful smile a lot longer if you chewed less of that.”

“The words you speak are true, Master Bhim.” She looked at her own feet again. “But it is just a small pleasure. Such a little one.” She was correct, and I mildly regretted the suggestion I had made.

The withdrawn beauty that stood before me in grimy folds of faded green, with dust-caked feet, two dozen plastic bangles, and ten toe rings, was a widow. She was also only seventeen, and this unfortunate combination foretold a long future of pain and emptiness.

Soma’s husband had tumbled from the roof of a crowded train two months into their marriage. Most bodies would have survived the short fall, but the young man had had the misfortune to bounce inward. Consequently, his widow now earned a meager wage sweeping and running modest errands for my teacher and his family. She slept in the dirt of the courtyard of her obese mother-in-law and fetched uncomplainingly for everyone. Unlike Lalji and his mother, Soma spoke Bhojpuri, the rural dialect and knew of little beyond a ten mile circle. My servants, educated in the Jesuit schools, spoke decent English and knew more of the world. Soma was countryside from the rings on her toes to the black cords of her braided hair, and as a widow she was shunned by society. At seventeen she had been discarded as refuse and left to fend for herself like a starved dog.

Because of this gross inequity, and because I truly enjoyed her shy and gentle manner, I had designated her my adopted sister. Never told her such, but she knew. I taught her small things and listened as she told me through a child’s vision of village life, a life that was now closed to her.

I tried to get her to smile, turned the keys to the locks on her cell, teased and complimented. Truth be known, what I secretly desired was to teach her to read, play chess, and do trigonometry in her head without benefit of pencil or paper, all of which I was certain she would do quite well given the opportunity.

Fate, however, had hidden the keys. I kept trying, and if from some lighthearted comment on the braid of her hair or the curve of her eyes, I got her to laugh, then I could laugh right back at Fate and flip him the finger.

“The betel is a tolerable habit, Soma,” I replied. “Maybe one you could limit to once a day. A small chew in the evening, without tobacco, is quite sufficient.” We both knew my suggestion was in vain. Soma liked her betel nut too much.

She wagged her head and raised her arm to push a strand of hair behind her ear. As her fingers moved to the side of her face, my eyes followed her forearm. The morning light glinted like water in her bangles. Hers were not silver, they were plastic, but nonetheless striking in their color. From the angle of light, the toffee-hue of skin and sparkle of soft fur, I was suddenly pierced with a sharp pain, breath shortening to gasps. In that small vision there had been an unmistakable likeness to a forearm I had known in a previous life.

“Master Bhim?” Soma had seen the shadow cross my eyes. “Are you ill?”

With an exhale I replied, “No, no, Little One, just a . . . passing twinge in the stomach. It is gone.” I couldn't explain that the ache was further up, somewhere in the chambers of my heart. Gaining my breath I said, “So . . . now that you have graced me with your smile, will you tell me what Master Devi wishes?”

She affected a frown, clearly wishing to continue our discussion of her smile and minor vices, but replied obediently, “Master wishes to inform that you will be going with him on a journey to Sarnath tomorrow; more precisely, to a cave some kilometers beyond that city. I am instructed to tell you to wear your ugly shoes and clothes that will wash easily. Also, I am to tell you to bring your camera.” The shoes she referred to were my prehistoric tennies. They were indeed ugly, functional for short hikes, but full of holes and scruffy beyond hope. Still, this request was a mystery.

I nodded slowly. “Well . . . if my memory is correct, tomorrow is Sunday, usually a day of rest. But if this is what Master Devi desires, then I shall be there. Did he mention where I should meet him? And at what hour?” That detail was critical.

With some theatrics, Soma lifted the mantle from her head, liberating a braid that swung like a thick cable to her waist. We had arrived at the heart of her message, which I was certain she had painstakingly memorized. “Masterji expects you to meet him at seven AM precisely at the corner of the Grand Trunk and Chaitganj Roads. From there you will ride in an autorickshaw to your destination.” She hesitated and I saw it was from embarrassment. “I am also instructed to tell you to bring exact fare for the driver. And the tip.” That didn’t surprise me. Generous in every other way, my teacher wouldn’t impart with a single rupee, or even a few paisa, outside his home if it could be avoided. The practice of tipping was as foreign as equal rights, and as his student—his vidyarthi--it was expected that I pony up for transportation, meals, and all amenities whenever we ventured out. He rarely failed to take advantage of the custom.

“Very well,’ I sighed. “Please inform Masterji that I will be there on time, with everything he requires, including my full and bottomless pockets.” At which point I reached into one of those pockets and extracted a five-hundred rupee note. Taking care that no passerby or neighbor saw the transaction, I folded the bill and tucked it discretely into Soma’s palm. With a wag of my finger I said, “Not for betel or new bangles. It is to be put in a safe place and saved. And if you wish, come Thursday evening and we will practice the newspaper again.”

Had she not watered the dust of her mother-in-law’s courtyard every night with her tears, Soma would have wept onto the stonework at my feet, but her eyes were like dry wells now—no moisture within. Instead, they shone with gratitude, and the smile, the big one that told me I’d thwarted Fate’s plans, bloomed upon her face. That made my morning.

Fate, however, was taking notes, paying close attention to my silly attempts to change his plans for Soma. Within the fortnight he would alter all the features of that beautiful face and radiant smile.

