The PuppetMaster (23 page)

I trusted Kangri on the same level I trusted Sahr, both seeing to my well-being far beyond what was customary. That develops trust. I knew he would not divulge what I was about to show him. I also knew he could give me more answers about it than anyone in the province.

Tentatively I explained, “I’d like you to look at something. But I can’t tell you where it comes from, or why I have it. I know that’s not exactly fair, but if you could look at it and tell me what you think, I would be even further in your debt.”

He glanced at my bag and nodded quickly. “There is no debt. Let me see what you have.”

Half a minute later the jump drive was open to my notes. Tilting the angle of screen for his eyes, I said, “Just read and tell me what you think, your best medical opinion.” I paused and added, “Perhaps your western opinions would be better for the moment, but…” He hushed me with a wave of his hand, having already read the references to the basti and urvi pressure points.

For a long time I sat on a bench and listened to the rain clap against the windows. A few streets over tablas and a wooden flute had been added to the rhythm of the dancers. Soft rumbles of thunder added to the symphony. I thought of Soma and hoped she was celebrating somewhere, bare feet and green sari soaked and cleansed by the rain. I hoped she was spinning happily like all the others, hair loose and splayed like a fan.

The storm pushed to the north over the plains toward the Himalayas. Inside it was silent as a cemetery. Kangri read on, then re-read. Still he said nothing. Finally he pinched the bridge of his nose and straightened up. “So . . . you want me to tell you what this could be, eh? You want me to offer my medical opinion of these pressure points, the plants, all of it?”

I nodded. “I don’t know any other way to say it . . . but I trust your judgment more than anyone. I need to know whether it’s even remotely legitimate.”

He pursed his lips. “Whew . . . well it is, I’m sure you realize, an amazing work, a true masterpiece of the ancient cures. But is it legitimate? Yes and no.”

I arched an eyebrow. “That doesn’t help much.”

“No, I suppose not. But, bear with me. Let us say you present this to the medical societies of Europe and the United States, maybe via a carefully written article. There is nothing to validate it, no trials, no clinical tests or assays to support the findings. Active elements are not isolated, which by the way, would reduces their efficacy, like taking kernels of fresh corn and making Fritos. There are no data to identify which nerves are stimulated by these acupressure points, and so on and so on. Most would huff and puff and dismiss it before they had read five lines. Medical purists are the world’s worst skeptics, you see--officious, self-important, nonbelievers of every curiosity that falls outside the realm of understanding and methodology. But that is just my objective opinion.” He tapped a dimple.

“But here, in this country where such things are accepted because they have a six thousand year history, it might be viewed with less cynicism.”

“But do you think that it is . . . ?”

Satnam cut me off. “In my opinion, my boy, this is not merely a preventative or a stay of the symptoms. This is designed to be a cure.” He let that hang for an instant before adding, “but one requires a more time and effort than eating a few nicely colored pills and taking a ten minute nap in a machine. It is a holistic approach, you see, designed to augment a lifestyle. These for instance,” He pointed at the pairs of basti and urvi pressure points, “are meant to stimulate the Isles of Langerhans and pancreas, but meant to be done over a period of months, not days. That leads me to certain conclusions about the disease itself. But, I’m not willing to share that with you quite yet.”

I was preparing to protest when he added, “Because you will likely discover it yourself. Is this all of it?”

I was anxious to hear what he thought the disease might be, but replied, “For now, yes. It’s all we can get our hands on.” He didn’t seem bothered by my holding back, his mind leaping a step ahead.

“I ask because there is usually more. The Ayur often prescribed complimentary guides for diet, mind-set, and a host of external influences. This is from early Ayur, is it not?”

“Yes, we think it is from the Sushrut Samhitas, perhaps earlier. There are some pieces missing, parts that are inaccessible right now. That’s all I can tell you . . . really.” He nodded and I unplugged the memory stick to begin repacking the computer.

He nodded toward the screen. “I can make a fairly good guess about the cure, but I’d rather wait until we all have more time to study it. Will you do me the favor of showing me the last of it when you get it? I would enjoy studying it more thoroughly.”

“Satnam, you have my word that it will be the first person I contact.”

“Good, because to answer your most important question, it is legitimate.”

I stared at him and he nodded again. “Yes, legitimate.”

As we moved to the door he said, “Think about this. Two-thirds of the plants made into modern medicines came to the attention of pharmaceutical companies from how they were used in traditional ways. And most of those came from developing countries.” I tried to grasp the implications of that.

Outside, the rains had slowed. Random streaks of sunlight were beginning to slant through the front windows. Satnam took my hand and reminded me to call him soon. As I wrapped Surya’s chain beneath her seat, he laid a palm against my chest and smiled. “You know, this chakra is healing better than any of the others, still tender, but definitely healing. She must be beautiful, this potion of yours.”

I swung my leg over the seat, and with a shy grin and a push on the pedal, replied, “Yes, Satnam. She is.”

Thirty-Eight

It took me longer to locate Uli and the ever-present Jitka than expected. The crowd surrounding Adam’s chair had multiplied six-fold from the previous day, and locating the sisters, even with their distinctive features was not easy. People stood in concentric rings ten meters out from the shala. Children in tattered shorts scampered about, searching for unguarded items to pilfer. Vendors, entertainers, and two policemen were positioned on the upper ledges. I even saw the Chapins, Frederick and Marley with their battery-operated hats, standing at the outer edge. I had expected an increasing number of listeners for the sermons—they had the magnetic quality of loadstone--but this was taking on the air of a carnival.

I noticed a few spectators that I didn’t want to see. Standing near the wall below the mosque in an easily identifiable robe and turban was the Imam Nomani. Further back was Yakoob Qereshy and a small cadre of his jacketed followers.

Adam had just had just offered a welcome and asked everyone to join him in three deep breaths of rain-washed air. I was pleased; this time I hadn’t missed a word.

I lifted Surya down through phantoms of steam floating up from the moistened stone. Standing to the side, three Benarsi women were translating into Urdu, Hindi, and Farsi. There was a feeling of organization to it all, all new.

He closed his eyes and momentarily seemed to mentally depart the place where he stood. When he opened them, his voice rang out strong and clear. “The ancient metaphors of our universe, my brothers and sisters, carry with them outdated ideas, pictures and myths that have been painted for far too long. A flat earth, flaming chariots, or bearded gods with bolts of lightening, they are obsolete, incorrect, and must be abandoned. Our survival depends upon it. God is not a he or a she, does not sport a mustache, beard, or freckles. Jehovah, Vishnu, Allah, and Shiva don’t wear sandals or sport rivers of blood in their hair. There are no gnashing teeth or burning cauldrons.

The hour has arrived when we must create new names and new descriptions with no likeness to humans. The energy we attempt to so vainly define has no gender, no recognizable shape, and certainly no resemblance to us, none whatsoever, even though it might comfort us to think so. We are simply another form of life standing at the peak of a vast array of complex organisms that have risen from this energy. If, in our need to do so, we feel compelled to give a shape to this universal force, then let us say it has closer resemblance to humming strands of wet spaghetti than anything else.” There was a considerable and understandable wave of murmured confusion at this. “Like the taut strings of a sitar, subatomic strands of light give rise to particles of matter—miniscule strands of energy that begets matter and forms our entire universe. They just happen to look like Barelli pasta. That energy is creation, my friends. Always in motion, ever-changing, with absolutely no human attributes.”

I listened as I edged my way around the crowd. I could no longer see Adam at that level, being now a part of the throng, but I could observe, and feel, the sentiment. More than a few were bewildered—the spaghetti metaphor still baffling. Most nodded in agreement, but here and there, anger was shaping on faces.

Adam’s voice called out firmly. “But, friends, does this mean we should love this energy one iota less? No, no, no. Quite the opposite. We are a species of compassion and should love this energy even more. Loving it means loving all. Repeat that to yourselves.” That request appeared to ease a few of the concerned expressions.