Two

Twenty minutes later I was rocking in the rickety chair at my desk in the salon, watching Sahr, my housekeeper, with the usual fascination. She had just ordered Lalji to market for ingredients for the weekend meals. The list was accompanied by a stern warning that if he tarried or neglected a single duty—fractured pinky or not--she would raise sizable welts about his head that would make all his friends laugh at his condition.

Sahr was in every way a contrast to her creatively lazy son. Where he appeared thin and frail, she was filled with limitless energy and possessed a bosom so full it clearly contradicted Newton’s laws of physics. The architects who designed the erotic temples at Khajuraho two hundred miles west of our city had never met my housekeeper, but if they had, her breasts would have been duplicated on the statues there.

Each day she spun about my house like a small top, sweeping, scurrying, washing, and cooking, all the while appearing as if she might topple if she tilted too far to one side. I had often glanced up from my desk and leapt to my feet from the mistaken notion that I needed to catch her before she tumbled into a corner where neither of us would be able to get her vertical again. What I eventually learned was that her center of gravity was in fact located below her navel, somewhere between her upper pubis and generous bottom. The folds of her sari mysteriously slimmed all of that lower flesh, creating the illusion of a ripe, brown pear walking illogically about on its stem.

Sahr had sharp, intelligent eyes and curved cheeks set in a moon-shaped face that made her look Nepalese. Her most prominent feature (after her bosom) was a smooth, ivory-colored birthmark that tapered from her left temple across to the center of her forehead. It stood out like a bleach-stain on a dark carpet, and I often remarked that it looked like an elephant’s trunk. It appeared that way even more so when she scowled, which she did whenever she told me it was not a trunk but a swan’s wing. I couldn’t see it. She stated with visible pride that it was the source of her clairvoyance. That, I could see.

Sahr was an exceptional cook, frugal, and proud of all aspects of her culinary skills. In the mornings she would prepare plain American breakfasts of toast, coffee, and sliced fruit, all the while grumbling that her skills were squandered on that effortless meal, and what Master Bhim really needed was a healthy portion of samosas and pakoras for his long hours of turning pages of the large books upon his desk. I tried once, with no result, to explain that hefting those pages didn’t require as many calories as she might imagine.

I took the first sip of a second cup of Nilgiri coffee and peered over the rim as she spun about the room. After sending the dust outside with a brisk warning not to return, she unhooked the sandalwood mats that hung on the window frames and leaned them against the doorjamb. With water from the garden hose she saturated them. In an hour, when the sun rose to a higher angle, the light would evaporate the moisture and cool and perfume all the front rooms of the villa--an ancient and still effective method of air conditioning.

I set my mug next to a stack of legal pads that represented six months of work--a translation one of the classical plays of the eighth century. My teacher had guided me on the project at times, but the opus was primarily mine, and one that I was proud of. It had been tedious work, and only a few people had actually heard the rendering, but I thought I'd done a decent job bringing a cast of twelve-hundred year old royals back to life.

I cleared my throat—the signal that I was announcing something of importance.

“Sahr, I will be traveling outside the city tomorrow. I won’t need anything but coffee in the morning and a sandwich for the afternoon, something that won’t go foul in the heat, cucumber with paneer cheese, perhaps. I will also need two Nalgenes of ice-water, a clean kerchief, my flashlight, and my camera.”

Sahr normally relished these organizational chores, but a frown creased her face as soon as I’d begun. Something was amiss, and I was fairly certain I knew what it was. My trip wasn’t in line with her psychic predictions.

Sahr was a clairvoyant, a seer, and everyone in Nagpur and nearby neighborhoods conceded that she was a good one. A damned good one.

Her belief system was a jumble that I could never quite figure out--baptized Jesuit, she practiced the Catholicism in a perfunctory, Hindu style manner. Portraits of Jesus, Mary, and Saint Francis sat in a small niche in her room. That’s where the Christianity stopped. She performed puja to them each daybreak, lightening incense and adorning them with floral wreaths and fruit. But they took a distant backseat to a chatty green parrot, a ghost, and a pack of ornately designed astrology cards. The parrot, ghost, and cards were her tools for determining all the important decisions in her life . . . and mine, and most of the people in that part of the city. They also provided sufficient income that she probably could have done without housekeeping for me.

When I first arrived in the villa three years earlier, there had been a steady stream of clients tromping through the rear courtyard. All manner of people arrived for consultations about barren wombs, un-marriageable daughters, or aging parents. By the end of the second week I’d had to ask her to move the readings elsewhere. She did so immediately and without complaint.

Sahr leaned the last of the mats against the doorframe and rotated to face me, hands coming to rest impatiently on her hips. “And will Bhimaji be gone the entire day?” Just a hint of irritation in this.

“Well . . . yes, I would expect so, though if Master Devamukti tires too quickly, we might return earlier. I really don’t know all the details. Actually, I don’t know any of the details, but I assume we will be doing some research in the Sanskrit, which as you know doesn’t ever seem to tire him, while I fatigue like an overworked carthorse.”

“So you do not know if you will return for supper or not?”

I wasn’t keen on how this was going. “No Sahr, I do not.”

“And you do realize that tomorrow is the worst day of this month for Bhimaji to be traveling?” Her hand sliced the air like a knife. “The worst!”

Ah, I thought. So that’s the cause of her tetchiness. She had evidently forecast my entire month cusp to cusp and the journey didn’t bear good prognostications. Compound all of it with not knowing whether to prepare my dinner or leave me to forage for leftovers, and she was ill-tempered about all of it.