“Today I offer you The Simple Plan.” And as this was said, I watched in embarrassment as the crowd in front of me parted like a hairline. The fingers of Adam’s left hand were motioning for people to move to each side. In his right, a cold bottle of Fanta beckoned. To me. I was being given an invitation to the inner circle, and suddenly felt like I was trudging slowly up the aisle to my third grade teacher’s desk to receive a Child of the Day sticker. Surya and I rolled sheepishly forward.

Handing me the icy bottle, Adam winked and continued, “The Simple Plan is a union of three thoughts and actions, three means, each dependent upon the other, none more, none less important than the other two. A blend of Absolute Compassion, Pure Science, and Common Sense. Though how common common sense is these days might be in question.” Without warning, Adam hopped from his chair and turned slowly to focus on everyone within his vision. His pupils bored into the crowd that had now swelled from the upper part of the Ghats to the moored boats of the river. Bathers turned, children stopped scampering, and a hush seemed to descend on the bank. “ABSOLUTE COMPASSION, PURE SCIENCE, and INTELLIGENT COMMON SENSE.” His words shot into the throng like gravel. “they are the heart of The Plan, friends . . . and from them all good will come.” He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Right. And when we have cultivated this compassion for our human family, for our air, water, food; when we love the great energy with all our strength, then we create only good. Love for the energy begets greater love. And, like molecules of water entering the ocean, we will merge, and the entire human family will be lifted.” He paused and took a short pull on his Fanta. I did the same.

“We are bound by universal responsibility to take The Simple Plan and use it. In every action, every deed and thought, we must ask, ‘is this done with compassion, common sense, and right science? Ask it in everything, but be aware that we will make mistakes, but we will learn, and with new intelligence and compassion, we will repair the errors and move forward together.”

It was at that moment that I spotted Jitka, and incredibly, she was smiling and nodding her head. Beyond her bobbing forehead, I saw the glistening curves of Uli’s hair, and immediately the taste of our ephemeral kiss returned. The chakra that Satnam had touched suddenly warmed like a glowing ember.

“Imagine hundreds of projects; the world’s nations working together--distillation and irrigation systems pulsing water into the deserts, oxygen pumped into a wounded atmosphere, poisonous gases decreased. Imagine the sick being cured, the hungry being fed, and the suffering of billions eased. Imagine the cessation of violence and hatred. These are not as difficult as we might think. And the doubters? The ones who say it is trapped in complication and cannot be done? They are mistaken. It can be. It will be. We have only to let go of our obsolescence and accept The Simple Plan.”

I looked around and saw that the multitude was separating like clarified butter and cream. Small clots of orthodox Hindus, Muslims, and Christians--in the only vein they’d been in agreement on for an eon--were muttering angrily. Terse words hissed arbitrarily from the crowd—‘blasphemy, sacrilege.’ Then from somewhere near the upper steps the ugly, but predictable, ‘achut, achut. He is nothing but a filthy harijan.’ It was spit like venom. The larger group, those who had been in agreement with Adam’s words, had been nodding peacefully until that moment. Someone in their midst yelled angrily back.

One thing was certain; there wasn’t a drop of lethargy in the returning heat.

I looked up the embankment toward the mosque. Imam Nomani still stood with a small congregation. Qereshy’s group had slipped away.

Adam’s words poured out for an hour. At times they drifted like fine ash, at others they shot into the crowd. He described ways to merge with the energy through breath, music, meditation, and movement. He elaborated on its nature, all the while setting forth his plan to transform a violent world to one of functioning unity. At moments it made us laugh, at others cry. “Oh sure, my friends, a pack of bearded, grumpy clerics interpret a few lines of scripture penned twelve hundred years ago and tell us that God not only allows but commands an gullible child to step aboard a crowded bus wearing a vest of dynamite? Kill yourself, kill others and you will become divine? This is common sense? This is compassionate? We will shout with a single voice that it is not. A group of celibate old men in designer robes dictate that contraceptives are sinful in a world that is exploding with starving children. This makes sense? Shout that it does not.” He pointed to the river and all eyes followed his outstretched finger. “We douse our healthy children in this water so full of microbes that we might walk on it, and are told that by doing so they will pass go and never have to roll the dice of the living again. Do not be so deceived.” At that, a ripple coursed through the predominantly Hindu section.